Category: Fandom

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This is fandom reporting in 2020

Recently a brand I mentioned in an article praised my coverage and asked if they could send me some of their products as a thank you. I replied by asking if instead, I could have an opportunity to interview the founder, and attached some of my most burning questions about the company. They probably won’t reply, but it felt like progress.

For me, this was one small step toward a bigger goal. Lately, I’ve been itching to sink my teeth into long-form reporting again, to tell a true story about fandom that feels relatable to fans within the community and teaches those without it something new. In short, I’d like to get back to the kind of work I started writing for this blog ten years ago.

I’ve got some leads, but I’m not there yet. My current work/life balance scale is still tipped dramatically onto the mom side of things. But in the meantime, I’ve been making a renewed effort to read the kind of writers whose work I consider to be at the very top of this field.

Long after I carved my niche into “otaku journalism,” the oeuvre of fandom reporting has grown more creative and clever with each passing year. I used to have a list of around ten obscure publications to pitch about fandom topics. Now you can read about even the most obscure internet communities in the New York Times. 

To me, good fandom reporting is about empathy. It’s easy to be a goggle-eyed fandom tourist, posting tweets and nasty observations with zero interest in a deeper dive. I particularly like to read about fandom from self-identified fans: they’re better equipped to serve as tour guides into subculture communities that often have their own lexicons. 

This is by no means exhaustive, but here are some of the fandom reporters whose work I have read and admired lately. 

Lynzee Loveridge. I have previously interviewed Lynzee back when her name was Lynzee Lamb. Since then she has moved up to Managing Editor at Anime News Network and has differentiated herself by not giving a fuck. She covers difficult, messy stories in anime fandom that other people are afraid to touch. Her explosive investigations on Vic Mignogna and Eric Torgersen brought to light abuses of power that had previously lived only in whisper networks. Her nuanced, careful research helps to bring justice to their victims. 

EJ Dickson. EJ is not only a fellow Daily Dot alumnus but a fellow mom, so her current prolific coverage for Rolling Stone gives me hope that I, too, can get back in the game. As the recent founder of a podcast about Cats, a movie I’ve heard is endearingly awful, she knows what it’s like to be way too into a niche interest. She brings this empathy to her fandom reporting, particularly this kind, tolerant treatise on furries that I genuinely wish I had written.

Gita Jackson. Gita recently left Kotaku, the site where I did my first internship, to move to Motherboard, where I am sure she will continue producing the searing hot video game takes she is known for. Her story about abuse claims at EA could be a tutorial on investigative reporting. Meanwhile, her recent personal essay reviewing Fire Emblem: Three Houses through the lens of abuse feels especially vulnerable and brave. 

Aja Romano. Like many Extremely Online people, Aja has gotten mixed up in their share of chaos, and I’ve always applauded the grace with which they acknowledge and grow from their past mistakes. Currently, they’re at Vox providing some of the most informative news you can use on fandom controversies, like the recent Romance Writers of America implosion that I’m not ashamed to admit, I couldn’t begin to understand before Aja’s explanation. 

Elizabeth Minkel. It’s so hard to write well about fanfiction, a secretive, Othered space that’s always evolving and evading a mainstream definition, but I’d consider Elizabeth an expert. Her coverage last summer of San Diego Comic-Con gave voice to the creeping commercialization of what it means to be a fan. I’m also a huge fan of Elizabeth’s Fansplaining podcast, co-hosted with Flourish Klink, and weekly newsletter The Rec Center, co-written with Gav. 

This is a really short list, and I’m sure I’m forgetting some very deserving writers who should be on it, probably including writers I know personally (sorry in advance). Please tell me about YOUR favorite subculture reporters in the comments so I can read their work, too. 

Lead photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

What happens when your feelings get in the way of your reporting

I want to start by saying there’s no reason for me to get nervous about being on the radio.

I started making semi-regular radio appearances when I worked at tech blog ReadWrite. If they thought an article I’d written recently was timely, I’d show up on WBEZ 91.5 Chicago and talk about stuff like the Apollo 11 spaceflight. After I moved on to Forbes, I got to talk about topics closer to my heart, like Isao Takahata’s legacy as a Studio Ghibli cofounder for BBC radio, or this extended interview on cosplay for CBC radio’s q show.

I’ve also been on TV—a local Fox News channel interviewed about my book and then again about cosplay in general. I still haven’t watched either video, so there’s probably something emotional to unpack there but that’s not the point of this blog post. 

The point is that last Thursday morning, I found myself processing my feelings about the horrific Kyoto Animation fire in front of a live international audience in my worst radio interview ever. 

Here’s the episode, though I’m not sure how you listen outside of Canada. Host Tom Power covered the basic facts and then asked me for details about why the studio had made such a big impact on the anime industry. As usual, I’d been prepared in advance with the questions and even did a rehearsal. But about halfway through, I think it was after Tom asked me something like, “What’s the fan reaction to the news of the fire?” I froze. Mentally, after years of public speaking, I knew logically that I only stopped talking for about two seconds. But two seconds feels like forever on the air, for both you and your listeners. I had been simply repeating my prepared notes when suddenly the impact of the question hit me. I’m one of those fans, too. 

I found out about the fire around 3 AM. I’m pregnant and uncomfortable enough that I wake up at 3 AM pretty consistently most nights, check Twitter, and go back to bed. Our world is such a hellscape nothing I saw on Twitter interrupted my sleep, until Thursday night. As more details unfolded, I couldn’t look away. I ended up giving up on sleep at around 4:30 and started work for the day. Around 8, I heard from my contact at CBC, who asked if I could provide some background on Kyoto Animation’s legacy and appeal. I didn’t think twice about accepting, because I’ve been on the radio so much in the past. 

What I didn’t think about was how, in my sleep-deprived state, I had mostly been considering the situation as a journalist—just gathering the facts. I was upset, to be sure, but more in a numb way. It wasn’t until halfway through that interview that the full reality of the situation hit me. After I got off the radio, I finally cried for the lives lost, for the senselessness of this attack. Talented creatives whose only crime was bringing entertainment to millions—gone. 

Since 2011, I’ve spelled out my personal credo in what I call the Otaku Journalist Manifesto. The news landscape at large has changed immensely since then, but I still love this part where I champion authentic, not objective, reporting: “I’m not saying to take sides. But don’t be a cold observer. Bring yourself, your experiences and intuition, to the article.” It’s a great sentiment, but not one I’d ever examined this deeply. How do you report on a story so close to your heart that you’re barely holding it together during the process? 

I have immense respect for the reporters like Crystalyn Hodgkins who kept covering the tragedy all day. I couldn’t do it. I took time off until evening, when I wrote a piece for Forbes including all the things I wanted to say on the radio but couldn’t. This is not one of my blog posts that wraps up with a neat solution: nothing can undo the KyoAni attack, and it’s not something I or anyone will stop grieving overnight. But I wanted to share what it felt like when something I care about personally came crashing into the work I do. Please take time for yourself to grieve. Send a message of support to KyoAni through Crunchyroll (I’m told they’ll be translating as many of these notes as possible). And be kind to your fellow fans—including the professionals still working despite this—who are just as frustrated and wrecked by this news as you are.

Photo credit: Matt Botsford on Unsplash.

You’re allowed to grow out of your terrible opinions

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Magic: The Gathering Fifth Edition

Recently I got an email from somebody trying to read one of my locked older posts.

The post in question is “Why Don’t More Women Play Magic?” which I wrote in 2010, nine entire years ago. I was 23 at the time, and well, this post is not exactly progressive or even feminist. My conclusion was that I personally am not very competitive, other women probably feel the same way, and maybe that’s why they don’t play on a tournament level in the collectible card game Magic: The Gathering as often as men do.

There are many reasons I no longer believe this. Aside from the not-so-revolutionary discovery that I don’t share identical life experiences with everyone who happens to share my demographic, it’s undeniable that there are incredible women and nonbinary people proving me wrong every day. Magic is attracting an increasingly diverse audience, in part because of the game’s parent company, Wizards of the Coast, making deliberate, consistent efforts to make harassment a bannable offense. They’ve also worked repeatedly with artists to expand the perceived gender and ethnicity spectrum of the denizens of the Magic world in card illustrations. I wrote about this in a 2016 article for Forbes which I’m far more proud of than the 2010 blog post, since actual research and nuance went into it.

It shouldn’t be a dark, shocking secret that I once held uneducated opinions. I think that’s a part of growing up, and in our always-online world, a part that increasingly occurs in public. But the problem with the internet is that it skews the passage of time. You could use the Wayback Machine or check out one of the forums that discussed the post to still read it in 2019. I feel like I’ve moved beyond this opinion, but once something is online, it’s here forever.

That’s why I’ve tried to take a semblance of control by privatizing that post, and all of my posts written before 2014. In Your embarrassing former self, I explained my reasoning this way:

“At their best, my old blog posts needs a good editor. At their worst, they’re just plain offensive… I don’t owe anyone to store my posts in an unchanging, museum-like archive. This is my blog and I can run it however I want.”

The internet is forever, but we don’t have to be. I am forever evolving, becoming a better writer, a more intersectional feminist, and a more empathic member of our fandom community. My husband John and I make it a habit to remind each other, “You don’t have to be the same person you were yesterday.” Even if yesterday I overslept and said something dumb on Twitter, it doesn’t mean I’m the kind of person who can never get up in the morning or ever apologize for a stupid comment. Unless I double down, my mistakes do not have to define my permanent identity.

Sometimes when there’s a debate raging in fandom, I feel discouraged by what I perceive as misinformed comments on an issue. How can I ever see eye to eye with somebody who believes that pirating anime is a good idea, for example? But what this viewpoint ignores is that people change. Somebody with that opinion today won’t always feel that way. I’m still not going to engage with them—in fact, I think if somebody had made a tweet thread shaming my crappy, arguably sexist blog post, I would have felt defensive rather than prepared to immediately rethink my view. But it makes me feel hopeful to know that anyone can choose to change.

I was able to change in part through educating myself more about feminism, meeting more people in the Magic: The Gathering community, and improving my ability to express myself through writing. Are there any views you used to hold that embarrass you today? I’d like to know, what made you grow out of them.

(Image credit: me. Fittingly, I took this photo of my first Magic deck in 2010.)

What is the purpose of a call-out post?

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No community is without its bad actors, and anime fandom is certainly no exception. I’d argue that 2019 has been all about our fandom family discovering this anew and looking to flush out bad behavior. It’s what is behind the incredibly brave reporting from Lynzee Loveridge and others regarding the previously untouchable Vic Mignogna, which has had incredible repercussions that years of whispers about Vic’s harassment had been unable to match.

But not every call-out is on that level. Recently, I’ve been following a much quieter Twitter discussion in which anime fans were becoming aware of a member of our community who habitually makes deeply offensive remarks. This person was brought to my attention a while back and while I did some investigating, I did not end up writing an article about them.

In a time that calling out bad behavior has actually led to consequences for bad actors and retribution for their victims, why would I choose not to write the article? It all comes down to what a call-out post is really designed to do.

When this person was brought to my attention last year, they were in a position of power. They had a history of regularly tweeting racist, sexist, and homophobic attacks toward marginalized people. They were also in a gatekeeping position at an anime convention, where they had a significant role in choosing who could and couldn’t present a panel at that con.

After reaching out to that convention during my reporting process, I discovered that they had recently been made aware of this person’s actions, and were in the process of cutting ties. Within a week, this person faced the consequences and today has no platform beyond Twitter.

I began my reporting on a racist with a platform. But within weeks, they were just a racist with no platform and no way to significantly affect the community at large. I thought that writing an article about their behavior would be punching down, the same way that sending my 8,000+ Twitter followers after any random person on the platform would be.

But recently, I have been questioning this decision after following the recent conversation. People are sharing this person’s offensive comments on Twitter, which the person continues to make routinely. As a result, people are becoming aware of this person’s behavior, often for the first time. The fact that so many people didn’t know about this person’s bad behavior makes me wonder if I was right not to publicize my reporting last year.

It all comes down to what the purpose of a call-out is in the first place.

My view on the purpose of a call-out comes from my journalism school education, where we were taught to weigh a private citizen’s right to privacy vs. the public’s right to be unharmed. When this person was in a position of power, a call-out would have been fair game. It would be similar to the time last year that I wrote a post about John Leigh of Anime Matsuri. It’s hardly punching down to critique the bad behavior of somebody who runs an anime convention with thousands of attendees.

But this recent call-out weighed privacy vs. potential for harm differently. Though this person is no longer in a role where they can influence fandom or gatekeep who can and can’t participate in a convention, they still are a part of our community, joining in on social media conversations. After this latest call-out, a lot of people blocked this person, which begs the question: when we call out bad behavior, what is the intended outcome? Is it to create consequences for bad behavior where there weren’t any before? Or is it to shut them out forever?

In full disclosure, I have this person blocked as well. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. I don’t know if people are allowed to have a second chance to play nice in the community, especially if they are a repeat offender. It pains me that this is the second time I’ve had to wrestle with this dilemma this year, and the previous time it happened, I had initially considered the person in question a friend. I know that what I (and my blue checkmark) do on Twitter can send a message that’s bigger than me, but I also know that blocking people so I don’t have to engage with bad-faith arguments is better for my mental health.

I’m still undecided, so I’m opening this up to you, reader. When we call out somebody’s bad behavior, what should the result be? To make them face consequences for their actions when there weren’t any previously, or to shut them out of our community? How significant should those consequences be, and should they last forever? What kind of apology, if any, would be acceptable before we welcome a prior bad actor back into the fold? In 2019, this is the kind of debate we need to be having because these call-outs aren’t going to die down soon.

No, you’re not too old for anime fandom.

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This will be my last year as a staff blogger at Anime Boston. For obvious reasons, I don’t think I’ll be up to it next year. I started volunteering there just shy of a decade ago in 2010, when I was a journalism student they took a chance on. When I announced my leave, I strongly suggested that another journalism student take this role after I’m gone.

Lately, there has been some manufactured age discourse in fandom. It’s become such a battle of straw men that it’s not even worth quoting if you’re out of the loop: just overblown generalizations about who is too old to do what in a fan community. Probably there are more people commenting on it after the fact than there were people even discussing it in the first place. But since I’m at a moment in my life that I’m thinking a lot about fandom and age, I’ll use this flimsy premise to share my own thoughts on the topic.

Fans don’t grow out of fandom

To call anime fandom “just a phase” is as insulting to young fans as it is to older ones. It implies that anime fandom is a temporary lapse in judgment. The wisdom of age doesn’t suddenly make you realize anime is childish, and if you really thought this happened, this says more about what you really think about anime than it does about anime itself. Fandom isn’t an age-linked rite of passage. For example, if my daughter isn’t interested in anime (which I can totally see happening, considering how much her parents are into it), it doesn’t mean “kids aren’t into anime.” Like always, it’s an interest that will appeal to some and not others.

But fans do grow out of roles and spaces

The way I interact with fandom is very different as an adult. As a preteen, I interacted with other fans online who I either knew (or at least thought) were my age. As a teenager, I went to cons as an attendee. Now, there are only two instances in which I interact with younger fans: as a presenter at the panels I hold to share my research and knowledge with fans of all ages, and as a convention volunteer offering information or advice when asked. I don’t spend a lot of time with younger fans online or off—I try not to even follow underage fans on Twitter. I think they deserve to have their own space to explore fandom, just like I had.

Older fans have a duty to younger fans

Like listening to them when they say they don’t feel comfortable or safe. Sharing knowledge, if we want to pay it forward. And at the very least, not gatekeeping or putting up barriers. It’s increasingly difficult to get this kind of information, but back when I did surveys of Anime USA attendees in the early ‘10s, the median age of a con attendee was 19 years old. I think a late teens (or early 20s) median age is a great indication of the fandom’s health. It’s a good sign that people so much younger than me are still entering the fandom, and that must mean that we’re keeping this place fairly welcoming, despite everything.

But it isn’t to leave, obviously.

When I was 18 and attending my first anime convention (Otakon), I barely believed that it could possibly be “for fans, by fans.” How could volunteers put on something of this scale? I found out later, when the novelty of simply being an attendee wore off, and I became a part of it. Volunteering at conventions is how I’ve found meaning in my fandom participation at my age, but for other older fans, it might take a different form. I know that I’m going to have to find something new now that I’m stepping back from Anime Boston and giving my last panel of 2019 next month. I’m glad my absence will make space for new voices, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll stop making myself heard. I’ll be part of this fandom as long as I’m alive, just not in the same ways I have been in the past. Maybe that’s the nuance this discussion is missing: we’re all getting older. This debate will eventually be resolved when enough time passes. If we’re lucky, there will then be an even newer generation of fans to argue about it.