The Gods We Choose
Or, Why I Root for Zendaya and Tom Holland More Than Any Billionaire with a Rocket
The Gods We Choose
I recently watched The Odyssey, and afterward I found myself thinking, strangely enough, about Zendaya and Tom Holland.
Not because they’re celebrities.
Because they seem... refreshingly ordinary.
In an age when fame often arrives wrapped in spectacle, they appear almost delightfully unremarkable. They laugh together. They seem comfortable in each other’s company. They work. They disappear from view. They return. There is something quietly hopeful about them.
Perhaps every civilization chooses its own gods.
The ancient Greeks had Athena, Odysseus, and Telemachus. They weren’t merely characters. They were archetypes, embodiments of courage, wisdom, curiosity, loyalty, temptation, and homecoming. They helped people imagine what a life might become.
Today our gods arrive through movie screens, streaming services, Instagram feeds, and magazine covers.
Some represent wealth.
Some represent power.
Some represent beauty.
But every once in a while, a pair appears that reminds us of something far less glamorous.
Commitment.
My only wish for today is this:
May Zendaya and Tom Holland stay together for the rest of their lives.
May they be happy.
May they build a family, if that is what they choose.
May they weather success, fashion, fortune, disappointment, and the ordinary misunderstandings that accompany every long life shared with another human being.
May they discover what every couple eventually discovers:
That love changes.
It isn’t lost.
It matures.
It deepens.
It sheds the brilliant colors of youth and becomes something quieter, steadier, and infinitely more valuable.
Like wine.
Like old wood.
Like architecture that has stood through a hundred winters.
I hope they become one of those couples we speak of years from now with quiet admiration.
The way people once spoke of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.
The way many think of Barack and Michelle Obama.
The way I think of my own parents, Willie and Betty, who spent almost fifty years together.
The way I think of Dan’s parents, Clorinda and Bob, who spent over fifty years together.
Not because their lives were perfect.
Because they stayed.
Our culture celebrates beginnings.
The first kiss.
The engagement.
The extravagant wedding.
The magazine cover.
The red carpet.
But civilizations are not built on beginnings.
They are built on endurance.
Perhaps that’s why enormous celebrity weddings sometimes leave me oddly unmoved. The size of the celebration tells us very little about the life that follows.
Marriage is not a performance.
Love isn’t measured by the number of guests.
It is measured on quiet Tuesday mornings, hospital visits, shared grief, forgiveness, laughter that survives disappointment, and the willingness to begin again after inevitable mistakes.
Those moments rarely trend.
Yet they are the architecture of civilization.
I hope we begin celebrating couples who grow old together again.
Not because the law demands it.
Not because tradition requires it.
But because two people continue choosing one another with mutual respect.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Watching Zendaya and Tom Holland, I found myself thinking of another pair of archetypes.
They carry a little of Spider-Man and M.J.’s playful devotion.
A little of Athena’s wisdom.
A little of Telemachus’ hopeful youth, still discovering what kind of adult he wishes to become.
Whether they remain together forever is, ultimately, their story.
None of us can know its ending.
But symbols matter.
They remind us what is possible.
For years our culture has often held up billionaires, influencers, and endless accumulation as measures of success. We learned to chase bigger houses, larger salaries, and louder applause.
I chased those dreams once, too.
Then I lived in Paris.
When I returned to the United States, something had changed inside me.
I could no longer chase the dollar in quite the same way.
I found myself longing instead for beauty.
For theaters.
For architecture.
For conversations over coffee.
For music.
For public squares.
For museums filled with ordinary people.
For friendships that lasted decades.
For a civilization that measured wealth not only by what it owned, but by what it shared.
Perhaps that’s why this little couple gives me hope.
Not because they are famous.
Because they appear, at least from afar, to value one another more than the performance of fame itself.
And perhaps that is what I hope for all of us.
Including myself.
Dan and I have been together for more than a decade.
Our relationship has not always been easy.
Like every long partnership, it has known turbulence.
But I hope we continue mellowing with time, becoming less like sparkling champagne and more like an old cognac, smoother with every passing year.
Civilizations mature the same way.
So do people.
Perhaps the real American Dream was never yachts or mansions.
Perhaps it was always this:
To build a life rich in beauty.
To create something worth leaving behind.
To love well.
To remain curious.
To help our civilization flourish, one essay, one building, one book, and one conversation at a time.
From the porch,
Kimberly Twain
Carquinez Strait, California