Category: Fandom

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.)

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.

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.

The best compliment I got on my cosplay came the following day. I returned to MAGfest in normal(ish) clothes and ran into somebody I’d met in cosplay the previous day.

“You were Kokichi?” he asked. “I didn’t recognize you.”

I must have had the biggest smile. I’d wanted to spend a day as one of my favorite characters from Danganronpa instead of as myself, and at that moment I felt like I’d succeeded.

On Friday I cosplayed in public for the first time in about a decade. I wore my last cosplay, Mako from Nerima Daikon Brothers, in 2008. After that, I wrote a book about cosplay, appeared on Fox News to speak about cosplay, and went on q radio on the Canadian Broadcasting Channel to do an explainer on cosplay, among other media and event appearances. A lot of this has had me dispelling common myths about cosplay. Yes, you can make your outfit from scratch, assemble it piecemeal from clothing stores, or buy it outright, and it still counts as cosplay. And yes, a million times yes, anyone can cosplay, no matter their age, appearance, resources, whatever. I guess it was only a matter of time before I started taking my own advice.

It took me several months to get ready. I relied on the kindness of other cosplayers for which costume and wig to get. I got a recommended costume on Amazon and a wig from the same seller. But after two different attempts, I listened to another cosplayer and bought a new wig from The Five Wits that looked good even before I styled it. Since I wear contacts and have no problem sticking stuff in my eyes, I got circle lenses from Pinky Paradise to complete the look.

My very understanding hairdresser helped me give my wig defined, lasting flipped ends using got2be glued hairspray and toilet paper rolls. An enthusiastic Sephora employee helped me figure out how to turn my eyebrows purple. After a couple of different makeup trials, I figured out the right combination of Pinterest tutorials to contour my face and enlarge my eyes so I could try to look more like a 2D teen than a 3D woman. Overall, I spent so much time on my wig and makeup alone that I have renewed awe for cosplayers who also construct their own outfits. By the end of the transformation, I didn’t just look like a different person, I felt like one, too. 

I wanted to have the full cosplay experience, so I asked my friend Barrett to do a photo shoot with me in and around the beautiful Gaylord atrium. The best photos we took were Barrett’s idea. It was lightly misting at night and he suggested I stand in front of the lit Ferris wheel. It had a halo effect that complemented Kokichi’s megalomaniac personality.

I also timed my cosplay with the day of the official Spike Chunsoft photoshoot so I could meet up with other cosplayers (one of whom was also dressed as Kokichi)! I felt like an extremely old lady when I first showed up at the meet but slowly began to get comfortable after realizing that everyone there was just as into Danganronpa as I was. There’s no age limit on fandom.

I was also surprised by how much more respectful the cosplay world is compared to ten years ago. After I cosplayed at Katsucon 2008, I was afraid to do it again because I could never guess when a stranger would recognize my character and envelop me in an unexpected hug. Since then, the Cosplay Is Not Consent movement has had a major impact. Before our photoshoot, a MAGfest volunteer gave us all a talk about no touching without permission. There were several instances during the shoot where people asked for explicit consent, like when photographers asked for cosplayers to pretend their characters were romantically involved. (There were also Gen Z meme references like dabbing and T-posing.) The kids are alright.

It took me half a day to start responding when people asked “Kokichi” for a photo, and a little longer than that for the poses to come more naturally. I wasn’t very in character because I was genuinely smiling all day, I was having so much fun. Meanwhile, Kokichi is a pro at faking emotions but not so much at really expressing himself.

Kokichi’s personality ended up being a real detractor for me later in the day. After the photo shoot, I connected with a card game creator who had photographed me earlier. He gave me a prize card from Dangan Werewolf, a fandom mod that combines Mafia, Werewolf, and the Danganronpa games. We got a group of cosplayers together to demo the game, but I had a very hard time being taken seriously because Kokichi would never tell the truth. I hadn’t planned on roleplaying Kokichi, just dressing the part, but as other cosplayers got into character, I realized that maybe next time, that’d be another way to have fun in cosplay, too.

Cosplay was a new and remarkably intense way to celebrate a fandom and connect with other fans, using my entire body to express that passion. I’ve compared cosplay at a convention to characters walking around at Disney World in the past: it’s one of the coolest feelings to know that any time you attend a convention, you could see your favorite character in the flesh. But what’s different here is that anyone can cosplay—you don’t need to wait for somebody else to cosplay a character you love; you can choose to do it yourself at any time.

Overall, what really made my return to cosplay great were the attitudes of other cosplayers. Even though I’m older than the average cosplayer, even though I bought my cosplay instead of making it, I felt completely welcome. It felt amazing to take off my wig and heavy false eyelashes and ten layers of makeup, but now I’m anticipating the next time I’ll have an opportunity to cosplay again.

Most of the time, I love my career. I get to review anime, report on fandom, and write about all kinds of interesting topics for a living. But it’s only during episodes of burnout that I realize there are a lot of expectations that come with enjoying your hobbies in public.

For the past five years, I’ve been getting paid to watch anime. Most of the time, this is also something I do for free, minus the 1,000 words worth of weekly review copy. But over the summer, life happened and I felt burnt out for the second time this year. At the peak of it, I was just watching three shows: my two review shows and Gundam Build Divers, so I could edit and post Tom’s Gunpla 101 series on the show. I was, for the first time in my life, treating anime like a job—if I didn’t absolutely have to watch it, I just didn’t.

Oddly enough, I didn’t stop watching TV. It was almost like watching Terrace House occupied a different part of my brain. And if I’m really honest with myself, the difference is that I’d never use it as essay material for Anime News Network, Anime Feminist, or any of the other sites I write for. Sometimes people ask me: does watching anime for work alter your enjoyment of it? If I’m honest with myself, absolutely. Even if I’m watching a show for fun, I never forget about the possibility that it might turn into a review or a personal essay someday.

In February, I had my first burnout episode the year. I have some theories as to why, but long story short, I had very little motivation for work. Somehow, at the same time, I wrote a 10,000-word Yu Yu Hakusho fanfic under a pseudonym. Even writing articles about current anime felt like a chore, but with my fake name fanfiction the words just poured out.

I felt similar in September, after dealing with health issues, moving house, and more. I had difficulty doing anything creative without a strict deadline in place. But at the same time, I also started working on my first cosplay in years. I didn’t tweet about it and I only shared my progress with a few trusted friends. I still think that if I had shared everything about my cosplay up front, I would have chickened out before I actually took pictures or anything.

Both times, I wondered if I was burnt out because I was tired of anime. I do watch a lot of it—anywhere from five to ten shows each season! But now I don’t think that’s what’s wrong. Even during episodes of burnout, I still pursue anime-adjacent hobbies. The difference is the pressure to perform. While I may be a professional reporter and reviewer, I’m an amateur cosplayer and everyone is an amateur fanfic writer, so there’s no need to be great at it.

I just read an opinion piece about this in the New York Times called In Praise of Mediocrity: “When your identity is linked to your hobby — you’re a yogi, a surfer, a rock climber — you’d better be good at it, or else who are you?” Parsing this, I feel like it’s not fandom that is burning me out per se, it’s the demands that come with my public consumption of it.

These days, I try to treat burnout not as a wrench in my schedule, but as a natural part of the creative process. Burnout can be an opportunity to be creative in a way that has nothing to do with work. For example, as October draws to a close, I’m getting revved up to start NaNoWriMo, a creative exercise that I completed for the first time last year. I never shared my novel and I’m sure I never will—at least, not in the version it is in now. But even if I never share it, I’m beginning to realize that wasn’t the point. Writing it was a valuable creative exercise for me. Sure, I’m used to having something to show for my effort, but sometimes that isn’t the end goal. 

Because I want to share my passion for anime with others, there’s always going to be a degree to which my fandom is performative. But I’m beginning to realize that in order to be a happy, healthy creative, it’s OK to not share everything I write or do. 

P.S. If you’d like you can join me on NaNoWriMo as a writing buddy. I won’t be sharing my novel anytime soon, if ever, but you’ll be able to see my word count progress as I go.

Screenshot via Himouto! Umaru-chan, the quintessential anime about enjoying fandom in private.