On my way home from middle school, there was a small newsstand. The newsstand owner was a middle-aged woman, around the same age as my mother. After autumn set in and the temperature dropped, she would always sit behind the counter, wrapped in a dark purple blanket, her hands constantly knitting something. The magazines formed a barrier between us, and maybe because of this distance, her voice would sound particularly sharp when she reminded me of the rules. She’d call out in a high-pitched tone when I was about ten pages into a comic book, saying, “Hey, kid!” and remind me that I couldn't flip through it without buying. When treated so harshly, the most natural reaction might have been to slam the comic back onto the pile and tell her I’d never give her a cent again. But I never did that, because her newsstand was the only safe place near home to buy comics: not so close to school that I’d get in trouble with a teacher, and not so close to home that my mom might see and scold me. So, I would just lower my head, trying to hide my face in my collar, apologize softly, and hand over my allowance.
Each month, I had 100 yuan to spend on extra things. A good pen cost 3 yuan, a bowl of noodles with meat and vegetables was 15, and a comic magazine was 7. The superheroes I idolized waited for me in those pages.
The concept of a superhero was vague, at least to fifteen-year-old me. American serialized comics were considered imported books in China, placed on big bookstore shelves only after long approval processes. They had a pricey look, with hardcovers and thick glossy paper. In my teenage years, I never fully read a classic superhero comic; I only had a general idea of what superheroes were. They were figures who had powers beyond the ordinary, who could do things that defied the rules of reality. They would descend from the skies in a moment of crisis, confront villains, then return to their regular lives, hiding their true identities within society. Based on this definition, the superhero I admired in my childhood was actually a girl, one whose story world matched my age.
In the early 2000s, influenced by the Sailor Moon manga series, China produced a lot of comics centered around magical girls. These characters had special outfits for battle, with shimmering hair accessories, dazzling skirts, and magic wands adorned with colored crystals. By the definitions above, my superhero was one of these magical girls. Her story was serialized every two weeks in the comic magazine I often bought. The colored pages had a distinct scent, like sweet ink, and as you got closer to the centerfold, there was a slight shift in print alignment. The character had waist-length hair and wore glasses; in school, she was a top student. One ordinary day, a piece of beautiful jewelry fell from the sky and hit her, linking her with a fairy from another world. Together, they became adventure partners. Outside school and daily life, she used her powers to solve problems and defeat monsters invading from other worlds. With a chant, she would take off her glasses, her hair would turn apple-red, and she would put on a short, sparkling dress adorned with ribbons.
Many teens probably admire superheroes at some point, don’t they? Back in middle school, I didn’t talk much with others in class. Occasionally, on social media, I’d see classmates using anime superhero characters as their avatars. I never did this for my profile. I didn’t understand why at the time; I just felt I didn’t want to be like everyone else. Now, reflecting on it, I think it might have had something to do with the struggles I was facing internally.
I’m twenty-one now and still don’t think I made it through middle school in a healthy state of mind. My difficulties weren’t physical: I had a full family, my own room, hot meals, and a clean, comfortable bed. My pain and anxiety were purely mental. Fifteen-year-old me wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t beautiful either—just dull, like the gray winter skies in my hometown that never seemed to clear.
School rules required all girls to keep their hair short, short enough that it wouldn’t touch their ears or collar. Every Monday morning, a teacher would stand at the school gate, stopping girls whose hair was too long and taking down their names and parents’ phone numbers. The teacher would call parents to take their child home for a haircut. As long as we were at school, we had to wear the uniform, but my synthetic jacket never fit right all three years of middle school.
Every time I turned, I could see the shoulder seams sagging down my arms. The jacket wasn’t windproof, yet we weren’t allowed to wear any other coat over it, so we had to layer winter clothes under the uniform jacket, making us look puffed up and awkward. Before school, I’d see my reflection in the full-length mirror at home and look like a sack stuffed with potatoes. I woke up every day at 5:50 a.m., took the bus to school, and managed to get there in time for the 6:30 morning run. The school track was about 140 meters per lap, and if you didn’t complete a lap in under 45 seconds, you had to keep running until your time improved or first period began. I was often one of the last ones left on the track. By the end, everything was a blur, and I could only feel my numb limbs and the metallic taste of blood that never seemed to go away in my throat. School days lasted until 5:30 p.m., and if assignments weren’t finished, we could stay until 9:00 p.m. This tightly scheduled life made me feel like a hamster running endlessly on a wheel.
This wasn’t really a hardship; it was just the norm for students at the time. Parents and teachers told us that the graduation exams at the end of middle school were critically important, determining whether we could go on to college and affecting our entire future. Did I ever hope for a superhero to come and help me in this life? I wasn’t exactly a model student; I would daydream or fantasize to escape reality when I didn’t understand the lessons. But, strangely, in all those fantasies, I never pictured my favorite superheroes swooping into my life to help me. I never even imagined gaining magical powers like a comic book character.
Maybe I knew I wasn’t the “chosen one”—the beautiful artifact from another world would fall into the hands of a good student with long hair, not the hands of someone who looked like a sack of potatoes. My appearance and personality had nothing in common with a superhero, nor did I expect their help. Another reason was that I knew a superhero wouldn’t fix my problems. What troubled me was everything in my life, and no superpower or magic wand could make it all disappear—unless it could evaporate my school, family, and even myself into sparkling dust.
When I look back, I wish I could remember exactly how I made it through those negative emotions, but the answer disappoints me: I didn’t do much of anything. The only thing resembling a rebellion was using any free moment to doodle on whatever paper I could find. Messy lines and distorted figures felt like a reflection of my cramped life back then, and it was the only way I could self-soothe. Now, I see that my classmates were all going through the same pressures. I once thought I was the only one suffering from this lifestyle and that it was my fault. Now I realize that wasn’t true—I simply wasn’t suited for that way of life. At twenty-one, I know choosing art, choosing to study abroad, instead of staying in the competitive Chinese education system, was the right decision, and I’m grateful that my family supported me emotionally and financially.
My life has never been an easy road, and its scenery may be dull and unexciting. The many emotions I carry are the luggage of my journey. They might be heavy, but I never thought of discarding them. My past self, the characters I admired, the comics and sketches I loved—they are treasures in my luggage, like shiny glass balls in a crow’s nest. When I look back on my former self and those emotions, I’m grateful I made it through and never regret it. There will be no superhero in my journey, but I am my own lifelong companion.
Lynn Li is a junior majoring in Illustration at the School of Visual Arts. Lynn began to write fan fiction and create fan art when she was twelve, and has never stopped since. Now she is trying to write her own story.