Wimmen In Comics Wednesday: Alison Bechdel Pt. 2

Call it the Ultimate Bechdel Test—I sat front row and center at my life-icon’s Q&A in Iowa City, IA. Here’s what it was like exchanging words and germs with my hero.

It turns out that my Iowa-niceness turns out when my nerves are at an 11. I just wanna hug, mostly because my words are gone, and I’m left with two instincts: the fetal position or a Midwestern body-deathgrip. Upon meeting Alison Bechdel, whom I’ve completely drooled over in this blog before, I chose the latter.

“Can I hug you?” I asked, palms shaking as if I was asking her to prom.

“Yeah, of course!” Bechdel said, reaching out and bestowing upon me the greatest squeeze of my life (Sorry, Kate). My friend Madde had her camera phone and rearing to go, resulting in the above picture. Someday, I’ll buy a mantel just to have the proper place to display it.

While I wallow in college debt, however, I have the millennial-mantel: Instagram. As I sat on the bus back to Chicago from Iowa City and began to post the picture, my potential hashtags looked like this:

#dead

#icandiehappynow

#okwhatnow

#baaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

#hero

#icon

#legend

#ipeedmypants

I could go on and on.

So, I will.

Bechdel was giving a lecture back in my hometown as part of its annual Mission Creek Festival. A celebration of literature, music, film, and art, the weeklong party invites a slew of badass creators to the University of Iowa community, causing the city limits to burst at their seams with energy. Because Bechdel’s work is basically required reading in the university’s Gender, Women’s, and Sexuality Studies program (GWSS), my former mentoring professor, Mary Ann Rasmussen, arranged a Q&A between the author and students. As a graduate of the department, I snagged a spot and booked a bus back home for the talk.

Being the jerk I am, I was first in line for the event over at the Englert Theatre, with all of my guts sitting square at the front of my throat. As soon as the doors opened, I gunned for my jerk seat at the front, sitting down in the center of a row like a shameless, smug jerk.

As GWSS folks began to fill the audience, the room felt a jolt of electricity—it’s a small but mighty program made of angry feminists, which makes for a kickass sense of kinship. Everyone talked about their opinions on Bechdel’s work: the crosshairs of her comics and Virginia Woolf, how Dykes To Watch Our For changed their lives, how much they’d paid for tickets to see the new musical.

But, the room when silent when Bechdel finally came out, a group of activists and doctorates totally blindsided by a lanky lesbian in a black blazer. While I am not a religious person at all, I credit Bechdel’s books with saving my young life and instilling me with a sense of creative self-acceptance, so I was totally bowing at the altar, too.

This was the face of my granola-eating, Butler-reading, Sharpie-doodling god.

She took the front of the stage, Bechdel bit the side of her lip nervously and graciously greeted the audience—at this point, my body was numb, so I don’t remember what the hell she said.

As people began to raise their hands, a conversation began, and the room let out a little bit of happy tension. I felt myself slowly raise my hand, and then Bechdel called on me.

Can you tell me about how you developed the role of mythology in your work?

How would you respond to critics who call your comics transphobic?

Which theorist most influences your work?

You’ve hit the mainstream through an outsider medium—how do you maintain the integrity of your work?

“Uh, can you tell me what your cartooning practice is like?” I squeaked.

“Uh, well, I wish I had something to tell you,” she began, biting her lip again. “I feel awash with guilt.”

“So, our cartooning practices are essentially the same?” I laughed, purging whatever was left of my confidence.

She laughed back (sigh) and went on to describe how her practice changed with each different work, how she had to wait for the right moment to strike. Whatever. It was perfect, okay?

Bechdel went on to respond to a gazillion questions more comprehendible than mine, touching on subjects like queer nostalgia and the medium of comics in the digital age. It was a dream.

As the Q&A wrapped up and she reached to pick up her water bottle, I heaved myself at her.

“Alison! Wait!”

“Hi!”

“Hey, uh, so I wanted to give you this,” I said as I reached into a folder I’d been carrying around all day. I pulled out one of my own comics and handed it to her. “Your work has given me so much, so I wanted to give you something in return.”

She paused, biting her lip, and raised her eyebrows.

“Is this an original?”

“Yeah. I do stuff with Sharpie.”

Bechdel scanned the page.

She nodded as she looked over it.

Alison Bechdel was reading my comic.

#icandiehappynow