What I Learned At Comic-Con (This Time)
Today I hosted the first of what I hope is many panels at a local convention. I called it “Stop Taking My Hand: The Role of Women in Nerd Media.”
Putting “nerd” in the title makes it sound a little adversarial, but I’m a proud nerd. If you’re reading this, and you’re not my mom, you probably discovered me thanks to a chain of events that started with an ambitious project made of LEGO. No one who has their work — made of LEGO — in magazines and newspapers and websites like Vanity Fair, People, and Mashable can pretend that they aren’t a nerd. And no one should.
This wasn’t my first convention. From the first year of my hometown convention, just a few blocks away from my house, to the Executor-class Star Destroyer hangar-sized hall of Star Wars Celebration, I’ve seen people from all walks of life surrounded by the things they love. For all of their personal flaws — my own included — the audience is there out of love.
Until today. My panel was done. This was the first time, and I’m a little out of my element as the moderator of a panel discussion, but it was a success. One of my oldest friends — we just crossed the twenty year milestone, which is apparently the Blu-ray anniversary — had joined me, and was commenting that she is hesitant to identify as a feminist. The label occasionally brings out a harsh reaction from certain people. It’s not exactly the surprise of the month.
But a feminist, to her, and to me, and to most reasonable people, is someone who wants equality for everyone. Simplified, yes, but accurate. From somewhere off to the side, in a costume and wearing an eyepatch a few inches too high, a response no one expected drifted through.
“I don’t.”
I laughed a little. I said that there are people who actually don’t think everyone should be equal.
Then I realized that eyepatch wasn’t joking.
An unsolicited, anti-feminist response to someone having a conversation. It was like Twitter had come to life, but wasn’t a cute little blue bird like it should be. That was about six hours ago, and I’m still thinking about those two words. This isn’t someone who is ignorant of gender (or race) issues, or even someone who is simply complacent because they aren’t affected by them. This is an active choice to want one group of people to be lower than another.
I’m not a stranger to racist and sexist stuff. One of the benefits of my white male privelege is that other white men, those that happen to be racist and sexist, feel very comfortable sharing their thoughts with me, expecting me to agree with them. They’re disappointed when I don’t. But this time, the comments were not directed at me from the relative safety of a men’s locker room, but as a direct response to a woman speaking up.
Twitter, come to life.
Today was the first Stop Taking My Hand. It is definitely not the last.