Bisexual Millennial Willy Loman

a real fear of mine

Fredric March playing Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman © Alamy

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I’m afraid of becoming a Bisexual Millennial Willy Loman.

It’s funny-sounding, but it’s really one of my worst fears. 

I think of Willy Loman, the main character in Miller’s The Death of the Salesman, as the pinnacle of American male dissatisfaction. He is a quintessential example of middle-management made invisible by age and jarring mediocrity. But It’s been a while since I read or saw the play, so I googled him the other day. I couldn’t remember whether I was thinking about the character correctly. 

Was he just another white dude that thought really highly of himself when he was young, only to realize the only thing for which he was extraordinary was his lack of extraordinari-ness? 

Is it even possible to be extremely average?

Or was he actually special? 

Did something interesting happen to him, justifying the years of decline he experienced after he peaked in his mid-thirties? Or was his circumstance just as dull as it is for the rest of us, and he just got older - slowly and without polar reasoning? 

Wikipedia seemed to confirm that I was on the right track. Willy Loman thought he was somebody until he realized that he wasn’t. At least, he wasn’t the somebody that he imagined.  

Willy Loman thought highly of himself. He believed in his own potential, and that potential was high. Perhaps, too high. Maybe, that potential was so high in his mind that he was destined to be dissatisfied no matter what he did. 

Perhaps. 

Bisexual Millenial Will Loman. Dissatisfied at the end of his life because he wasn’t the person he believed he should be. 

I have to believe that the difference between ol’ Willy and I is that Willy Loman didn’t have a vision of himself in context. He thought that his success was objective, and he believed his failures were the faults of others. I think. Again, it’s been a minute since I saw the show…

Willy walked through his life as if he was great. Like greatness was some sort of trophy or title that a person could win and hold onto for the rest of their lives. Whatever achievement he had - that moment which made him feel like he’d reached “success” - was everlasting. He got that trophy and carried it around with him forever. 

Perhaps what he should have done, though, was take that trophy, put it on the mantle, and go back out to find another trophy. Not because accomplishments are some measure of worth, but because greatness is not just a moment. Greatness is a current, a bloodstream, a climb, a pattern, a flow. It’s the constant, repeating pattern. It’s getting the rock to the top of the mountain but enjoying the act of pushing more than anything else.

Unfortunately, greatness also isn’t a singular truth. And there isn’t just one correct answer. 

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