I am a geek.
It’s not always apparent in my day-to-day life, but here in
my apartment, it’s obvious. I’m writing
this while sitting under a Return of the Jedi poster and a Lord of the Rings
wall calendar, wearing an Amazing Spider-Man t-shirt and Adventure Time pajama
bottoms. My nightstand holds a reading
lamp, an anthology edited by George R. R. Martin, and an illustrated Neil
Gaiman short story. My many bookshelves
are overflowing with classics and fantasy novels and comic books. Mounted on the wall across from me is a quote
by the Tenth Doctor.
I have always identified as a geek. I was a smart kid and a voracious
reader. By age six I was spending most
of my free time exploring Middle Earth and Hogwarts. My Halloween costumes in elementary school
included Hermione Granger, Galadriel, a mouse from Redwall, Captain Holly
Short, and an Aes Sedai (Green Ajah, obviously). I collected Pokémon cards, I
watched X-Men: Evolution and Full Metal Alchemist, I taught myself Elvish. I had friends in many different social
groups, but there was no term I felt described me better—and no group I felt
more welcome in—than that of “geek”.
It wasn’t until I was a teenager that my geekiness came into
question. Sure, I’d seen Star Wars, one
guy said when it came up as a topic of mutual interest. Everyone’s seen the movies. But did I know how to spell “Kashyyyk”? At first it was a game. I loved Star Wars. I’d
read quite a few of the EU novels. I was
competitive and eager to prove my knowledge.
The home planet of the wookiees, I replied without hesitation, spelled
with three ‘y’s. Give me another one.
But over the years, the questions kept coming, and they
weren’t asked in the spirit of fun. It
soon became clear that I was being tested, and if I didn’t pass, I didn’t get
to be a part of the group. I often failed. I’ve only read a handful of comic
books. I haven’t seen all 26 seasons of
Old Who. I’ve never played D&D. Worst of all, I’ve never owned a video game
console. The hoops I had to jump through
to prove my worth as a geek, and the label of “fake geek girl” I was assigned
if I didn’t measure up, were frustrating—especially when all a guy had to say to
be accepted was, “yeah, I like that too.”
Today, though, I’m beyond frustrated. I am sad and angry and scared. “Fake geek girl,” hurtful as it was when it
was first slung at me, is the mildest of the many horrible things I’ve
seen and heard to describe women in geek culture in the last few years. I’ve read real people’s responses to
everything from GamerGate to the casting of Wonder Woman to cosplay photos to
the new Thor, and I have been shocked, disgusted, upset, and terrified. Worst of all, I have been made to feel unwelcome
and unsafe in a community that I once looked to as a refuge and a home.
I don’t know how to address the serious issues of sexism and
misogyny in geek culture because I honestly cannot comprehend the mindset of
those who perpetuate it. I am sickened
by the threats made against Anita Sarkeesian yesterday. I find it so hard to believe that a human
being can wish—and not only wish, but want to personally carry out—such graphic
and grievous harm to another human being.
Even more horrible to me is that she regularly receives death threats on
par with the one sent to Utah State, and that many other women in the geek
community have also been harassed and threatened to the extent that they have
to leave their own homes in order to feel safe.
My friends and I are the kind of people who would have
attended Anita’s speech. We are female
writers, artists, game designers, actors, composers, and critics. We are feminists. We want to see less sexual objectification of
women and greater gender equality in film, television, comic books, and
games. We are the people that the
would-be shooter calls “vile misandrist harpies.” “I’m going to make sure they all die,” reads
the anonymous e-mail. I get a little
shaky reading it. Like I said, I don’t understand
what would make someone want to stage a massacre. It’s even harder to imagine them wanting to
specifically target someone like me.
I don’t have a solution.
I wish I did, but I don’t.
I can tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to keep trying to make good
art. I’m going to continue watching Flash
and reading Deadpool comics and worrying that the third Hobbit film will be as
overblown and underwhelming as the other two. I’m going to continue discussing
the portrayal of women in superhero movies and contemporary geek literature
with my fellow artists and creators, in the hopes that we can someday change
things for the better. I’m going to reach
out to the geek girls in my life and let them know that I love and support
them. I would love it if you’d do the
same. Being a geek is all about being
passionate; it doesn’t have to be about being bitter and protective and elitist. Celebrate the opportunity to share the things
you love. Make new friends, introduce
them to the things that make you happy, and welcome them into an intelligent, enthusiastic,
and diverse new family.
It’s a family that I’ve always been proud to be a part
of. Please help to keep it that way.