Eve Ewing, Ironheart, and Black Women’s Fiction
Contemporary Black women writers weave words into imaginary worlds to create fiction that defies neat, tidy genre distinctions. Comic books, for instance, are not viewed for their fictional footing, but a multi-genre Black woman writer of today demonstrates what is possible when thinking about comic book writing as fiction. While notable practitioners of comic/fiction include the likes of Roxanne Gay, N.K. Jemisin, and Nnedi Okorafor, Eve Ewing’s work also warrants recognition.
Ewing’s comic/fiction writing, particularly her portrayal of the Black girl superhero Ironheart (nee Riri Williams), is significant. Before Riri flies into the popular imagination in Marvel’s 2022 film Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, Ewing pens the first Ironheart solo series in 2018. Her interpretation of Riri adds a distinct flavor to the superhero’s tale.1 Ewing infuses texture and nuance into the narrative by situating her storytelling in the tradition of Black women fiction writers in three main ways: Black vernacular language use, challenges with processing grief, and camaraderie with multiple Black girls.
Ewing employs a range of Black vernacular in her writing from characters taking ownership of mistakes by saying, “My bad” to conveying their understanding with, “We good.” Perhaps, the most amusing use of Black language comes from Riri’s mom, Ronnie Williams, who checks her daughter with the quintessential Black momma idiom. “I’m BooBoo the fool,” Mom retorts when her daughter dares to insult Ronnie’s intelligence during a disagreement. Ironically, a Black parent comparing herself to the cultural anti-hero BooBoo implies that despite Riri’s genius, she is, in fact, foolish for assuming she could one-up her mother without Ronnie noticing.
Ewing’s inclusion of the familiar turn of phrase is as symbolic as it is humorous, placing her writing in conversation with the work of pioneering Black women authors who highlight Black vernacular as central to storytelling.
Toni Morrison’s Sula (1973) and Alice Walker’s “Everyday Use” (1974) provide other examples where Black mothers stand out for their quips, but they offer more than idiomatic expressions as Ewing shows.
After Riri witnesses the random act of gun violence that claims the lives of her stepfather and best friend Natalie, she becomes Ironheart and begins to fight crime; yet, she fails at fighting through her grief. Concerned about her daughter’s ill attempt at coping, Ronnie asserts, “Honey, you can’t keep running away from things. I know you’re strong and healthy up here,” pointing to her daughter’s head. “I need you to be healthy and strong in here,” Ronnie says gesturing toward Riri’s heart before inviting her to a grief support group. Ronnie’s talk with Riri alludes to a common tendency to repress and suppress heartache by any means necessary. For Riri, the work of saving the world distracts from the teen’s pain until her mother addresses the necessity of recovering.
Here, Ewing employs a literary tradition of Black women best described by bell hooks. “Progressive black women artists have shown ongoing concern about healing our wounds,” hooks continues, “Much of the celebrated fiction by black women writers is concerned with identifying our pain and imaginatively constructing maps for healing.”
Black women writers—consider Toni Cade Bambara’s The Salt Eaters (1980) and Morrison’s Beloved (1987)—have long sought to articulate and confront grief visited upon characters in hopes of modeling Black-female-centered restorative practices. Ewing’s writing follows suit with a mandate for healing, which goes hand in hand with her portrayals of friendship.
Ewing depicts Riri’s dynamic camaraderie with multiple Black girls, including fellow genius-hero Shuri and Riri’s artificial intelligence N.A.T.A.L.I.E. who resembles the hero’s deceased best friend. Each girl supports the other in ways that suggest the deep, connecting bonds of friends who are more like sisters. Riri and Daija Hamilton’s relationship, however, best exemplifies sisterhood. To illustrate, Daija rescues a tearful, 10-year-old Riri struggling with the social-emotional isolation caused by being much younger than their high school peers. Though Daija urges school officials “that somebody better look out for [Riri],” she becomes that somebody, befriending the young genius when no one else does. Daija’s companionship saves Riri just as the hero saves her friend years later.
Upon learning that Daija mysteriously vanishes for weeks and that “no one is really looking for her,” Riri commences a search. Taking it upon herself to find Daija reflects one scholar’s observation about black girls’ abductions and “the ways [they] are collectively forced to save their own lives.” The systematic dismissal of violence against Black girls makes Riri realize that she is her friend’s only resort. Armed with a brilliant mind, an iron-clad suit, and the power of friendship, Riri tracks down and rescues Daija. Whether in the hallways of high school or the hard-knock school of life, one Black girl’s companionship with another is the solution for successfully surmounting her respective hardships. Janie and Phoeby in Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937), Nel and Sula in Morrison’s Sula (1973), and Celie and Nettie in Walker’s The Color Purple (1982) all exemplify how sisterhood is a tool for survival, a way to make it over. Ewing taps into this longstanding legacy of Black women writers who represent the preservation of Black female lives as a direct result of their bonds with each other.
When reviews of Ewing’s version of Ironheart came in, comic book enthusiasts discerned the unique flare she brought to the series. Some note that Riri reads more authentically. Perhaps, they mean what others directly express as they praise Ewing’s efforts to develop Riri’s personal character and inner life rather than solely focusing on eye-catching showdowns with villains. Public response was positive overall; yet, viewing the series from the lens of sequential art alone causes us to miss an important link. Ewing’s attentive representations of Black female life indeed connect the multi-genre writer to the larger literary tradition of Black women’s fiction.
Acknowledging Ewing’s comic book series as fiction expands our scope of where and how we reflect on key issues and behaviors central to representations of Black female experiences. Missing that connection restricts our chances of engaging with the insightful, culturally specific social commentary available in comic/fiction.
Ewing’s inclusion of Black vernacular, processing grief, and Black girls’ camaraderie in Ironheart provides us with important opportunities. For one, it stresses that when a Black woman writes comic/fiction, Black female cultural expressions have a place in what historically has been a white and male-dominated art form. Moreover, Ewing’s work attempts to connect comic book writing and the fiction of her foremothers, as she follows in their footsteps and expands creative possibilities for the Black women writers of tomorrow.
- Renowned comic book creator Brian Michael Bendis originated Riri Williams as the new superhero Ironheart in 2016 before leaving Marvel in 2017. A year later after fans petitioned for Riri to have a Black woman writer and with the support of other creators, like writer Ta-Nehisi Coates, Marvel hired Ewing. ↩
Sisterhood is indeed a tool for survival;in fact and in fiction! May we all find each other and in that, a way to make it over.