Before I moved away for college, I would walk into the center of town every single week, whether it was 60 degrees and sunny or pouring rain—sometimes even through two-and-a-half feet of snow. A superhero plastered on a door signified my destination, his face lit up with a grin, his fist raised to the sky. That door marked a threshold: on one side, the chaos of school stress and parental pressure, and on the other, a whole new world filled with pages just waiting for me to dive into. Outside that comic book shop, my life felt controlled by forces greater than myself. Inside, I got to pick the stories I was a part of.
There was one thing that ruined the magic: the fact that one or more male employees would approach and start asking me questions, even if they recognized me. While I understood that it was their job to help, the nature of their questioning would persistently and inevitably cross the line from friendly helpfulness to outright condescension. On multiple occasions, they treated me like a child. It was as if I couldn’t possibly have more than a vague familiarity with their interests, let alone be a fan in my own right with informed opinions, valid preferences, and an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. In the place I entered to escape from the world outside, they were making me feel like an outsider.
Whenever guys my age came in, the employees wouldn’t subject them to the same barrage of skeptical questions, and it took me a long time to figure out why. Always a self-critic, I assumed that something about me as an individual was to blame—that somehow, even though I’m a nerd in every sense who’s active in multiple fandoms and constantly counting down to my next Comic-Con, I made it seem as if I didn’t know why I was there or what I was looking for. But after a while, I realized it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my gender. Despite the fact that those employees saw me frequently (and certainly more often than a random guy who strolled in on a Wednesday afternoon to get out of the cold), they perceived being female as an indelible black mark against me.
One of the best things about fandom is having access to a community of people who share the same interests, are eager to talk about them, and won’t judge others for their enthusiasm. Yet, especially in male-dominated fandoms such as Marvel and “Star Wars,” sexism remains prevalent, which compromises the experiences of women and nonbinary or gender-nonconforming people in the community.
Take, for instance, the lead-up to “Captain Marvel.” Comic-book fans and other Marvel fans have been anticipating the first female-led Marvel movie for a long time, but some of the excitement was dulled by a number of male fans’ reaction to the trailer. Under the male gaze, Carol Danvers, a badass U.S. Air Force officer, was reduced to “needing to smile more.”
In the wake of the “Captain Marvel” trailer’s release, I felt more grateful than ever that I’ve found my place in a group of supportive fangirls who respect my opinions and strive to create a more inclusive community for female fans, LGBTQ+ fans, fans of color, fat fans, fans with disabilities, and more. At the end of the day, we all want the same thing: to feel represented and respected in the fandoms we love.