I Am Not A Lady
Natasha Romanoff had never been too good at being a ‘lady.’ It was always “Don’t eat that way, Nat,” “Legs together, Nat,” “Cursive, not print, darling,” and one time even “Natasha, stand like a lady.” Wherever she turned, there was always someone to tell her not to play baseball with the boys even when she wanted to, not to hit them when they hit her, not to mouth off when someone said something crass to her, because she was a lady and needed to act like ladies acted.
When she turned eight years old, Natasha cut her hair. She walked all the way to the drugstore (a place called Jeremiah’s), clutching two dollars in her hand as her skirts swished around her knees, just barely reaching the edges of the high socks that her governess insisted she wear. When she got to the store, she marched over to the counter, placed the two dollars in front of the cashier, and asked for scissors. The cashier raised an eyebrow but took the money, passing her a shiny new pair.
Snip, snip, snip, in the bathroom at the far back of Jeremiah’s, cutting her red hair in as even lines as she could manage. The strands fell to the floor without a sound, and when she looked into the mirror at her new hairstyle, she grinned. Her governess was going to give her hell for it, and the other girls who lived in the group home were going to snicker at her, but what really mattered was that Natasha had gotten rid of the rotten strands that liked to stick in her face at the most inopportune times.
Point, Natasha.
When she turned eleven, Natasha met Clint. She thought he was pretty neat. Clint knew a lot about kicking butt, and when Natasha said she didn’t know how, he pursed his lips and gave her a thoughtful look. After a few moments he said, “All girls should know how to kick butt,” and that was that – he’d become Natasha’s first friend.
Over the next few years, Clint taught Natasha how to kick butt (she started calling it kicking ass. It sounded less ladylike and more badass). He showed her how to kick people, how to punch, and how to block. She felt like a superhero every time a man tried to call her over and tell her how pretty she looked or what a beautiful lady she must’ve been and she got to shoot back something icy cold at him.
Point, Natasha.
At the age of eighteen, Natasha had already discovered she didn’t like guys. They were too stuck-up, too macho (except for Clint. Natasha loved Clint like a brother). But liking girls was off limits, so she refused to like anyone at all, and just kept on being cool and calm and collected and definitely not liking girls (as if there were any girls to like, anyway; most every girl was too caught up in being obsessed with knitting or needlepoint or ironing clothes).
Point, Everyone Else (except Clint. He’s always agreed when she told him that being ladylike was bullshit).
When she was twenty-five, Natasha met Pepper.
And oh, my god.
Maybe she did like girls.