Comic books have long famously told stories of oppression—characters grapple with feelings of otherness and alienation, fear of discrimination, a need to hide a true identity. But so often these allegories center on superpowered individuals who are white and male, making their claim to these stories of marginalization ring false. Wonder Woman is white, I was reminded again and again. And yet, her story and overlapping identities—a superhero in a world of humans and a heroine in a world of heroes—felt uniquely familiar to me. They led me to think her character perhaps made more sense as a black woman.

Wonder Woman and I were both outsiders on two levels. Her powers set her apart from other humans, but among the other members of the Justice League, she was relegated to secretary. My race set me apart from my white classmates, but I learned at a young age that within the black community my gender marked me as inferior. I remember as a child being told by my hairdresser that feminism wasn’t for black women. “For us,” she explained, “the man is here, and we’re here,” she said gesturing with her hands to illustrate that to be a black woman meant that a man I had never met would always be stationed above me. As I got older, I became better able to name my double displacement; I was frustrated with the racism I saw in feminist circles and with the misogyny I saw among racial-justice advocates. And Wonder Woman’s state of constant otherness only became more meaningful.

But as a girl, I most commiserated with Wonder Woman when she sought to reconcile her inner strength and ferocity with the need of others to see her as peaceful and feminine. I had learned early on that it wouldn’t take a lot for me to be viewed as angry and deemed unlikeable. Images of neck-rolling, finger-snapping, gum-popping black women caricatured in movies and TV shows showed me exactly what people expected from me.

These expectations were memorably laid out by one of my favorite TV shows when I was 10, Martin, via two characters: Gina, the light-skinned, kind, and happy love interest, and Pam, the dark-skinned, needed-a-weave-to-hide-her-nappy-hair, perpetually single best friend. The jokes at Pam’s expense came from the fact that she was supposedly too aggressive and masculine. Meanwhile, Gina, who clearly had a better role, was unabashedly feminine. I knew, with my dark skin, nappy hair, strong opinions, and sarcastic sense of humor, that I’d be seen as a Pam. So over time, I became a bubbly, happy, slow-to-upset black girl you would never call angry. Even today, I wonder if the bubbly, happy, slow-to-upset black woman I’ve become is who I really am, or if it’s just my own Diana Prince, the version of myself I created to protect my secret, real identity.

Wonder Woman seemed to understand this psychic conflict. She’s one of the strongest heroes in D.C. Comics canon. According to one origin story, she was blessed with “the strength of Hercules”; in the other, she’s an actual demigoddess, the daughter of Zeus. Among comic-book fans, an ongoing debate rages over whether Wonder Woman could best Superman in a fight. But unlike her powerful peers, Wonder Woman must retain a femininity that her physical prowess seems to undermine. The result is a sometimes-contradictory character—a warrior by training and birthright who prefers diplomacy to battle. A would-be Pam who was only ever supposed to be seen as Gina.