The nerd Super Bowl (aka San Diego Comic-Con) begins today. Although I'll be missing it for the first time in nearly a decade due to my comedy tour in South Africa, it's a community that holds a dear place in my heart.
In the midst of the seemingly endless barrage of BS we're dealing with in society at large, fandom has always served as a much needed respit for me. Like everything else, it's a microcosm of the larger world so I'm not naive to its problems. That said, I've met artists and fan fiction writers who could easily go toe-to-toe with the best and brightest in the entertainment industry. I've read thoughtful meta and analysis about how stories and representation in media not only matter but can lift spirits and save lives. I've laughed, I've cried, I've trolled and have been inspired that people care enough about projects I'm a part of to passionately express a point of view, even if I don't necessarily agree with it or it's critical of me personally.
Our differences matter, but it's our shared experiences that bring us together.
Regardless of your politics, race or gender identity, we're all fans. Whether we love our local sports team, or there's a show that we'll binge watch the first chance we get, fandom can (more often than not) bond people together who might otherwise never give each other the time of day. Lifelong friendships are made, romantic relationships blossom and copious amounts of shipping abound. But strong opinions about fandom have recently put people on the defensive. Depending on who you ask, fans are either petulant and entitled or the old guard is desperately clinging on to a past that does not reflect the diversity of today's audiences.
Last year, Lucy Bennett, the co-founder of the Fan Studies Network and Paul Booth, a professor at DePaul University invited me to write the forward to their new book Seeing Fans: Representations of Fandom in Media and Popular Culture. They have generously allowed me to reprint what I wrote here. I hope you enjoy it.
In the midst of the seemingly endless barrage of BS we're dealing with in society at large, fandom has always served as a much needed respit for me. Like everything else, it's a microcosm of the larger world so I'm not naive to its problems. That said, I've met artists and fan fiction writers who could easily go toe-to-toe with the best and brightest in the entertainment industry. I've read thoughtful meta and analysis about how stories and representation in media not only matter but can lift spirits and save lives. I've laughed, I've cried, I've trolled and have been inspired that people care enough about projects I'm a part of to passionately express a point of view, even if I don't necessarily agree with it or it's critical of me personally.
Our differences matter, but it's our shared experiences that bring us together.
Regardless of your politics, race or gender identity, we're all fans. Whether we love our local sports team, or there's a show that we'll binge watch the first chance we get, fandom can (more often than not) bond people together who might otherwise never give each other the time of day. Lifelong friendships are made, romantic relationships blossom and copious amounts of shipping abound. But strong opinions about fandom have recently put people on the defensive. Depending on who you ask, fans are either petulant and entitled or the old guard is desperately clinging on to a past that does not reflect the diversity of today's audiences.
Last year, Lucy Bennett, the co-founder of the Fan Studies Network and Paul Booth, a professor at DePaul University invited me to write the forward to their new book Seeing Fans: Representations of Fandom in Media and Popular Culture. They have generously allowed me to reprint what I wrote here. I hope you enjoy it.
It was Friday May 27th. The year was 1977. I was a latchkey kid on a mission.
After school, I returned home to an empty house. Both my parents worked. I wasn't allowed to play outside until an adult got home. I'd recently gotten a canary yellow skateboard for my birthday in April and I could not wait to rocket down the steep hill at the end of the block before the sun disappeared behind the trees. Nearly every kid on my street had suffered a broken arm or wrist trying to dismount the death ride while the wheels wobbled out of control from pure speed. If I could successfully tame the mountain without breaking my neck, neighborhood bragging rights would be mine forever. The only thing standing in my way was my mother.
After work she wanted me to go see a film called Star Wars. This wasn't the first time my mom had abused her parental powers and forced me to be her movie date. My dad had patently refused to watch a giant ape fall in love with a teeny tiny white lady in the jungle and be transported in the belly of a ship to America only to be hunted and killed by every able-bodied New Yorker. While my mother cried over the King Kong love story I surreptitiously slid deeper into my seat hoping none of my friends saw me. To a nerdy basketball loving skater kid who listened to Kraftwerk and regularly referred to REO Speedwagon as Oreo Speedwagon without a hint of irony, Star Wars was the lamest sounding movie ever. I didn't know any of the actors and to make matters worse, one of the main characters looked like a runt from King Kong's litter. Not even CinemaScope 4-track stereo could save this picture. And yes, I knew what that was as a kid. I wasn't allowed to touch my Dad's Marantz 4300 Quadrophonic receiver but I knew way more about it than he did. Even then, my nerd game was on point. I remember walking as slowly as humanly possible into the theatre on North Pleasantburg Drive in Greenville, South Carolina, running my hand along the maroon colored walls as my mother chided, "You better put a pep in your step before I smack the black off you. We're going to miss the previews." The previews? When would this nightmare end?
Two hours and five minutes later it was over. Before M