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Now, if I wanted to do a proper autobiography I would probably start with being born in Old Genosha, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t remember Old Genosha. If I try, I can almost see the outline of a memory: me, three years old, scribbling and listening to my father sing. He wasn’t a singing man, according to my mother. The memory’s so worn at this point, I might as well have dreamed it. Maybe I did.
But that isn’t a memory of Old Genosha, it’s a memory of my father. My father, the one who got me out of Old Genosha and died for it. I really do wonder what they would have done if I could’ve stayed and they found out what my powers were going to be. I grew up hidden away in New Jersey, under the assumption that no one knew my powers and I’d find out the way most everyone else did. As mutant mania began to sweep the nation, my mother hid us deeper and deeper into the recesses of our own home. I still passed for human then, but they knew where we came from and why. We rarely went out unless absolutely necessary. I would look out the window in the summer and watch the other children with their popsicles and their puppies, and I would look back down to read my book.
I was an insular child. I dreamed of joining a world of mutants like myself, of fighting for the cause with vast powers of destruction. I was the hero of the story, fighting bravely against the humans alongside my idols — but in the fantasy they were my equals. The only escape from a world that rejected and hated me was the idea that I could one day be able to hit back, and hard.
Then of course came the day the X-Men themselves were knocking on our door. My mother answered. I heard the knocking on the door, but I was too preoccupied to pay much notice. Then there was a soft tap on my bedroom door.
“Go away,” I said.
“Xavier and his lot paid a visit,” my mother said through the door. “Just wanted to let you know.”
That was not what I had expected her to say. I opened my mouth to say something and looked up from the hardwood floor at the door, but I couldn’t get a word out before my mother spoke again.
“Of course, once I told them your powers, they didn’t seem too excited.”
“What?” I said.
“They left. They’re probably gone by now.”
I was quiet, and then I began to sob. It was all I could do.
“Angie?” my mom asked, somehow surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“Leave me alone,” I croaked. If she couldn’t understand my pain now, how could she ever? Where were the words to describe how deep that cut went? No, there was no way to tell her. I was a loser, and an idiot to boot for thinking I could’ve been anything different.
After all, what kind of power was hair color changing? It felt like some big cosmic punchline to a joke no one had told me the beginning of.
I became a hairdresser, of course I did. I moved to New York, flew through cosmetology school, and got lots of clients. They came to me with all colors imaginable, some with a sparkle in their eyes and others with a wary, resigned curiosity. I was listed in beauty magazines. I got a glossy copy of Vogue and looked down at my shy, mousy self attempting a smile as I stood in front of the salon I worked at.
Eventually I found others like myself. We sat together in a circle at a local rec center and talked about our days, our dreams, our damages. That was where I met Dave. He was a lanky guy, with three heads. I loved each head, even the one that couldn’t quite make words. I loved Dave. He loved me.
Things were good, things were bad. I had a home, people who loved me. Dave always came home with a smile on his face. I ate every day and was not lacking for affection, and the one time our apartment was destroyed by Skrulls the insurance covered it well enough. But then again, they always hated us. Even as I got more human clients, I could see the way they looked at me, the tone they had when they spoke to me. They would assume everything when I told them where I was from, and I only told them where I was from when they asked.
You get used to hate. You begin to accept it as true. If the hate isn’t true, and there’s no reason for your suffering, there’s no meaning in any of it. No justification for the way things are besides custom. Every now and then, I would wish for a day when we, the three-headed, the hair-changing, and all the rest could do something . But for the longest time, it seemed survival was the greatest act of resistance.
And survival in of itself wasn’t easy. Dave didn’t survive, for one. We cremated him and sent his ashes into space, per his instructions, and I gave each head a kiss before I sent him into the flames. I was sad, but I was doing what Dave would’ve wanted me to do: I was living. I was still going outside and I still had friends, I even had a career.
It was hard, make no mistake about it. There we many days when all I wanted to do was give up, even if I didn’t know how. But I survived long enough to see the day when the X-Men came knocking on my door again.
It was a hot day, and I was tired. The knock came from my door and I knew it was them.
“I’m not interested,” I said.
“It’s a place for all mutants,” one said.
“Still not interested,” I said, and began to force the door to shut, albeit unsuccessfully as one of them had super strength.
“You don’t understand,” some other said.
“Maybe,” I said, struggling with the door.
Still another looked down at a list. “You’re the wife of one...Dave Ashton, yes?”
I winced. The door edged closer to open. “Widow, actually,” I said.
“Oh, you really don’t understand,” the first one said. “We’ve brought him back.”
I gave up holding onto the door all at once, which the super strong one must not have been expected, because it was torn clean off its hinges.
Of course, there was a lot of me yelling and crying and demanding to see my Dave. Was this a joke? Was this a threat? I’d gotten so used to hate that I didn’t trust love when I saw it. Oh, but then I saw him, and the way he smiled, I just knew.
Now Dave and I, we’re back. I don’t worry anymore. I walk with my head held hide, and I’m talking with a few of the kids about opening the first hair salon here. I think I saw Jean Grey as I was walking along the other day. I even think she smiled at me. It wouldn’t surprise me. Everyone smiles at me here. I’m welcomed, I’m happy, because
KRAKOA IS FOR ALL MUTANTS