Hulk Hogan and the ugliness that changed everything

Yahoo

4 days ago

Should you shed tears for a racist?
That's the struggle a large portion of pro wrestling fans are facing with the news of Hulk Hogan dying at 71. Now, before anyone takes offense at labeling a recently deceased, self-proclaimed American hero as a racist, it's worth noting Hogan himself admitted to the label in 2007.
In July 2015, a private conversation from a 2007 sex tape surfaced, revealing Hogan — real name Terry Bollea — making explicitly racist remarks.
On the leaked recording, Hogan expressed disgust at the idea of his daughter dating a Black man and used the n-word multiple times.
The remarks sent shockwaves through the wrestling community. For many, it was the moment the illusion shattered. The larger-than-life icon from childhood, the man who urged millions to "say their prayers and eat their vitamins" had revealed a deeply troubling side. The disconnect between Hogan's in-ring persona and the man behind the character was undeniable.
For some fans, the damage was irreparable.
To be clear, Hulk Hogan's impact on professional wrestling is virtually unmatched. As a performer, his contributions helped usher wrestling into the mainstream. He was the face of WWE's explosion in the 1980s, a cultural icon who headlined WrestleMania, sold out arenas and inspired generations of fans. His crossover success in movies like "No Holds Barred" and "3 Ninjas: High Noon at Mega Mountain" — however campy — set the precedent for future stars like Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson and John Cena to find their place in Hollywood. Hogan wasn't just a wrestler; he was a brand, a household name.
But no amount of championship reigns or box-office appearances can erase the complexity of his legacy.
After the racist comments went public, Hogan issued an apology during a 2015 interview with ABC News. 'No, I'm not. I'm not a racist," he said. "I never should have said what I said. It was wrong. I'm embarrassed by it. But a lot of people need to realize that you inherit things from your environment.'
It was a classic deflection — an attempt to contextualize hate as something inherited, rather than owned. Rather than directly taking accountability, Hogan implied that his upbringing was to blame. For many, the apology rang hollow, more an exercise in damage control than a moment of reflection. By leaning on environmental influence, Hogan positioned himself as a passive product of his surroundings rather than an active agent in shaping his beliefs.
At the time, he was 61 years old. The idea that someone of his age and stature was still hiding behind environmental conditioning didn't sit well with fans — especially those who had supported him for decades across racial and cultural lines.
The fallout was swift. WWE terminated its contract with Hogan, scrubbed his presence from its website and removed him from its Hall of Fame. Though he was later reinstated and quietly brought back into the fold, the relationship between Hogan and a significant portion of wrestling's fanbase had already fractured.
Still, there were those who chose to forgive. Whether out of nostalgia, belief in personal growth or selective memory, many fans continued to embrace Hogan's contributions to the industry. For them, the apology — flawed as it was — sufficed. They focused on the performer, not the person. They mourn the loss of a childhood idol, not the shortcomings of the man beneath the bandana.
And to be fair, separating the art from the artist has long been a contentious yet persistent debate in entertainment culture. From athletes to actors to musicians, fans often grapple with where to draw the line between legacy and morality.
But for others — particularly fans of color — the pain lingered. Hogan's comments weren't just disappointing; they were personal. This was a man many looked up to, who helped define their love of pro wrestling. To learn that admiration wasn't reciprocated, that someone held contempt for them unless they were wealthy or famous, was a betrayal too deep to forget.
For them, Hogan's passing isn't just the death of a celebrity — it's the final chapter in a story that ended long before his physical life did. The man who once stood as a symbol of perseverance and strength had already fallen from grace.
Which brings the conversation back to the original question: Should you shed tears for a racist?
It's not a rhetorical or accusatory question. It's one that speaks to the heart of modern fandom, legacy and the right to grieve selectively. Yes, Hulk Hogan was entertaining. Yes, he revolutionized professional wrestling. But is that enough to celebrate his life without acknowledging his very public moral failings?
Not everyone deserves a hero's send-off. Not every icon should be remembered without context. Some legacies are too complicated for eulogies alone.
Perhaps the most honest response is silence — not out of anger or disrespect, but acceptance. Acceptance that for many, the connection was already severed. That the man they once admired no longer represented the values they believe in. That it's OK to acknowledge someone's death without mourning it. That saying nothing is its own kind of clarity.
There will be fans who honor his memory, just as there will be those who choose to move on without nostalgia. Both reactions are valid. Mourning is not a moral obligation.
Hulk Hogan's life — and now death — represent the fragility of celebrity. Heroes can be built in an instant and torn down just as fast. No one is immune to the consequences of his or her actions, no matter how iconic the persona.
If nothing else, let Hogan's story serve as a cautionary tale about the dangers of idol worship. When personas become more important than principles, when catchphrases overshadow character, disillusionment is inevitable.
For some, Hogan will forever be the face of pro wrestling. For others, he will always be the man who said too much, too late.