1975 was the year my skull exploded.

On the whole, I can’t recall 1975 all that well. I was only three years old at the time. I am, though, fairly certain that I was probably wrestling with the dilemmas presented to much of America’s three-year-olds. For one, I was probably trying to get that whole "too-cool-for-pre-school" thing down to a funky science. For another, I was probably very much trying to not think of my nose as a thing of play, barring that, how I could actively work it into next year’s "America’s Bicentennial" celebrations. You know, just to give the family something to talk about in their golden years and, well, because I was nothing if not a patriot.

Again, I don’t remember much about 1975 but I am fairly certain that it was the year that my little life changed -- completely. At least I assume it did because, again, I don’t recall much about 1975, but I do know this: my little skull exploded. In 1975, something beautiful was unwittingly (or was it wittingly?) set into motion. Something I, to this day, am only just beginning to somewhat comprehend some thirty-plus years later. I didn’t know it but I’d found ... love . I have not, nor do I care to find a way out to the other side.

In 1975, my mother plopped me down in front of a television, introducing me to Lynda Carter and to Wonder Woman. I was quietly mesmerized sitting there, bathed in the grayish glow of our black-and-white television.

Who was this...this...person? Why was she doing this to me? Why was she making me hang on her every word? Why did Lynda Carter’s portrayal of Wonder Woman have to be so damned... different?

Who gave the character Wonder Woman, this White princess from a fictional utopia, dressed in a star-spangled bikini come to me, a smallish Black child living in urban Washington, D.C., permission to come through my television and seemingly speak only to me? Who let her into my house? Who let her into my heart?

Despite our obvious and vast differences, there was something there. Something I could barely wrap my head around. It spoke to me. There she was, Ms. Lynda Carter, dressed up in a bathing suit, high-heeled boots and a golden rope, smiling (God, that smile!) all the while. She should have looked ridiculous but, of course, she didn’t. She looked regal, elegant. How was she pulling this nearly superhuman feat off? I didn’t know it at the time, but it was so simple – even though but many others in her position failed to comprehend... ..

Lynda Carter knew what many others did not. Superman’s "S" sells itself. As difficult as it may be to believe, it is easy to cloak oneself in "Bat Shark Repellent" and let the moment speak for itself. Lynda Carter found Wonder Woman’s core and let it shine for everyone to see. If the Wonder Woman were to survive, Ms. Carter had to bring to the role that one divine thing women seem to have in greater supply than most men: dignity.

Now, I’m sure, that I was somewhat aware of the concept of the super-hero. To be a super-hero one had to have a costume, powers, or a little boy like the one that Batman had on the tv show... and so yes, dignity had to be in their somewhere, right? Because they were guys, guys who, I guessed, had dignity. Up to this point, I assumed that all anyone had to have to play one of these "supermen" was:

• Show a willingness to puff out one’s chest at the first sign of trouble.

• The putting of fists on one’s hips while spouting ludicrous dialogue at the second sign of trouble.

• Take yourself and not the character way too seriously.

• Don’t ever forget you’re a "serious" actor, after all.

• Above all, be eager enough to earn one’s pay as a serious actor while wearing satin briefs.

In watching that first episode of Wonder Woman, I was taught more about gender equality than any lecture I ever could have sat in at anyone’s school. In Lynda Carter’s first episode, I found out that women, unlike men, are elegant in satin briefs. In satin, I glimpsed dignity.

Labels: Dignity In Satin, Wonder Woman

# posted by Devon Sanders @ 2:26 PM