Not all heroes wear capes.
Or so I thought, as I walked by Shea Field and stumbled upon a sight I never expected—a coyote frozen under a layer of permafrost.
It was one of the coldest days of the winter yet, and the longer I looked from a distance across the snow-covered field, the more certain I became that the coyote was in grave danger. Surely, I figured, it must have gotten caught in the bone-chilling cold of the night and remained stuck in a compromised position late into the morning.
I looked around, wondering if anyone else had spotted the casualty, and was similarly concerned. After encountering nothing but blank expressions from the people passing by, I grew increasingly incredulous. How could anyone walk past and ignore the poor creature without a sliver of concern?
As a psychology major, the bystander effect is my bread and butter. I have encountered countless studies examining how human beings are inherently predisposed to remain neutral in times of crisis, expecting their nearby peers to respond instead. I never expected, however, to see evidence of such behavior on a random morning in January.
Huffing out a breath with presumptuous gusto, I was determined to prove myself to be an upstanding citizen—I would not succumb to the pressures of apathy that had befallen my peers. I would save the coyote’s life. Visions of news headlines flashed through my head: “Young College Student Makes a Life-Saving Call” and “Coyote Saved From Treacherous Conditions Thanks to One Brave Soul.”
In short, I was determined to lift my head, tuck my hair behind my ear, and declare myself, well, better than everyone.
Full of this ambition and conviction, I called the Boston College Police Department with a sense of purpose, explaining the site in front of me. Then came a long sigh from the other end of the line.
“Ma’am, that is a prosthetic coyote,” the officer said. “It is not real. We keep it on the field to lure real coyotes away from the property.”
I don’t think the universe has ever humbled me faster. Dashing my gallant hopes of saving a frozen coyote, it held up a mirror to my face and told me more about myself than I ever asked to know.
You see, pompous antics aside, there was a part of me that sincerely hoped I would be able to do something good for the world. I longed to make a difference, I longed for the speck of my being to make an impact on a world so vast and all-consuming. I wanted to feel like a true hero who was tested by the gods on a random Tuesday and managed to pass with flying colors.
The coyote was meant to be my omen of success, goodness, and prosperity, or, at the very least, something to ease the monotony of the morning. But rather than any of those things, I was reminded of my overwhelming humanity and how resoundingly ordinary my life is.
While I trudged home that day feeling struck by my own stupidity, I found myself stopping for a moment to process what had just happened. Soon, I was doubled over in laughter, replaying the morning’s events in my head.
Although I had been seeking a moment of heroism to feel like a true main character, I stumbled into an embarrassing story that was equally as protagonistic. Sure, my character type is less epic-savior and more simpleton-next-door, but she is a leading lady nonetheless.
If there is anything I hope you take from this story (other than an FYI about the Fish Field House coyote), it is that there’s more than one way to be a main character. While I would have loved to go on CNN for rescuing a frozen coyote, I still walked away from the experience with a simple yet thrilling story.
So I leave you with one final truth—main characters are made of circumstances much simpler than an epic hero’s tale. Really, all it takes is a prosthetic coyote, cold winter weather, and terrible eyesight.
