It was in the summer of 2024 that I first began noticing Ultraman in my everyday surroundings, when I was back in China and came across a stack of Ultraman stickers at a small newsstand. I was really surprised that Ultraman merchandise was still being sold (perhaps because years of the pandemic and living in the U.S. had distanced me from it). That small moment made me realize that Ultraman was probably the first heroic figure I ever encountered. I can still remember playing Ultraman role-play games with my friends in kindergarten, always insisting on being the team’s “female captain.”

Once I started consciously paying attention, Ultraman began appearing everywhere. I discovered that the image is far more varied and fluid than the singular hero I remembered from childhood: it shows up on children’s T-shirts, teaches Baduanjin or cooking online, and even appears as pink stickers—taking on a vaguely queer, playful quality. Ultraman becomes a figure anyone can inhabit, and one that invites projection.

Later, a podcast about Hideaki Anno and Evangelion helped me understand why Ultraman carries such cultural longevity. It emerged from a historical moment in which trauma and hope coexisted. Postwar Japan lived under a prolonged psychological shock: a society that once glorified war had suddenly witnessed its apocalyptic potential. People living among ruins needed a figure who could say, “There is nothing to fear.” Ultraman was born from that shadow—using giant monsters, special-effects spectacle, and even Christian imagery to stage the myth that even in world-ending disaster, a savior will appear.

Placing these grand narratives alongside the “everyday Ultramen” I now encounter, I’ve come to realize that Ultraman’s power lies in its adaptability. It functions as a hero mechanism open to everyone. For postwar Japanese children, it offered a way out of apocalyptic darkness; for me, it has become a fluid, shared, and continually shifting form of strength.
我开始留意生活中的奥特曼痕迹，是因为去年回国的某一天，我在一家小报刊亭里偶然看见了一叠奥特曼贴纸。我当时惊讶于竟然现在还有人卖奥特曼商品（也可能是因为疫情和在美国呆久了）。我突然意识到，奥特曼大概是我来到这个世界后，第一个认识的“英雄主义”形象。我甚至还能想起幼儿园的时候，我和朋友玩角色扮演奥特曼游戏的场景，那时我还一定要当那个队伍里的“女队长”。

当我后来开始有意识地收集生活里出现的奥特曼时，我发现奥特曼的形象比我童年记忆里单一的英雄更丰富、更流动：它可以在T恤上，可以带网友做八段锦，还可以教人做菜，甚至可以作为粉红贴纸（所以从某种意义上变成一种queer的象征）。奥特曼可以是任何人，也允许任何人投射自己。

直到我在一次解析庵野秀明与EVA的播客中听到日本战后文化的讨论，我才了解到奥特曼之所以能跨越世代、成为如此“可被占有”的公共符号，是因为它本身就诞生于创伤与希望并置的时代。日本在战后长期处于心理性震荡中，原来被歌颂的战争被彻底揭露为能够带来“末日”的恐怖，人们在废墟中需要一个“能告诉大家不用害怕”的存在。而奥特曼就是在这种历史阴影下被创造出来的。一种用巨型怪兽、特摄特效、甚至带有基督教意象的方式来表达“就算有足以摧毁世界的灾难，也总会有一个救赎者出现”的神话。

当我把这些宏大叙事与我在日常生活里看到的那些“奥特曼”放在一起时，我渐渐发现奥特曼真正的力量在于它的可挪用性，一种所有人都好像可以进入的英雄机制。对战后日本儿童来说，它提供了从末日阴影中爬出来的希望；对我来说，它像是一种流动的、共享的、可被不断重塑的力量。