You’ve been told Odysseus is a hero. The clever wanderer, the master of stratagems, the man who outwitted gods and monsters. But here’s the truth they didn’t teach you in school: Odysseus is a conman—and the reason we celebrate him while condemning the same tricks in women says everything about our culture’s double standards.
Classicist Emily Wilson, in her groundbreaking translation of the Odyssey, doesn’t mince words. She calls Odysseus “a different kind of conman.” Not a brute. Not a warrior charging into battle. A trickster. He lies, he disguises, he weaves elaborate fictions to get what he wants. Sound familiar? It should. Because when a woman does the same thing, we call her manipulative, deceitful, a snake. When a man does it, we call him cunning, resourceful, a genius.
Think about it. Penelope, Odysseus’s wife, spends twenty years weaving and unweaving a shroud to delay her suitors. She’s praised for her loyalty, but never admired for her tactical brilliance. Odysseus, on the other hand, lies his way through the entire epic—to the Cyclops, to his own crew, to the Phaeacians, even to his own wife upon his return. And we call him the hero. We don’t hate deception; we hate it when the wrong people do it.
This isn’t an academic footnote. This is a mirror held up to your own biases. How many times have you heard a woman described as “too political” or “playing games” at work, while a man who does the exact same thing is “strategic” and “a savvy operator”? The ancient Greeks already coded deception as feminine—the goddess Metis herself personified cunning—but when a male hero embodied that trait, they had to give it a new name. They called it polytropos. “Many-turning.” A word that sounds noble, but really just means “good at lying.”
Wilson’s reading drags this hypocrisy into the light. She forces us to ask: Why is Odysseus’s metis (cunning intelligence) celebrated, while the same trait in women is vilified? The answer is depressingly simple: Power justifies the method. Heroes get a pass; everyone else gets a label.
I saw this firsthand in a classroom debate last semester. A student defended Odysseus’s use of deception against the Cyclops as “necessary survival.” Then she criticized Penelope’s deception of the suitors as “dishonest.” The class paused. The double standard was so baked in that even a brilliant young woman—someone who’d be directly affected by it—couldn’t see it. That’s the power of a story told a thousand times the same way.
Wilson’s work isn’t just about an ancient poem. It’s about breaking the spell. She shows that the Odyssey itself is full of tension—Odysseus is a hero who loses his entire crew; he’s a king who fails his family; he’s a husband who murders his wife’s suitors in cold blood. And yet we still call him the protagonist. Why? Because the story has been curated to make you root for the guy who lies, cheats, and kills—as long as he does it with style.
So here’s the challenge: Next time you read the Odyssey—or any story about a “complicated hero”—ask yourself: If this character were a woman, would we still call them a hero? The ancient Greeks gave us a blueprint for how to mythologize male cunning. It’s time we stopped mistaking that blueprint for truth.
Stop calling Odysseus a hero. Call him what he is: a master of survival, a brilliant liar, and a walking lesson in how far a double standard can bend before it breaks.
FAQ
Q: Isn't this just modern projection onto ancient texts?
A: All interpretation is contemporary. The text itself contains the tension—Odysseus is both praised for metis and shown as a liar who loses his crew. Wilson doesn't invent the double standard; she reveals how the culture that produced the poem already struggled with it. We're not imposing modern values; we're noticing that the ancients had the same problem.
Q: What's the practical implication of reframing Odysseus as a conman?
A: It changes how we teach mythology and, more importantly, how we talk about gendered traits in real life. If we can see that the same behavior gets different labels based on gender in a foundational story, we become more alert to that pattern in workplaces, relationships, and media. It's a tool for critical thinking, not just a literary exercise.
Q: But isn't Odysseus supposed to be a flawed hero? That's the whole point.
A: Yes, but the flaws are asymmetrical. Homer gives Odysseus a free pass for deception while punishing women (like the maids) who scheme. The 'flawed hero' trope itself is gendered—male heroes get complexity and redemption; female characters get either virgin or villain. By naming the conman, we force the flaw to be examined equally, not excused by charisma.