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You ever have one of those moments?
You know, one of those weird moments. I mean, like, really weird, the kind of weird that changes the way you understood the world forever. The kind of weird that forces you to look at yourself and question everything you thought that you knew.
I think I’ve had my fair share, probably more than most my age. Standing over an open grave, Dad’s sorrowful hand on my shoulder, and staring into the pit as the rain poured and dirt fell on the coffin. Staring at the girl in the mirror with her shoulder-length blonde hair, black nails, and cropped shirt, and nearly collapsing from the shiver of rightness vibrating in my chest. Falling sick from a random spider bite and waking up by literally sensing existence on a whole new level.
But the weirdest moment, bar none, happened while fighting my usual villain of the week. Just Doc Ock, Ockie on a bad day, and of course that day wasn’t really a good day because suddenly, this blue-and-purple-and-black-and-white vortex blasted through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man and sucked me up. And then Ockie really wasn’t that big a deal anymore because I was hurtling through, well, everything. This dark ocean of colors and stars and planets, intersected by webs of brilliant blue light and I was caught in the center of one, falling deeper and deeper and deeper…
Like I said, weirdest moment. But it changed me because after that, I wasn’t quite so alone anymore. There were other Spider-People: Peni and Noir and Ham and Peters. Multiple of them. And sure, the pain of seeing my dead best friend all grown up hurt, almost as much as the kaleidoscopic spasms destroying my body, but at least I wasn’t the one and only Spider-Woman anymore. I had friends again, I wasn’t alone again, I made a… a best friend. Miles. People who understood me, people with whom I belonged.
Good things never last though, and I had to go back home to that dark room haunted by the ghost of Peter Parker. Half of myself relaxed into Dad’s worried embrace as he asked after my absence, his love pouring down even as he scowled angrily about finally catching Spider-Woman. The other half quaked in the shadows when Dad cleaned his gun in the kitchen, eyes stuck to the news about Spider-Woman’s return, his eyes cold even as he cheerfully asked about my day.
Then Dad put the two halves together amidst the rubble and dust, and in the ruins of our relationship, I had to leave my home for good.
Not my home. Not anymore.
And that moment was another weird moment, not like before, but the awe of stepping into that white, stainless steel lobby with Miguel and Jess and taking in the walkways spiraling upward like a giant web and seeing all the Spider-People. Hundreds of them.
Spider-People.
My people.
Except not really because we weren’t a family, we were the Spider-Society and we had missions and briefings and multiversal prisons and talks about the greater good of the multiverse. We weren't pals hanging out in another Aunt May’s tiny living room or sneaking into the penthouse apartments of a megalomaniacal Kingpin.
Turns out when you watch an uncle or a dad or a friend or another version of yourself get stabbed or shot or bludgeoned to death enough times and do nothing, despite every fiber of your being screaming at you to do something, it’s hard to make friends. Especially when those potential friends aren’t seeing themselves die an awful lot.
Oh yeah, the odd looks certainly didn’t help. Enough Spiders look at you like you’re a ghost and you see enough canon events where some version of you falls glassy eyed to the pavement and it eventually sinks in.
I asked Miguel to be sure and he didn’t sugarcoat it. In every universe, Gwen Stacy falls for Spider-Man. In every universe, it doesn’t end well. Gwen Stacy has no home, anywhere, ever.
And in my universe? Gwen Stacy fell for Peter Parker and lost her best friend. I went to another universe, finally did the “friends” thing again? Gwen Stacy couldn’t keep those friends around. I returned home and Dad finally saw all of me? I lost my universe.
Face it Spider-Woman. Gwen Stacy doesn’t belong in any universe – including your own.
Peter’s ghost keeps me company. Not a transparent, sheet-covered ghost. No, he’s a heavy shadow, a voice chained around my heart and floating around my brain like a heavy fog. Like now, sitting on the edge of a Times Square billboard on Earth-138, hood up and mask down as I watch the chaos unfolding below. A massive movement of people in the streets, colors and lights and singing as they own the streets. The police have been run off hours ago and people celebrate, a commemoration of their recent victory over the now-dead President Osborn. From a distance, the collage of colors blur together in a twinkling semblance of that dark ocean from so long ago. All the memories sit numbly in my chest.
A year ago, Dad and I had attended our first New York City pride event together, some festival in Central Park all sparkling like this. I still remember the wide smile, the blurry pictures of my face painted up in blue, white, and pink, the patch that he tucked into his pocket and later sewed onto his uniform. The tears well up in my eyes, the fuzzy vision turning the myriad of colors below me into an echo of my slow kaleidoscopic death from a few months ago. No collider this time, and a travel device on my wrist to boot, but the pain in my bones cries out just as badly.
“You alright Gwendy?” An confident voice, tinged with its own brand of concern, and I touch the wet fabric of my mask as Spider-Punk swings up onto the billboard and sets down our dinner. Hobie Brown doesn’t treat me like a ghost; hell, just a month into my new life, he invited me to be his drummer. Punching fascists, stomping on corpos, keeping my own toothbrush in the bathroom – not the kind of life I expected. But it’s something, better than what the other spiders have to offer, and Hobie cares in his own provocatory way.
“Just thinking about my dad,” I sigh, making no effort to pick up the offered burger. The grief sits heavy in my gut, roiling with nausea.
Hobie pulls up in his mask, takes a bite from his own burger. “The git who pointed a gun at you and kicked you out, you mean,” he asks rhetorically through stuffed cheeks. He’s listened to my thoughts many times, heard the rage and anger and frustration exploding out of my drums night after night. He swallows, grunts casually. “Sounds like a right bastard.”
“Shit, I don’t know Hobie.” Leaning back, I hang over the billboard face, my feet sticking onto the metal struts of the billboard sign. The pink tips of my hair – longer now after a few months without a cut – drift toward the crowd below. With the blood rushing to my head, the pounding in my ears dulls the pain.
“I knew it had to come to a head eventually, after what happened with Peter. I couldn’t hide Spider-Woman forever. But I hoped it would be better. He’s a good man at heart.” I glance up at Hobie, who has finished his burger and now fiddles with his guitar. He bobs his head in acknowledgement, and I continue.
“He was good when I came out as trans. Just accepted it, loved me without question, even if he didn’t fully understand. Helped with the paperwork, the doctor appointments, all of it. Took the lead at work to help trans people on the force and across New York, more than he had to do. He’s a good man.” My voice cracks, the insistence in my throat bleeding through.
“But then… then came the museum, and he changed. All that love meant nothing. All those years, and I wasn’t his daughter anymore. He didn’t understand, didn’t even accept it. Just pointed his gun and…” My vision swims and I pinch my forehead, the pressure warding off memories of dark and death and guns.
“He’s a right bastard,” Hobie repeats matter-of-factly, and a spike of inexplicable defensive anger flushes in my cheeks. “He’s a good man Hobie. He’s my dad.”
Hobie shrugs, brushing off my retort in his typical unflappable fashion. “Still a bastard. He’s a bloody cop.”
“That doesn’t mean-“
Hobie pulls off his mask and fixes me with a pointed stare. The silent snark catches my protest and I fall quiet in turn, banging my head back down against the billboard. With a twirl of his finger, Hobie gestures for me to climb back up.
“Have no doubts he’s a good man Gwendy. Heard all your stories. But good or bad man, makes no difference when you’re a pig. Seen lots of Osborn’s fascists, your average cop then and even today, who were good people. Had families, bought gifts for the kids, gave their annual donation to some charity or another. All good men and women.”
“But that doesn’t matter,” I mumble sullenly, biting into my burger. The food tastes like nothing in my dry mouth. Hobie nods, gestures casually as though discussing the weather.
“Nah. Cause see, the thing about being a cop is that one day, that good man is going to see something. Might be a girl stealing food to feed her family. A mentally ill man with a gun who just needs help. Factory workers blocking the streets for better working conditions. A queer person sleeping on a public bench because they ain’t got nowhere else. And then that good man has to make a choice.”
“Does he uphold the so-called greater good?”
I take off the mask. In the rubble and smoke, I can barely make out his face. All I can see is the man, his shape blurry and indistinct. “Dad… it’s me.”
“The status quo?”
His shadowed face trembles with… what? Rage? Shock? Betrayal? “Put your hands in the air.”
“Dad…”
“PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.”
“Law and order?”
A cold voice, distant and hard. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Or does he do the right thing? Keep a family from starving. Prevent another grave from being dug too young. Improve the lives of the people around him. Help people live with a little less shit every day.”
Hobie leans back against the billboard, popping the cap off another soda. With a shrug, he passes the drink my way. I can barely swallow, but I still snatch up the drink and chug, letting the sweetness slide down my throat. Ignore the hollow dampness pouring down my cheeks.
“That’s the big choice, innit? Being a cop for some rule-of-law, vaguely defined greater good or doing the right thing, doing the you thing., creating positive change instead of responding to shit. You become a cop, you stay with the cops, you’re choosing to be a bastard. Your pops chose to be a cop instead of your dad.”
“So he’s a bastard,” I conclude hoarsely, defeat and fatigue dragging on my limbs. Taking notice, Hobie pulls me into a quick side hug, shocking me out of my spiral. With the same enthusiasm, he springs up and pounds at the chest of his Spider suit.
“Reckon that’s the core of what makes a Spider, Gwendy. Always doing what’s right by you, even when the choice gets tough. Never compromise to the man. Doing that friendly neighborhood Spider-Man propaganda line bullshit, actively making our communities better. Doing our best work when we can be ourselves.” He smirks confidently. “It’s hella punk mate.”
“Careful with dissing the greater good there Hobie. Might upset Miguel.” Hobie grunts knowingly, his eyes catching mine. He seems to have something to say, but draws back. “Hm. Funny that.”
I take a defensive swig from my soda, ignoring the implications of Hobie’s words. In the relative silence, the murmur of the celebrating people drifting up from Time Square, the loneliness scrabbles at my throat. “So my dad’s a bastard and I don’t belong anywhere with anyone,” I finally spit out darkly. “Got it. Already knew half of that.”
Tuning his guitar, Hobie winces as he tightens too far and the instrument lets out a discordant screech. “Nah. Just means fuck what everyone else says you gotta be. Fuck the little cop in your head. Everyone has their people.” He grits his teeth, fiddling with the guitar. “You got some Scooby-Doo, I know that much. You’re already existing.”
Existing. Doesn’t feel like it, and as I pull the mask down over my face, I guess that Hobie catches it. “Your transness, Gwendy,” he whispers conspiratorially, sly smile on his face as he elbows my shoulder. Beneath the mask, I scowl. “I’m more than just a trans girl Hobie.” His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Exactly mate. You’re your own boss.”
Suddenly, the attention feels palpably irritating and I attempt to calm myself with a deep breath. The anger lingers, but I manage to bite my tongue and redirect my frustration.
“Need to swing for a bit Hobie. I’ll be around.”
Without waiting for a response, I dive off the billboard and plummet toward the ground, zipping off a web at the last second to go flying through the streets of New York. Popping my earbuds in under the mask, I close my eyes into the roaring wind. Let the music flow. Feel the drumbeat in my muscles.
Just swing.
All dressed up and nowhere to go
I thread the needle between the two buildings. Above the festivities in the streets, I am a speck, a blur of black and white and pink and cyan. No destination in mind, just the journey, just trying to empty my thoughts. And yet they bubble up and still I swing, trying to escape the past.
I picked the costume design as a nod to myself, as a point of pride. White and blue and pink. When my villains question it, I like to answer with a punch to the face.
Trans and proud, motherfucker. Even if no one else gets it, this is mine.
Walking the streets all alone
Gwen Stacy didn’t always walk alone. Before the spider bite, I had Peter and Mom and Dad. Before the bite, I had confusing feelings, undefined resentment, inexplicable moments of happiness. I knew what they wanted me to be. Lonely to be a kid with nobody to understand you.
Another night you wish that you could forget
The rubble. The choking dust. The angry cop. The gun. Wish I could forget it all. Wish I could go back to how things were. Half of myself in loving hands, half of myself in a dark room or slammed against the pavement. But would I change myself at all?
Swinging low, hopping along the roofs of stationary cars, moving alongside the people flowing around me, I ignore the shaking in my hands.
No.
No, I’m done having cops tell me what to do.
Making yourself up as you go along
Hobie spoke about the little cop in my head. I stopped listening to the cops years ago as Spider-Woman.
Landing on a neon street sign, the steel frame lurches precariously. With a leaping flourish, I web the struts back to the building before zipping away from the faint cry of gratitude.
I stopped listening to cops long before Spider-Woman. Family, friends, teachers, acquaintances, doctors, everyone. Cops policing my chromosomes. Cops policing my bits. What if I said, “fuck you.” What if I said, “I’m a girl.” What if I had short hair, had piercings, broke the rules, and looked amazing while doing it.
What if I stopped listening and the world didn’t grind to a halt.
Who’s gonna take you home tonight?
I come to a perch on a rooftop near the eastern edge of Central Park. The crowds spill into the streets, the park, a celebration of freedom. Around some overturned cop cars, impromptu circles of people have formed to have makeshift concerts. People tend to the wounded. Stores and carts share warm food and hearty laughter, the joy wafting up into the sky above. Wonderful colors sparkling across the city.
Driven by curiosity, I swing down to the streets below.
Who’s gonna take you home
So many people, all of them thrumming with life. People wave, clap me on the back. It isn’t hero worship; people don’t look at Spider-Punk like other universes view their Spider-People. But these people know I’m Spider-Woman, know that I helped them today.
I’m not more. I’m not less. I just am.
Who’s gonna take you home tonight?
I chat up a group of queens, their boots still bloody and baseball bats in hand, lounging against the sidewalk. “Honey, we’re queens in New York,” they snark coyly. “Those boys in blue knew to run as soon as they heard we were coming.” One woman slips a feather in my hood.
I help a medic with a sleeveless muscle t-shirt and intricate tattoos stabilize an injury. As they shift their hold, I catch the floral tattoos flowing down to cover the scars on their chest. Finishing up, I offer to reapply their midnight-colored mascara. “My boyfriend likes the blues,” they wink.
A large butch woman with strong hands makes a point of offering me a extra large plate of food. “Does Spider-Woman need to lift?” she asks. My answer leaves her scratching her wispy beard in jealousy.
Who’s gonna take you home
How could I forget this?
How could I forget that I belong somewhere?
How could they not be scared when our very existence breaks every rule in their book? When being our joyous selves does more to shake the world than any of their laws ever could?
How could they not be scared by how happy we are?
How could I forget this part of me?
These are my people, our blood bound together by being unapologetically, unabashedly ourselves. The same, but different, and so much more.
Does God bless your transsexual heart?
I swing myself on top of the green van to the sound of raucous cheering, the band on top jumping out of the way. The drum set burns in the kaleidoscopic light, a mirage of colors. The festival bounces off my suit too, my body aglow, and my hands buzz as I grasp the drumsticks. Feels weird that I’m here defying the odds, a girl from another universe, a Spider-Woman in the streets of a liberated city.
They did this. We did this.
I haven’t felt this right since Miles.
“Alright New York City,” I roar, my voice echoing across the city. “Let’s remind them that WE ARE HERE.”
The crowd roars back, and the van rocks forward with the sudden impact of red and blue. I don’t need to look but shoot a wink over anyway as Spider-Punk slams a chord on his guitar. “Let’s do this Hobie,” I say with determination, and Spider-Punk flexes his fingers. “I’ll do it, but not because you told me to,” he snarks, no bite.
And so I play, and hit, and scream my heart out, because who cares about presentable, because I am Gwen Stacy and Spider-Woman and daughter and friend and this universe doesn’t get to kill me yet.
Because fuck you (love you).
True trans soul rebel true trans soul rebel true trans soul rebel
You ever have one of those moments?
You know, one of those weird moments that changes everything?
Playing drums like a demon on a van in an ocean of color at the center of everything and nothing, remembering the me that people keep telling me I can’t be. And why should I listen?
Sorry Dad. Sorry Jess. Sorry Miguel.
I’m Spider-Woman.
I do the right thing, even when it’s hard.
I belong somewhere.
And next chance I get, I’m going to see Miles.