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I nodded at my mother, and told her so. The same way men and women — like when they get married — like each other. I loved Xena: she was strong, and my parents had always stressed the importance not of being strong, but of being a strong girl. I had been raised on the heroes of such epic, good vs.

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Xena was a natural fit. I had everything Xena: a Xena wall calendar, a Xena poster my dad hung in my closet for me, and one day during circle time I even instructed my second grade class to start calling me Xena.

I mastered her war cry, and debated the strength of her quads in the bus line. I asked why. After all, my dad taped and I watched every episode of Xena that aired; what could be inappropriate? She hesitated again, then explained that the host had asked some questions about Xena. What did that mean? Why someone would have questions about Xena and Gabrielle? What kind of questions were there to be had? My parents were open with me as a child. They explained the intricacies of where babies came from.

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He also worked every day though, and so a lot of explanations and difficult conversations fell to my mother. Most of them were fine. On the weekends I could go to the arcade or watch Star Trek with my dad, or when his sisters were in town, I could go for a hike with my aunts. I had a kindergarten best friend named Cecelia with whom I always played Star Wars , but after that one year we were no longer in the same class, and we never saw each other until we were reunited in the fifth grade. Eventually too, my parents divorced, and my time with my dad was limited to one day a week plus every other weekend.

Brief weekend or every-so-often escapes had never been enough for me, let alone once they slowed to a trickle or, in the case of my aunts, stopped entirely. Xena had long ended, but in her wake, I had found other girls and women, strong ones, ones to whom I could relate.

I was immediately hooked: I loved animals, magic, adventure, and, a newly minted yellow belt, the idea of battles, albeit practicing a Korean martial art rather than a Japanese one. Around the same time, our house got a Nintendo 64 for Christmas, and a couple of games, including GoldenEye.

She was a strong woman too, but could and readily did exercise great power over others, particularly men. Such an outrage and call for justice would continue when, in fifth grade, I got to play Maleficent — then called Baneberry, to avoid copyright infringement — in our adaption of Sleeping Beauty.

I Need a Girl (Part One)

I was delighted to be able to play such a wonderful, such a woman villain; I had come to associate villains as good, despite the whole point of villainy, simply because there were so many more strong women who were villains. When Maleficent was given no justice or even a valiant death in the script, I immediately wrote my own.

At ten years old and desperately searching for strong women, I had stumbled into something my well-meaning father had never intended.


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He was one man, doing his best to help raise a little girl, against the rest of the world. I was determined to seek out women with whom I had a connection, and from whom I could draw strength. The media was determined to code strong women as deviant, wrong, and to be avoided at all costs.

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Instead, they end up lionizing villains, even if they know their actions are immoral. They end up with a fascination about a good death. When I got older, I would emulate femme fatales, something I can trace to this initial identification with coded woman villains — and to which I owe a couple of dress code violations.


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Coded villains might also teach children to hate themselves. While I missed my hikes with my aunts, I was still able to see them over the holidays, or when we visited them as a family, dedicating a vacation to a new region of the United States and seeing them while we were there. Reaching with fingers too long to be human, she traces grooves in a large oval sign.

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It was supposed to detail Titantale City, every street and block. Perhaps it did once, but generations of vandals have marred the oak, almost cutting through it with their graffiti. Telisa taps an armlet and whispers a sound that has the shape of a word but lacks an anchor for meaning. Her left cheek shimmers and skin evaporates, exposing muscle fibers that twitch and veins that glow with the same golden light as her eyes. Now, which house are you from, and what are you doing in my city?

Telisa lifts her half-skinned chin and snorts.

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The man floats upward, keeping eye contact as he tugs at a braided beard. The djinn winks and snaps his fingers. A blade, long and curved, appears in his grip. Sharp enough to cut through flesh, bone, and ego. Telisa gulps and taps her armlet, returning her cheek to smooth unblemished skin. Not trustworthy, but maybe time-worthy.

Failure now ends my apprenticeship. So, mighty djinn, I am alone and at your mercy. She wraps her fingers around his smaller fist and shakes it. I was adopted by olympikin humans.