Heroes or Just Good at PR? – Part 3: The Man Who Discovered What Was Never Lost

Christopher Columbus. Yes, the man who “discovered” America—like someone proudly inventing breathing while everyone else was already inhaling.

He didn’t just stumble onto history’s stage. He fell face-first into someone else’s yard, planted his flag, and shouted, “Look what I found!” And strangely, we cheered. Humans have an odd habit of applauding confidently lost people.

In 1492, Columbus sailed with three tiny ships, a lousy map, and an ego so huge it probably needed its own lifeboat. He aimed for Asia and hit the Bahamas. Did he admit the mistake? Nope. Instead, he confidently declared it India, like stepping into a bathtub and congratulating yourself for discovering the Pacific Ocean.

He met the people living there—generous, peaceful folks minding their own business. Columbus reacted like an entitled house guest, eating their food, trashing the living room, kidnapping the family, then calling it hospitality. It’s like stealing your neighbor’s car and acting offended when they don’t thank you.

Columbus named these folks “Indians,” a mistake that stuck around longer than a bad haircut from middle school. But why correct history when we can frame it neatly and call it tradition?

He kept returning—four trips in total. Each visit brought more men, weapons, and fewer morals. He demanded gold. If the locals fell short, he cut off their hands, chased them down with dogs, or worse. It wasn’t exploration; it was shopping with violence instead of money.

Philosophically speaking, Columbus followed the timeless wisdom: “If I take it first, it’s mine forever.” A thought pattern borrowed directly from toddlers fighting over toys and CEOs negotiating mergers.

Psychologically, Columbus was basically a narcissist with a ship. The world was his mirror, and the people he found weren’t humans—they were opportunities. He didn’t notice their kindness or their communities, only how easy they might be to control. It’s like meeting a talented musician and instantly wondering how cheaply they’d perform at your party.

In his diary, Columbus wrote how easy it would be to dominate these kind people. “They have no iron,” he bragged. “They’d make excellent servants.” Because who needs friends when you can have obedient workers? It’s like shaking someone’s hand and immediately imagining them mowing your lawn for free.

Here’s the craziest part: Columbus never even stepped foot in what’s now the United States. Yet, America gave him parades, holidays, and entire cities bearing his name. That’s like thanking the mail carrier for your birthday gifts just because they rang the doorbell.

Even Spain eventually got tired of him. They arrested him and sent him back home in chains—something textbooks often conveniently forget. We prefer the pretty version, with Columbus heroically planting a flag, not the awkward version where he’s handcuffed for being a terrible manager of stolen land.

Columbus didn’t find a new world; he silenced the old one. He didn’t discover humans; he erased them. He didn’t deliver civilization; he delivered smallpox, swords, and suffering that lasted generations. It’s like showing up at a peaceful picnic with a bulldozer and calling it progress.

So was Columbus a bold explorer or just history’s greatest PR stuntman, turning robbery into legacy? Was he a hero, or the first influencer, posting selfies in someone else’s backyard and calling it his own?

History labels him legendary. Those who encountered him probably had a different title—something less printable.

Before deciding, consider this: if someone broke into your home, painted their name on your door, claimed your fridge, and called themselves your savior—what exactly would you call them?