On July 24, 2025, Hulk Hogan—born Terry Gene Bollea— died at the age of 71. And with that, millions of us, especially those of us who grew up in the 1980s, found ourselves in the midst of a complicated reckoning. For many, Hogan was more than just a wrestler. He was a cultural icon who defined a generation.
Despite being very young at the time, I was a kid in attendance at the Pontiac Silverdome and remember stories from my brothers about the electric atmosphere of WrestleMania III in 1987. The event shattered attendance records with over 93,000 fans in the stands, and there I was, part of that roaring crowd, as Hogan slammed the 500-pound Andre the Giant with an energy that felt like the future itself was being shaped in the ring. It was the peak of the era, a time when Hogan – in his red and yellow – preached a gospel of strength, goodness, and all-American values: “Say your prayers, eat your vitamins, and you’ll never go wrong.”
But 10 years ago, that image came crashing down, and for many Hulkamaniacs, Hulkamania died then. In 2015, tapes were leaked revealing Hogan’s racist comments during a private conversation that shook the very foundation of his legacy. “I mean, I’d rather if she was going to f— some n—–, I’d rather have her marry an 8-foot-tall n—– worth a hundred million dollars,” Hogan was heard saying, referring to his daughter Brooke’s dating life. “I guess we’re all a little racist. F—ing n—–.” And these were all “Hard R” slurs.
There is no way to sugarcoat it. Those words hit like a steel chair to the back for me and for many Black fans who had once seen him as a hero. I had idolized him as a kid, my imagination racing as I pretended to body slam my friends just like Hogan did to his rivals. And here he was, the same man who had taught us to “train and say our prayers,” spitting out hate that felt like a betrayal.
It was hard to reconcile. How do you go from cheering for someone in front of 93,000 fans to reading words that make you question everything you thought you knew about them?
I’ve spent years wrestling with this inner conflict – the same conflict that millions of Black wrestling fans share. It’s not just that Hogan said something racist. It’s that he was racist, and he was supposed to be something better. He was supposed to represent the strength we wanted to believe in, the hero who stood tall against all comers. But now we were faced with a reality where that larger-than-life persona was just another man. And he was a man whose deeply ingrained racism made us wonder if we were ever really seen by him at all.
The hurt was compounded by the years that followed, as Hogan was quickly reinstated by WWE after his public apology. They erased his name from the Hall of Fame page, then gave it back. They claimed he was a changed man. They said it was time to forgive. But forgiveness doesn’t come just because you say you’re sorry. And it certainly doesn’t come when the apology feels more like a PR move than genuine remorse.
What’s even more difficult to stomach is Hogan’s enthusiastic support for Donald Trump—a man whose policies have alienated, insulted, and hurt so many in Black and marginalized communities. Hogan’s continued endorsement of Trump further distanced him from the very people who had once cheered him on. How could the same man who once embodied “American Hero” now stand behind a man who, for many of us, represented the very worst of what America could be? It felt like another betrayal, like a slap in the face from a childhood hero who should have known better.
For some, it would have been easier to just walk away, to dismiss him as a relic of a bygone era. But for me and for many others who were there in Pontiac that day (and for any of us who grew up ripping their t-shirts and pretend-slamming their siblings onto couch cushions), Hogan was more than just an entertainer. He was part of the fabric of our youth. In moments like WrestleMania III, we were all caught up in the fervor of it all, watching the ring light up with the spectacle that only Hogan could bring. In those moments, he was a symbol of everything we thought we could be. Strong. Confident. Unstoppable. But the truth is that sometimes even the strongest among us are hiding dark sides we’d rather not see.
As Hogan’s dark side became public knowledge, I realized that I wasn’t just mourning the loss of Hogan the man. I was mourning the loss of Hogan the ideal. The hero who represented something bigger than life itself had become just another figure trapped in the muck of politics, race, and personal failings. The reality of who he became clashed violently with the dreams he inspired in my youth. He was a reminder that heroes – at least the ones we put on pedestals – are often far more human than we want to believe.
The thing is, this isn’t a story that can be neatly wrapped up with a bow. No amount of public apologies or rebranding could erase the hurt. For many Black fans, it’s hard to forget those words, hard to forgive someone who became a staunch supporter of a man who represents so much that we’ve fought against. And it’s even harder to feel like we’re supposed to pay respects to a man who never respected us in return.
And yet, in this moment, with Hogan’s death, I’m left with a strange, conflicted grief. Yes, I’m angry. Yes, I feel betrayed. But I also can’t forget the joy he brought me as a kid or the memories of WrestleMania III and beyond, and the belief that anything was possible. There’s a part of me that still wants to hold onto that little kid who believed in Hulkamania.
I’m allowed to feel conflicted, though. I’m allowed to say that the man I cheered for as a child isn’t a man I can respect as an adult.
Maybe that’s the real struggle, realizing that childhood heroes are often flawed, and sometimes, those flaws are so deep that they can never be truly redeemed. Hogan’s death won’t undo the pain he caused or the tarnished legacy he leaves behind. But it does force us to confront the reality that we are more than the sum of our heroes. We are stronger, wiser, and more aware of the standards we deserve. The man who once embodied the peak of wrestling’s popularity was more hateful than he was heroic, and in the end, that may be the most enduring lesson of all.
To the Black fans who once believed in Hulk Hogan: Your feelings are valid. Your hurt is valid. Your childhood memories are both precious and complicated, and you don’t have to apologize for either. We can keep the memories of our youth without having to mourn the loss of a symbol or deny the truth of the man.
About Post Author
