If I shaped the aluminum foil just right, it would maintain a smooth, sleek finish, giving off the appearance of Wonder Woman’s silver cuffs, which she used as a powerful deflector against ammunition launched by her enemies.
The challenge, however, lay in the fitting — securing the strips around my wrists was one thing, but vigorous play inevitably left them riddled with creases. Then, there was the small detail that I had unruly, ash blonde hair, a far cry from the glossy, dark tresses Lynda Carter sported on the 1970s television series, let alone that the closest approximation to her costume that I could come up with was a pair of blue shorts paired with a red T-shirt. And yet, as a 10-year-old, these details never stopped me from my unwavering conviction that with just a couple of strips of aluminum foil and color-coordinated clothes, I embodied her.
Armed with a frayed rope and a makeshift gold crown, I would valiantly capture villains and rescue the good guys, roles dutifully filled by my enthusiastic golden retriever and my somewhat less cooperative cats. Even though, in defiance to my two older sisters, I had declared being a tomboy who fixated on watching Adam West as Batman and Guy Williams as El Zorro, Wonder Woman, with her blend of brains and beauty, had a unique allure. In a world laden with male role models, she stood out as a beacon of strength and empowerment.
It didn’t matter that she communicated with me in Spanish (a consequence of dubbed TV in Venezuela at that time), her actions spoke louder than words, infusing my young identity with a powerful affirmation that I, too, could be intelligent, agile, self-reliant and strong. Occasionally, the cuffs would come loose — after all, saving the world is a demanding job. But this didn’t seem to matter. Once my momentum built up, nothing could slow me down.
Happy reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com