Until grade 8, I attended Catholic school. When we studied the saints, I always wanted to choose Joan of Arc (link in French). The images of her burning at the stake were commonplace and they told a story of rebellion, faith, perseverance and a healthy touch of mysticism, or in my more cynical moments, insanity.
As a preteen, I loved nothing more than to read about how she heard voices and saw visions, and how she changed her culture’s history by listening to them. Paintings depicting her death at the stake spoke to her righteousness and strength despite her weakness of being eaten up by the flames at the hands of her enemies. (Narrative tension like that is my favourite kind of storytelling!)
I used to imagine fighting under Joan of Arc’s command, picturing her inspiring armies of soldiers to rally in a war. She was so opposite of a typical 15th-century woman, she reminded me that weird people have always existed, and have been celebrated. As a very weird kid myself, I saw her as a ray of light in my sometimes bleak childhood.