I was eighteen and a high school
student when The Matrix Reloaded was
released. My parents were disinclined to let me attend the midnight premiere,
so I went immediately after school the next day. The friends with whom I was
supposed to see the movie were all taking the Advanced Placement Economics
test, so it fell to my friend Patrick and me to hold our places in line outside
the Ultra Screen.
We queued up with our books and
folding chairs, prepared to wait out the few hours before the movie. We talked
and read, occasionally played cards, and it was some time before I noticed the
guys in front of us, watching the first Matrix
on their Mac. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have noticed them except for Patrick’s
obvious snickering. My eyes flickered between my book and the guys until I
noticed that they were staring at us, making it disturbingly obvious. It was a
few minutes before my temper flared.
“Hey,” I said loudly, “take a
fucking picture. It’ll last longer.”
The guys blushed, turned the
volume up on their computer, and went back to watching the movie. At this
point, Patrick’s snickering had become full-blown laughter and I turned on him.
“And what’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” he snorted.
“Then what the hell was the
matter with them?”
He buried his head in his hands
for a minute and laughed so hard he shook. “Honey, you’re the only girl in the
whole damn line.”
Things haven’t changed much in
the past ten years. I attend midnight premieres of movies now, and sometimes I
go in costume. Over the past ten years my nerd cred has significantly
increased. I throw a party every year to celebrate the new season of Doctor
Who. I’ve had long arguments about Kirk versus Picard. I own a first-edition
Tolkein. I’ve read every published word Neil Gaiman has written. I collect
comics and bawled my eyes out during Harry
Potter and the Deathly Hollows.
For years I’ve watched nerds
everywhere misrepresented in the media, in pop culture, and by other nerds.
I’ve seen reporters interview cosplayers and comic collectors, shake their
heads as they take notes, and mutter “freaks” as they walk away. I’ve stood in
line for a movie or a book-signing and watched as the local news anchor grabs
her cameraman and pulls him past me, standing there in a dress and heels,
amiably chatting with the people around me, and zero in on the pale, pimply
guys playing Magic. When this happens, I can feel the nerds around me tense up
with irritation. But instead of walking up to her, we all grind our teeth and
vent to one another. If someone is really pissed off, they might whip out their
smartphone and blow up on Twitter, but that’s about it.
Those instances always leave my
stomach upset because I know those pimply guys are who my friends and family
see on the evening news. Those guys keep my mother up at night because she’s
afraid that I may bring one of them home to Christmas and he’ll spend the
entire weekend regaling us with lectures on quantum mechanics (which I would
find awesome) or in the corner fearfully quaking at the unbridled masculinity
of the men in my family. When a reporter corners one of these nerd stereotypes,
I can hear the following day’s conversation with my mother:
“Honey, don’t you think you would
be happier if you, I don’t know, spent your time a little more normally?”
“What do you mean?”
I can hear her sigh and pull a
mentholated cigarette out of her pack.
“I mean if you gave up all these
costumes and comic books, and, well . . . dorky stuff, honey.” She drags
on her cigarette. “I mean, I just want you to be happy. You seem so normal most
of the time. I just don’t understand this.”
Mom’s opinion pretty much sums up
that of the friends I’ve made outside of marathon LAN parties and Catan
tournaments. They’re the people who know a literature and scotch snob with a
high-pressure, intensely social job and they have a hard time reconciling her
with the lady who regularly makes Star Wars jokes. They’re baffled by many of
my hobbies, and I don’t blame them. The attraction of the nerd world escapes
them, and if I’m honest, sometimes when I’m the only woman standing in the
comic book shop around the block from my office, it puzzles me too.
Being a lady nerd is tricky. It
often feels like I’m entering a foreign country on a soon-to-expire visa. A
friend and I recently attended a presentation on Minecraft. We really enjoyed
ourselves and learned a lot about the game and the draw to it. At the end of
the presentation, there were door prizes. We won the award for “Looks Most Like
They Don’t Belong Here.” I was wearing a dress and knee high boots. She had on
a sweater and jeans. It was an odd moment, and one that took me back to the
line for The Matrix Reloaded.
Ten
years later, I’m not the only girl in the room, but I’m certainly one of a very
few. But, while my visa may be somewhat dubious, it allows me access all the same.
I hope to be a Virgil to those of you unfamiliar with the realm of extreme
nerdiness. Simultaneously, I’d like to be Dante, asking questions and trying to
cultivate a deeper understanding of this world and my place in it.
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