dark vengeance

im not unused to fights about superheroes. at school, i watch my girl students get into the opposite fight: who gets to be wonder woman. most of the marvel films were too violent for them to see, which leaves all of three names: supergirl and ivy. ivy isn’t even a superhero. she’s a villain that people fell in love with.

Every time they play, I am reminded again how many of my heroes are just the male hero’s name, but with “She” or “girl” tacked haphazardly onto someone else’s title. Whenever the boys join the game these children - meaning no harm, just saying the truth the way it opens up for them, as preschool children do - they remind the girls that Superman is stronger than Supergirl. The man is always stronger. this is backed by what they watch. i understand why they believe it.

Kids don’t read comics. These kids can’t read yet at all. I can’t tell them about squirrel girl or captain marvel (oh, oh, but didn’t Disney wait their sweet time to see if that would pay off - and her story is now just tacked on too, cleaning up a man’s mess). They won’t read that kind of stuff until middle school, maybe, if they’re told comics are an okay thing for girls to like. And by then they’ve lived a decade of their life. Fighting for scraps. For only one wonder woman.

“another female superhero?” groans a man on the internet. i see my 7 girls all scrambling for 3 names, and the boys each comfortable in their own batman/superman/spiderman/aquaman/ironman/hawkeye/antman/captian america. i see my 7 girls all deciding: let’s play my little pony instead. we can’t be heroes. girls don’t get to be.

they save equestria in their game. i tell them they’re my superheroes. one wraps herself around my body and looks up. “i hate all the girl heroes,” she says, “they’re stupid.” i remind her we don’t use stupid as a word at school. she looks at me, deadpan. “i don’t like them,” she repeats, “i only like wonder woman.”

i try my best. “there’s storm and batgirl,” i say.