––How did you try to emulate him/her?

Cooper: When I really started understanding the political mission of M*A*S*H, I tried to learn everything about the Vietnam War, because at one point I think I heard an adult talking about how the TV show was really a commentary on Vietnam... It was years until it clicked that it was in fact set during the Korean War, so then I tried to learn about that particular war, (I mean, "police action"). In addition to all of this, in school I tried to make Hawkeye-like wisecracks as often as possible, and I think I can credit him with teaching me what sarcasm is. (That is, assuming that I do in fact know what sarcasm is.) I also remember going to the Army-Navy supply store and getting an green hat from the Korean War era and wearing it as much as possible.

Davis: Always, there was a question when it came to these buxom and brave women I admired: did I want to be them, or, I don’t know, have them somehow. Was emulation the goal? In my early meekness and shyness (both of which I’ve largely shed), I wouldn’t have been able to imagine myself lassoing a criminal, whisking him off in my invisible plane. I don’t think I wanted her powers. I wanted her romance. I wanted to be admired and feared, maybe. And beautiful. And rich. And bejeweled. And loved. I don’t think I felt much of any of that in my childhood, save for occasionally loved (the best of the bunch, of course). I wanted Steve to love me.

Litman: In the youth magazine Pioneer, Samantha Smith was photographed sitting on the steps of her parents’ house in Maine. She was dressed in a turtleneck and a pair of jeans. They way I remember it, the house was on the edge of some fields, and there was maybe a dog nearby – Samantha’s dog. The accompanying article revealed that she wanted to become a veterinary doctor. Unlike her, I had no turtlenecks, no jeans, no dog, no steps to sit on, and no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. In short, I lacked direction. That summer, while Samantha traveled through Russia and visited the best summer camp in the country (Artek), I languished at the dacha we rented every year. While she was doing press conferences and fighting for world peace, I was learning the multiplication table. And while she swam in the Black Sea, I waited for the weather to improve enough so that I could splash for five minutes in a nearby lake. But not all was lost. At Artek, Samantha befriended a Russian girl who could speak English. This gave me an idea. I whined and begged, and in the fall my parents signed me up for private English lessons. Within a few months, I could do a little speech, which I demonstrated repeatedly to all our relatives and friends. It sounded something like this: I have a big family. I have a mother. I have a father. I have a sister. I have a grandfather. I have two grandmothers. It wasn’t much, but then again, I didn’t think Samantha could speak much Russian either.

Schappell: Well, at first I tried to mimic her accent, but failed miserably. It did occur to me at some point—perhaps seeing her on a talk show—that she would think it very lame that I was trying to be her, when what I admired about her was her insistence on being so fully herself, and never apologizing for it. I aspired to the sort of bantering she shared with co-stars like Spencer Tracy in Woman of the Year, and Cary Grant in everything they ever did together. I tried to style my own flirtatious interactions with boys after her. From the way she wrinkled her nose, to her way she slapped the faces of men who offended her. And she did get offended a lot. A few years ago a small cabal of unhappy under-published writers and “anarchists” tried to disrupt a reading I was a part of. When they started heckling I started to panic, then I thought, “What would Kate do?” What I came up with was, Well she wouldn’t back down. She wouldn’t whine or complain. She wouldn’t look to someone else to fight her fight. She would compose herself, lift her chin, and while appearing 100 percent a lady defend herself with slashes of humor, and colorful language. I felt my backbone stiffen, I gripped the podium, ordered a martini, down it, and delivered a few choice words. I didn’t do nearly as well as she would have, but I did my best.

Ward: I asked my mom why there were no blacks at the golf club, and for that matter, why there were no Jews. (I didn't know about Hispanics; we didn't have them in suburban New York and we didn't have tacos either.) She told me life was complicated, so I sulked around the tennis courts, feeling morally superior.