Adults always ask little kids what they want to be when they grow up. When you’re small, this question is exciting because it immediately propels you into imagining yourself in fantastic scenarios. I used to tell the grown ups I wanted to be a stewardess. (Don’t start. It was the 70s, so we weren’t saying “flight attendant.”) I hadn’t yet been on an airplane and imagined nothing could be more exciting than flying. Sure, traveling the world seemed okay, but the sky was the domain of super humans. People who could fly. Like Superman or Wonder Woman.
And what I really wanted to be when I grew up was Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman had an invisible jet. Much cooler than handing out tiny pouches of nuts on an airplane. I only needed to twirl around like Lynda Carter, then look up at the sky. I could see myself up there, far above the Earth and all the nonsense below.
Wonder Woman was strong. She was beautiful and confident. She always did what was right and had no fear. She was one of my first role models.
A while back, someone said to me that a kid’s role models should only be teachers, pastors, parents, or other family members. I understand why someone would say something like that. In a perfect world, a role model would actually be involved in a kid’s life and have a vested interest in their future. But, this is not a perfect world, and that person’s statement is a judgement rooted in privilege. Not all kids have parents who are suitable role models. Personally, I’ve had a couple of teachers who were positive influences, but they’re temporary. You advance a grade, or change schools, and they’re gone. Not all kids are involved in churches. Even when I was young, I had no interest in religion. I realized my atheism quite early on. Ergo, no pastor. I grew up with a single mother and all my other relatives were hundreds of miles away in other states. I sought out my own role models. I still do.
Okay, there were occasions where I made some bad calls. Following Jim Morrison’s “the road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom” philosophy led to a bit of misadventure when I was a teenager and threw plenty of gasoline on my already out-of-control flames of rebellion. It also got me deep into literature, the Beats, writing, philosphy, and Patti Smith. So, other than a couple of unpleasant acid trips, I regret absolutely nothing. Actually, fuck that. I don’t even regret the shitty acid trips.
Reading The Outsiders over and over again taught me that even though I was young, lower class and unpopular, I could still be the hero of my story. And when I discovered that the book’s author, S.E. Hinton was a 16-year old girl, I realized I wasn’t too young to try writing stories of my own.
The artists and fictional characters who became my role models taught me morality. Through them I learned to value human life, to use violence as a last resort, to learn as much as possible, to be creative, and continually strive for self-improvement. To stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves. To care for the flawed and downtrodden. The adults around me didn’t teach me that. They were too busy yelling at each other.
In the summer of 1991, I was 17 and my whole idea of role models was turned upside down. Sitting next to my abuser in a dark movie theater, I saw something that changed my life. When Linda Hamilton’s Sarah Connor appeared on the screen doing her chin ups, I sat up a little straighter. In an instant, I saw something that up to that moment, I had no idea was possible. It was a revelation. I learned that a woman could endure, and in spite of trauma and damage, she could remake herself. She could be strong and didn’t have to take any shit. She didn’t need invisible jets or superpowers. She only needed to make the decision to fight. On and offscreen, she could be a badass with killer biceps just by working at it.
A few short months later, the asshole sitting next to me in that theater would be looking at attempted murder charges for getting too close to my skull with a kitchen knife. I did not handle the situation like Wonder Woman or Sarah Connor. I did not fight. I survived. I endured. I vowed to never get into a relationship like that again. I reminded myself that even Sarah Connor, in all her glorious badassery, didn’t get everything right. She did the best she could while dealing with her damage. That’s all any of us can do.
Not long after, Xena showed up on my TV when I was actually planning to watch something else. It didn’t take long for me to get sucked in. She was basically a reimagining of Wonder Woman. Sitting on my couch doing bong hits and noshing Cool Ranch Doritos after getting home from my job making printed circuit boards, I let myself get lost in that campy, melodramatic world. On my breaks during the day at work, I’d sit on a wooden pallet in the parking lot behind the PCB factory, smoking cigarettes, listening to the drill machines inside and thinking about Xena. Dreaming of the day when I’d finally quit smoking, get myself in shape, quit my shitty job and go after the life I wanted. Remake myself, like Xena remade herself from naive villager to warlord to hero.
It took a while, but I did quit smoking. And one day, while sitting alone in our apartment in Paris, I was watching an old episode of Xena and I turned to look at the free weights sitting on the floor. Maybe I wouldn’t get Sarah Connor’s T2 biceps, and I probably wouldn’t be a warlord or a hero, but I could still get up off my ass and sculpt a stronger, healthier version of myself. For quite a while, my daily workout time was also Xena time. Turns out, she’s a great coach.
When the Wonder Woman movie was released in 2017, my 5-year-old self was jumping around in my nearly 45-year-old body. I’d spent the past couple years writing, reading, marching and getting fed up with anyone and everyone who tried to justify voting for a greedy, bigoted pussy grabber. Now, here was a break. For a couple of hours, I could sit in a dark theater while enjoying a new version of my OG role model.
What happened next was… unexpected.
Right at the start of the film, when young Princess Diana is watching the Amazons sparring, she throws a few kicks and punches, emulating her role models. I smiled as I teared up, remembering how I spun around, transforming myself into Wonder Woman, kicking and punching the imaginary foes in my bedroom.
I felt happy. Then, the time came for Princess Diana to be Wonder Woman. There was no twirling. No explosive special effect to transform her from plainclothes to superhero outfit. It was slow. It was a woman making the decision to fight. It was epic. While it didn’t deliver the same jolt to my psyche as Sarah Conner turning to face the camera after dropping from her chin-up bar, it did have a profound effect. Every bullet Wonder Woman deflected was an asshole making pussy grabber comments. Calling a woman “sweetie” or “honey.” Telling her, “you can’t.” Each one was some jerk saying that a movie with a “girl superhero” could never work.
Tears slid down my cheeks. This time, I sat in the theater next to my husband, who knew, telepathically, what was happening. He squeezed my hand. When we watched it again at home a few months later, I cried again as Wonder Woman crossed No Man’s Land. He squeezed my hand again.
I still can’t get through that scene with dry eyes.
I never became a flight attendant. The truth is, I hate flying. I can’t stand being in airplanes and am horribly afraid of heights. Rooftops, bridges, ladders… they all give me vertigo and cold sweats. The sky is not where I belong, and that’s okay. It turned out, it’s only my head that belongs in the clouds. After I’d flown across the U.S. a few times, being shipped back and forth between parents when I was a tween, I understood that what I really wanted to be was a writer.
But, I still want to be Wonder Woman. Sarah Connor and Xena will always be among my role models. I think of them when I need to remind myself that life doesn’t always get easier, but you can get stronger and smarter. A couple months ago, my husband and I went to the movies again. Nearly 30 years later, I had another revelation, there in the dark as I gaped up at the screen. Once again, as soon as Sarah Connor made her first appearance on screen, I felt more than ever the realization that we don’t have to outgrow our fictional heroes and role models. We can grow older along with them.
We can remake ourselves over and over again. We can make the decision to fight and do our best while dealing with our damage. Try it. Just look up at the sky. See yourself up there, far above the Earth and all the nonsense below.