Dear Diana,
The first time I saw you, I was seven years old. You were on the cover of Wonder Woman vol. 2, issue #3. I didn’t know anything about you before that moment, but what I saw was a lady with powers—a lady carrying a man, descending on a bolt of white energy, with her hair spiraling up like a ferocious mermaid. You didn’t look like the usual women I saw, a mommy, or a sister, or a princess, but somehow all of those things were present in your big, beautiful body. At the time, I was obsessed with Spider Woman, which meant I ran around in an ill-fitting pair of spider print Halloween pajamas with a mesh beach bag over my head that made the world look like it was encased in a finely spun web. I lifted off my nylon veil and poked the cover. Then I asked my dad if he would buy your book for me.
My fandom of the comic was short-lived, since I was a morbid little thing and already preferred gothic horror to patriotic heroism, but I followed through Wonder Woman reruns, Superman cartoons, and Super Friends safety videos. I even made bracelets out of tin foil and let the neighborhood kids throw dirt clods at me, which I would deflect with varying degrees of success. I don’t think I specifically noticed that you were one of the only prevalent lady heroes in comics, but I knew something was special about you—you made me feel strong. Just thinking of you gave me a burst of courage, which I desperately needed then.
The first time I saw you, I was seven years old. You were on the cover of Wonder Woman vol. 2, issue #3. I didn’t know anything about you before that moment, but what I saw was a lady with powers—a lady carrying a man, descending on a bolt of white energy, with her hair spiraling up like a ferocious mermaid. You didn’t look like the usual women I saw, a mommy, or a sister, or a princess, but somehow all of those things were present in your big, beautiful body. At the time, I was obsessed with Spider Woman, which meant I ran around in an ill-fitting pair of spider print Halloween pajamas with a mesh beach bag over my head that made the world look like it was encased in a finely spun web. I lifted off my nylon veil and poked the cover. Then I asked my dad if he would buy your book for me.
My fandom of the comic was short-lived, since I was a morbid little thing and already preferred gothic horror to patriotic heroism, but I followed through Wonder Woman reruns, Superman cartoons, and Super Friends safety videos. I even made bracelets out of tin foil and let the neighborhood kids throw dirt clods at me, which I would deflect with varying degrees of success. I don’t think I specifically noticed that you were one of the only prevalent lady heroes in comics, but I knew something was special about you—you made me feel strong. Just thinking of you gave me a burst of courage, which I desperately needed then.
I had horrible asthma, the kind that meant I couldn’t run on the playground, or sit in grass, or sleep over at friend’s houses, or do most of the things kids do. I was constantly on medication, in and out of the hospital, missing weeks of school at a time because my poor lungs barely functioned. Between the ages of 6 and 17, I almost died four times. I faced steroids, inhalers, plastic covers on my mattress to keep the dust out, summers spent indoors away from pollen, and winters spent indoors away from mold. So fiction became my savior, and you were one of my gods. My body was not strong, but my brain, filled with sacred vows to a pantheon of literary heroes, knew no limits.
As a child you taught me to be brave, and as an adult you taught me to be a feminist. Your words from an episode of Justice League, “Paradise Lost,” are still my anthem of feminism: “I’ve got you, sister.” You taught me how to be there for other women, how to fight for their safety, for their rights—how to understand my own privilege by seeing yours. I didn’t know the word “intersectional” at that time, but that’s exactly what I took from you. You were a sister, an ally, and not just to those who resembled you. You are part of the reason I now work in comics, write about feminism, and advocate for the rights of everyone who identifies as a woman.
And now, I need to be a good sister to you.
You know, comics haven’t been kind to you lately. Creators have minimized your power, exploited your body, focused on your sexuality over your heroism, turned your homeland into something ugly, and reduced you to an infantilized waif. They shaped you into something common, instead of something regal. They lost sight of who you are, of what you can do, and how you can connect to readers—but there is hope. Greg Rucka taking the helm of your next book makes me wildly excited. He understands you, he is passionate about restoring your honor, and he wants to tell a story about you that can reach everyone. I trust your fate in his hands.
I hope the readers picking up this new series see only the truth of your character—the wisdom, the selflessness, the paradise you found among your sisters. I hope they read this new arc and discover you to be the same strong, powerful being I did. A hero so victorious that her image alone gave me courage, reminded me to fight for myself and others, and taught me how to become the woman I am today.
As a child you taught me to be brave, and as an adult you taught me to be a feminist. Your words from an episode of Justice League, “Paradise Lost,” are still my anthem of feminism: “I’ve got you, sister.” You taught me how to be there for other women, how to fight for their safety, for their rights—how to understand my own privilege by seeing yours. I didn’t know the word “intersectional” at that time, but that’s exactly what I took from you. You were a sister, an ally, and not just to those who resembled you. You are part of the reason I now work in comics, write about feminism, and advocate for the rights of everyone who identifies as a woman.
And now, I need to be a good sister to you.
You know, comics haven’t been kind to you lately. Creators have minimized your power, exploited your body, focused on your sexuality over your heroism, turned your homeland into something ugly, and reduced you to an infantilized waif. They shaped you into something common, instead of something regal. They lost sight of who you are, of what you can do, and how you can connect to readers—but there is hope. Greg Rucka taking the helm of your next book makes me wildly excited. He understands you, he is passionate about restoring your honor, and he wants to tell a story about you that can reach everyone. I trust your fate in his hands.
But there's one thing.
Diana, I don’t know how to tell you this, but some of the covers? They’re drawn by an artist who has demonstrated blatant disrespect toward you and other women. He’s sketched you lamenting the size of your ass, mocking an infamously negative Spider-Woman pose, and offering yourself sexually to the reader. The artist thinks it’s hilarious to bait fans who find these depictions of you offensive. In fact, he acts like it’s their fault. He idealizes you for your appearance instead of what you stand for; he sees your breasts and body as the most important story to tell, and he tells it with a disgusting leer. His behavior is so egregious that it blots out the actual covers he’s done for Rucka’s book, which are skilled and tasteful. He neither understands nor cares how each reductive image of you he renders chips away at your power and sends a message to anyone viewing that artwork. Those poses are to make an iconic hero appealing for the male gaze, while giving the illusion of female empowerment. They aren't authentic portrayals of your sexuality, Diana. They aren't yours.
Diana, I don’t know how to tell you this, but some of the covers? They’re drawn by an artist who has demonstrated blatant disrespect toward you and other women. He’s sketched you lamenting the size of your ass, mocking an infamously negative Spider-Woman pose, and offering yourself sexually to the reader. The artist thinks it’s hilarious to bait fans who find these depictions of you offensive. In fact, he acts like it’s their fault. He idealizes you for your appearance instead of what you stand for; he sees your breasts and body as the most important story to tell, and he tells it with a disgusting leer. His behavior is so egregious that it blots out the actual covers he’s done for Rucka’s book, which are skilled and tasteful. He neither understands nor cares how each reductive image of you he renders chips away at your power and sends a message to anyone viewing that artwork. Those poses are to make an iconic hero appealing for the male gaze, while giving the illusion of female empowerment. They aren't authentic portrayals of your sexuality, Diana. They aren't yours.
I don’t know why he’s been chosen to draw these covers, when so many talented artists could've done it. I don’t know why he’s allowed to ride the credible coattails of Rucka’s skilled feminist writing, which was one of the only things that could be done to save your legacy. I wish you had someone to protect you, to keep your image out of the hired hands of misogyny, but clearly your keepers will only go so far to restore you to your rightful place. It seems that they don’t understand how important it is to keep you with heroes, instead of passing you off to a disrespectful child with an ax to grind.
I hope the readers picking up this new series see only the truth of your character—the wisdom, the selflessness, the paradise you found among your sisters. I hope they read this new arc and discover you to be the same strong, powerful being I did. A hero so victorious that her image alone gave me courage, reminded me to fight for myself and others, and taught me how to become the woman I am today.
