Saran Goldie-Anderson shares a story about courage, power, truth and freedom.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler or read on.
I'm not a particularly large person. My parents like to tell me that when I was a baby the midwife weighed me and bestowed the prophecy “She'll never be a big girl”. But they also like to tell me that my first word was “stethoscope” and my first sentence was “I'm putting Blu-Tak up my nostril”.
They also suspect I was abducted by aliens when I was three, so I'm not entirely convinced that their recollections of my early years aren't some kind of '80s performance art in-joke.
But that midwife was right. I have never been big. I climbed to reach the top of door frames, but never grew tall enough to duck for them. My shoes are always neon or covered in glitter because the kids' section is awesome (and quite a lot cheaper), and the wisdom and maturity of 27 years has brought me one absolute certainty: I will be asked for ID. Every single time. And I don't think it's just the shoes.
I've always made up for my stature though, with pure unadulterated fury. When I was four I SWORE it wasn't fair that boys could take their t-shirts off and wear just jeans because we all looked the same. BECAUSE WE ALL WERE THE SAME.
Right there in the back seat of my parents' car I tore my t-shirt off and slammed the door, walked – no, SWAGGERED – in my jeans from the car to the house, chest puffed out, tiny little kid muscles tensed to fight the fucking patriarchy right then and there, all on my own.
Sugar and spice? NO. I was made of BEES! Adrenaline and anger, prickling hot on the inside of my skin, ready to swing at this injustice with no face, that I didn't even have a name for yet but knew I hated with such white hot clarity that it hurt.
And I swear to God I grew.
My parents like to tell me that as they sat stunned and watched me stalk up the path, the air shimmered around me, and it looked like I stretched upward, and outward, until I blocked out the sun. My blond hair turned black and the last thing they saw - before I punched a perfect outline of my body through the wall, since I couldn't fit through the door – well, they could have sworn I turned green.
That was the first time I remember feeling so small that my body wasn't big enough to hold it in. That the space for me in the world was even smaller than I was. That only an explosion would have enough force to break what held me. But it wasn't the last time. It never left. From that day, the Incredible Hulk lived inside my chest on a hair trigger. Not born of a gamma blast, just the background radiation of “that's the way it is”, when all I had was a whole lot of “Why?”
I could put myself back together every time I explode, but the pieces never fit as well as they used to, just like me in the clothes I've put back on every day since the time I tore my shirt off when I was four years old.
I learned a lot from being so mad, that when I say “I don't understand” it means I do, really, but I don't want to have to. I do, really, but it isn't fair, and I want to change it but I don't have the power. I want to change it but I don't know how, and RAGE is power and POWER is freedom, so don't make me angry or I'll bust right out. Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. But that's the secret, isn't it? I've always been angry.
Because Bruce Banner is the Hulk, and the Hulk is Bruce Banner, you can't pull them apart. They're in step with each other - a danse apache, a sparring match of reasoning and primal scream, “I understand” and “I don't want to” in constant counterpoint. It works - to a point - but that point is burning hot and ready to blow. I could put myself back together every time I explode, but the pieces never fit as well as they used to, just like me in the clothes I've put back on every day since the time I tore my shirt off when I was four years old.
Not that long ago I put it into words. In the middle of the night, safe from the sky, warm with limbs all intertwined. I said I didn't really mind if people call me “she”, but it's never been something I've wanted to be. Not a “him”, no, but not a “her”, exactly. That I kind of just want to be “me”.
And that person all mixed up with me just said “that makes me angry”.
And then, “I don't understand”. Which means “I do, but I don't want to have to”.
And I didn't turn green. Though over the weeks it swelled in my brain and itched in my eyes and I felt like I'd never been a smaller size. I was still too big for what held me - that whole wide world and what it wanted to tell me. So I decided that instead of exploding, that whole wide world could fucking blow me.
And I talked to a child I know with attitude for miles and those little kid muscles of her own all tensed and ready to fight, and all she had was a whole lot of “Why?”
“Why are you wearing those shoes?”
“They're neon! And cheap.”
“Why are you wearing those jeans?”
“I finally found some that fit me.”
“But you only wear boy clothes. Are you a boy now?”
And I said “No”.
“So what are you? Are you a girl still, then?”
I said I didn't really mind if people call me she, but it's never been something I've wanted to be. Not a “him”, no, but not a “her”, exactly. That I kind of just want to be “me”.
And I could have said so many things, told her this story about anger and explosions and the spaces I never fit into. Maybe one day I will, because when she doesn't understand she asks until she gets it. But what I actually said, this time, when she asked me what I am... was “I'm Batman”.
She said, “Don't you mean Batgirl?” And I said “No”.
“But how can you be Batman if you're not a man?!” And I said, “Anyone can be Batman”.
“Oh. Ok...can dogs be Batman?” And I said, “Definitely. Dogs can definitely be Batman”.
And she said, “Cool!”
My parents like to tell me we fall so we can learn to get back up again. Because Bruce Wayne isn't Batman, and Batman isn't Bruce Wayne. That Bruce had it inside him too - that rage too big to hold in one body, that fury so sharp and indiscriminate it had to fly outwards all at once like bats across the sky. But that Bruce looked it square in the eye and saw himself, not someone else, and he went out and became it. And by becoming it, he tamed it. Batman isn't the secret deep inside, it's Bruce Wayne he puts on when he needs to hide. It took courage to make that the truth and be Batman forever, but Batman is not one word of a lie.
So all that rage? Courage now. Power? Truth, always. And freedom? Definitely. Batman Forever. Because Batman can be anyone. And anyone can be Batman. Even dogs. Especially dogs.
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Tane Williams
This content is brought to you with funding support from NZ On Air.
