Barbara Gordon closed the Birds of Prey case file for the last time on a Tuesday evening in September 2011, twenty-three years after the Joker’s bullet had transformed her from Batgirl into something DC Comics would eventually decide was far more dangerous: a disabled hero who didn’t need fixing.
The notification glowed on Jill Pantozzi’s phone at 2:47 PM. DC Comics was calling her personally—not because she was a prominent comic journalist, not because she wrote for Newsarama, but because she was a wheelchair user with spinal muscular atrophy who had found herself reflected in Oracle’s story. “They knew I’d have a strong reaction to it,” Pantozzi would later recall.
Barbara Gordon was walking again.
The Oracle Who Saw Everything Except Her Own Erasure
When Batgirl #1 launched that same month as part of DC’s “New 52” reboot, a mysterious surgery in South Africa had restored Barbara Gordon’s mobility. The disabled superhero who had coordinated global operations from her wheelchair, who had led superhero teams through pure intellectual force, who had become more influential than her able-bodied predecessor—was gone. DC explained the change as part of their commitment to “a more modern, diverse DC Universe,” seemingly unaware of the irony that their diversity initiative had just eliminated mainstream comics’ most prominent disabled character.
“Oracle was my go-to when I wanted to read about someone who kicked ass and took names, and was also disabled.”
— A disabled comic fan
For twenty-three years, Oracle had represented something unprecedented in superhero narratives. While Batman commanded respect through fear and Superman through strength, Oracle had built her influence through brilliance, strategy, and an unparalleled network of relationships across the DC Universe. Her role as information broker made her indispensable—she could hack any system, uncover any secret, and track any villain. Heroes from across the DC Universe relied on her intelligence and coordination.
The “Whitewater” storyline crystallized Oracle’s true power. When Spy Smasher attempted to take control of the Birds of Prey operation, confronting Barbara directly in what should have been her moment of vulnerability, Oracle opened the door to find a small army of superheroes who had come to support her. Heroes from across the DC Universe took a stand for Oracle, making her effectively untouchable despite her physical limitations.
But none of that mattered in September 2011. What looked like a celebration was actually a funeral.
The Bullet That Changed Everything
The story should have ended in 1988. When Alan Moore wrote The Killing Joke, Barbara Gordon existed primarily as collateral damage—a woman shot and paralyzed not because of her own heroic actions, but because hurting Commissioner Gordon’s daughter would psychologically destroy Batman’s ally. Moore later admitted he hadn’t thought about what would happen to the character afterward. In the brutal calculus of superhero storytelling, she had served her narrative purpose.
But writers John Ostrander and Kim Yale refused to let that be the end. Yale, a comic book editor and writer, found the treatment of Barbara in The Killing Joke disturbing. Instead of allowing the character to fade into comics limbo, she and her husband Ostrander decided to do something unprecedented: create a superhero who succeeded not despite her disability, but by transforming it into her greatest strength.
“I was tired of being a victim,” Barbara declares in the 1996 Oracle: Year One. “I had skills and abilities long before I became Batgirl. It’s time for me to make them work for me again.”
What emerged wasn’t a lesser version of who she had been. Oracle became the nerve center of the DC Universe, the voice in every hero’s ear providing crucial intelligence and coordination. She could hack any system, uncover any secret, and track any villain. From her high-tech headquarters in Gotham’s Clock Tower, she commanded networks of operatives and maintained databases that made her indispensable to everyone from Batman to the Justice League.
When Disability Becomes Superpower
John Ostrander later reflected that “We wanted her to cope with what had happened to her and become, in many ways, more effective as Oracle than she ever was as Batgirl”. The transformation was radical because it rejected the fundamental assumption underlying most superhero narratives: that heroism requires physical perfection.
“We wanted her to cope with what had happened to her and become, in many ways, more effective as Oracle than she ever was as Batgirl.”
— John Ostrander, Oracle co-creator
Oracle’s technological mastery made her indispensable. She was considered the best hacker in the world, capable of battling artificial intelligences like Brainiac and consistently outmaneuvering other genius-level intellects. Her Oracle Mainframe, housed in the Clock Tower, served as the maximum-security base of operations for the Birds of Prey.
Her strategic brilliance was legendary. Oracle developed sophisticated approaches to crime fighting that involved infiltrating criminal communication networks, creating false job postings and meeting arrangements that would lead criminals directly into Birds of Prey operations. This method allowed the team to capture record numbers of criminals while gathering intelligence about larger criminal organizations.
For many disabled readers, Oracle represented something they had never seen before: a character who looked like them and was depicted as competent, powerful, and essential. As one wheelchair user wrote, “Oracle was my go-to when I wanted to read about someone who kicked ass and took names, and was also disabled”.
The Phone Call That Changed Everything
When DC announced Barbara Gordon’s return as Batgirl, Jill Pantozzi’s reaction was so predictable that the publisher called her personally to give advance notice. “They knew I’d have a strong reaction to it,” she recalls. As a person with muscular dystrophy who uses a wheelchair, Pantozzi had discovered Oracle through the Birds of Prey television show and formed a profound connection with the character.
Pantozzi explained that Oracle’s skills “weren’t a superpower; they were just who she was. There were a lot of things I saw later in the comics showing her everyday life, like using a shower chair, and not treating it like some bizarre thing, just part of life.” This authentic representation of disability as an integrated part of life, rather than a tragic burden, provided validation for disabled readers who rarely saw themselves reflected in media.
Another disabled fan wrote with devastating clarity: “While Batman is my all-time favorite character in comics, he’s not the first person I look to when I need to be reminded to keep fighting in this world. For that, I look to Oracle”. Oracle demonstrated “that being a superhero wasn’t about the body and that being in a wheelchair wasn’t an obstacle to being a superhero”.
“While Batman is my all-time favorite character in comics, he’s not the first person I look to when I need to be reminded to keep fighting in this world. For that, I look to Oracle.”
— Disabled comic fan with muscular dystrophy
The change felt like losing a family member.
The Anatomy of Erasure
Pantozzi’s response became a rallying cry for the disability community. Her op-ed “ORACLE Is Stronger Than BATGIRL Will Ever Be” generated massive online support and captured the stakes of what DC was doing. “People being disabled is part of the real world, [so] it is essential it be part of the fictional world as well. Especially if DC is dedicated to a diverse universe,” she wrote.
“People being disabled is part of the real world, [so] it is essential it be part of the fictional world as well. Especially if DC is dedicated to a diverse universe.”
— Jill Pantozzi, disability advocate
“And I don’t mean, ‘You have to keep Oracle around because I’M in a wheelchair,’ I mean for everyone. Are there people of every race, religion and sex in the world? Yes, so let your comics reflect that, as well as many other diverse subsets there are out there”.
The controversy grew significant enough that writer Gail Simone, tasked with the new Batgirl series, reached out directly to Pantozzi for a conversation. But the fundamental issue remained: DC was removing one of the most prominent disabled characters in mainstream comics during what they claimed was a diversity initiative.
Disability studies scholars had a term for what was happening. Robert McRuer’s concept of “compulsory able-bodiedness” describes how society consistently demands that disabled people prove their worth by becoming as close to able-bodied as possible. The system of compulsory able-bodiedness “repeatedly demands that people with disabilities embody for others an affirmative answer to the unspoken question, Yes, but in the end, wouldn’t you rather be more like me?”
Oracle had spent twenty-three years answering “no” to that question. DC’s 2011 reboot forced her to say “yes.”
When Heroes Need Saving
Simone found herself defending the indefensible. She insisted on conditions for how Barbara’s return to mobility would be handled: “I said I would but I don’t want her swallowing some kind of magic pill and come out of the chair because of that or wave a magic wand or something. But I wanted it to be a part of her character and struggle as a young woman having to undergo this experimental surgery that may or may not work and working really hard on her rehabilitation”.
Her efforts to ground the change in realistic medical possibilities rather than comic book magic missed the larger point. Disability studies scholars argue that cure-focused narratives consistently position disability as a temporary problem requiring technological or magical solution rather than recognizing it as a fundamental aspect of human diversity. These stories consistently position cure as the ultimate goal while failing to explore how disabled characters might thrive within supportive communities or accessible environments.
“Over time, I think changing her back to Batgirl was probably a mistake. I miss her being the glue of the DC Universe.”
— Gail Simone, Batgirl writer
Years later, Simone would reflect: “Over time, I think changing her back to Batgirl was probably a mistake. I miss her being the glue of the DC Universe and it’s something Marvel doesn’t have. I did the best stories I could. I love Batgirl. But I always thought she would return to the Oracle role someday so that made it livable”.
Even the woman tasked with writing the change eventually admitted it was wrong.
The Politics of Walking
Online forums exploded with debate. Reddit users expressed strong preferences for Oracle: “I lean more towards Barbara as Oracle because it proves that even if you are crippled you can still help out the team. Whenever I think of the name Barbara Gordon I think of her in a wheelchair being Oracle. It makes her unique among the superhero community”.
Years later, the controversy continued to resonate: one Reddit user wrote, “Am I the only one who feels uneasy about Barbara regaining the ability to walk? I really appreciated her time as Oracle. Seeing her in a wheelchair provided meaningful representation for individuals with disabilities”. The response revealed the lasting impact: “Believe me, you’re not alone in feeling this way. The choice made regarding Barbara Gordon wasn’t well-received, but it was dictated by DC Editorial”.
But the disability community’s response wasn’t monolithic. Some disabled readers found value in seeing a character regain mobility: “They gave her the ability to walk again, and for disabled people like myself, that’s a dream come true, and it’s a beautiful thing to see”. The same user noted the impossible position: “Barbara being able to walk again will cater to one half of the disabled community, whereas her staying in her wheelchair will cater to the other half. There’s no winning”.
The debate revealed something crucial: there is no single “disabled experience” that any character can represent perfectly. But Oracle had come closer than most.
The Grassroots Rebellion
Disabled fans didn’t accept the erasure quietly. The Oracle Create-a-Thon emerged as organized resistance, described as “a new Tumblr blog dedicated to Oracle fan art, fanfiction and activism to maintain awareness of the physically challenged and to make the feelings of Oracle fans known to DC Comics”. The initiative published “links to essays about the characters, cosplay, excerpts from memorable Oracle comic books and previously created artwork,” creating an archive of Oracle’s legacy while advocating for continued disabled representation.
Academic voices joined the resistance, with disability studies scholars analyzing Barbara Gordon’s narrative through feminist crip theory, arguing that “critically analyzing Barbara’s narrative contributes to the argument that the representation of marginalized individuals in fiction matters”.
This wasn’t just about one character. It was about the message sent when disabled representation disappears in the name of progress.
What We Lost
Critics argued that Oracle’s role had been far more significant than a typical Batgirl: “Oracle is the best information broker in the DCU. Everyone in the Bat family, plus many of the other superheroes, are completely dependent on her for information. Villains are terrified she’ll find out about them. She has a whole team of powerful superheroes working for her”.
“Oracle is the best information broker in the DCU. Everyone in the Bat family, plus many of the other superheroes, are completely dependent on her for information.”
— Jessica Sirkin, The Mary Sue
The loss was particularly acute because “with the New 52, we lose all of that. Babs is back to being Batgirl, and with that, she loses everything she built for herself. She’s given up her business as an information broker and her independence as a heroine unaffiliated with a leading male hero”.
The change didn’t just affect disability representation—it removed a rare example of a female character who had built her own independent power base. Oracle had transcended the traditional sidekick role to become a leader, strategist, and coordinator whose influence extended across the entire DC Universe.
The Uncomfortable Truth
The practice of retroactive continuity reveals how publishers view disability as “a narrative burden that can be discarded when inconvenient rather than as an integral aspect of character identity”. Major disabled superheroes like Barbara Gordon, Hawkeye, and Professor X have all had “their disabilities used as a plot device” and “their various disabilities have been retconned in and out of existence as the writer and the story requires it”.
This pattern reflects broader cultural anxieties about incorporating disabled bodies into heroic narratives. Publishers appear reluctant to maintain disabled characters in leadership roles, preferring to cure them rather than explore how they might navigate superheroic responsibilities while disabled.
Analysis of superhero comics reveals how these narratives consistently position disability as a temporary condition through the “supercrip” phenomenon, where disabled characters receive extraordinary abilities that compensate for their disabilities rather than accommodating them. This approach reinforces ableist assumptions that disabled people must be exceptional to be worthy of respect.
The Legacy of Oracle
Years after the change, Jill Pantozzi reflected: “I miss Oracle tremendously and there’s a gap both in character and representation because of it. I’ve created a lot of other characters with disabilities, but they’re not Oracle, who was always something special”.
“I miss Oracle tremendously and there’s a gap both in character and representation because of it.”
— Jill Pantozzi, disability advocate
Oracle’s 17-year tenure as a disabled superhero provided crucial representation for readers who rarely saw themselves depicted in comics, while simultaneously expanding the definition of what it means to be heroic. Her legacy demonstrates that the most powerful superheroes are often those who use their minds to solve problems, build relationships, and empower others to achieve their potential.
For twenty-three years, Oracle proved that heroism doesn’t require the ability to leap tall buildings or run across rooftops. She demonstrated that true power comes from intelligence, determination, and the ability to inspire others. She showed that disability doesn’t diminish a person’s potential to make meaningful contributions.
Then DC decided that lesson was wrong.
The Price of Walking
The Barbara Gordon controversy reveals deep tensions within popular culture about representation, diversity, and whose stories matter. While DC framed the change as modernization, critics successfully argued that removing one of comics’ most prominent disabled characters represented a step backward disguised as progress.
As one disability advocate wrote, “The challenge for superhero comics and other media involves representing this complexity authentically rather than relying on simplistic cure narratives that erase disability”. More sophisticated representations might explore “the complexities of the inherently complex bodily experience of being disabled, and all the mental and social aspects of what questions a cure would raise”.
Oracle’s erasure occurred during a period when other marginalized groups were gaining representation in superhero media. Women were leading major franchises, movies centered on Black superheroes were breaking box office records, and diverse characters were increasingly prominent. But for the disability community, progress moved backward.
The most powerful superhero in the DC Universe couldn’t save herself from an editorial decision that prioritized nostalgia over representation, commercial appeal over social responsibility. In the end, Barbara Gordon’s greatest enemy wasn’t the Joker who shot her or the Calculator who challenged her—it was a publishing company that decided her disability made her less marketable than her ability.
When the dust settled, Oracle was gone. And with her disappeared the radical idea that heroism comes in all forms, that strength doesn’t require functioning legs, and that sometimes the most powerful person in the room is the one who chooses to stay seated.
The superhero who couldn’t save herself had taught us that some victories matter more than walking. DC chose to forget that lesson.
Twenty-three years of progress, undone with editorial sleight of hand. The real tragedy isn’t that Barbara Gordon was shot by the Joker—it’s that she was healed by her publishers.