Existing as a Woman in Fan Spaces Isn’t All It’s Cracked Up to Be

By: Nicolette Cavallaro

I blame the T-shirt. If I hadn’t gone out of my way to try and chat with the owner of it, I could have ignored some of the blaring red flags and warning sirens going off around me. But no. 

It was New York Comic Con 2023, and I was exploring the jam-packed and overwhelming show floor. Outfitted in their favorite merchandise or cosplay, fans were crowding the display tables and auction booths. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy around my age wearing a Red Hood T-shirt. DC Comics’s Red Hood is one of my favorite characters, and he is not super popular, so it's rare to encounter other fans. I was shaking with excitement to talk about the slightly deranged anti-hero with a fellow enthusiast. 

But as I made my way over, my feelings turned to discomfort and aggravation. The guy pointed to a young girl dressed as a video game character and yelled, “That’s what I paid my entrance fee for,” while making crude gestures toward her chest and legs. The girl, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, pulled her dark purple cape over her chest and darted into the packed show floor crowd. I took a deep breath and turned away from the incident, remembering why I had avoided spaces like this in previous years. 

Like my father before me, I have always been a huge nerd. I spent my childhood exploring science fiction universes with “Star Wars” and “Doctor Who” while also becoming well-versed in superhero terminology by reading DC and Marvel Comics. In middle school, I made this part of me more prevalent by unofficially joining the fandom world. I covered my walls with posters and drawings. I collected Funko Pop Vinyls of iconic characters and Entertainment Weekly interviews from my favorite casts. I dedicated my social media to the 2010 SuperWhoLock phenomenon and the MCU movies. I was utterly obsessed with being a fangirl. As someone who struggled to connect with other kids my age, it was nice to finally feel wanted and welcomed. I had finally found a space where I could be truly myself. 

Sadly, reality hit. In 2017, the recent release of Star Wars VII: The Last Jedi was on everyone's mind, and the fandom world didn't feel the same anymore. Star Wars fans hated the new feminine characters in the franchise, even going as far as bullying the actresses off Instagram and Twitter. It suddenly felt like if you liked those women or liked the films, you were a fake fan and were to be harassed out of the fandom. There was no escaping it. Although this was just a tiny symptom, it awakened me to the bigger problem. There was an undertone of hatred and sexualization towards women being intertwined with the comforting community I had begun to call home. 

I tried to distance myself from the Star Wars fandom, but it did little to stop the exposure. Everywhere I turned, more aspects of the infectious hatred sprung around me. I remember being a high school student, wandering through my local comic book store after class. I was in search of yet another comic for my extensive “Batman” collection when a boy came up to me. I had seen him in one or two of my high school lunch periods but never got his name. He pointed to one of the books in my stack and chuckled, saying, “Of course, you would pick a Nightwing book; you probably think he’s hot,” before grabbing a graphic novel and strolling away. I was frozen and bright red. I shakingly put my stack on a table, escaped from the store, and got on the first train home. 

I dug through all of my comics that night to ensure that I didn’t just pick some out because I found certain characters attractive. Everywhere I looked online, people were saying similar things because how could a girl like comics? I intrusively thought, “What if he’s right? What if I am a fake fan?” Although his comment was small, it impacted my entire view of myself and my place in the fandom world. I couldn’t like strong female characters in Star Wars because they were considered annoying, bland, and ‘mary-sue,’ I couldn’t enjoy male superheroes because people would think I was just attracted to them. Were women allowed to enjoy anything in the fandom world without being criticized?

These thoughts followed me through the rest of high school. I distanced myself from the fandom community, closing my social media accounts and deleting apps. I transitioned into enjoying my nerd stuff in private, keeping what I was reading or watching to myself and hiding stickers inside notebooks. Thankfully, in a college class, I found a small group of girls who had experienced similar ridicule in fandoms. We bonded over our love of fan culture and all things nerdy. It was so freeing to be able to express myself fully again. 

I decided to give it all a chance again. I logged back into Tumblr for the first time in years and followed fan pages on Instagram again. I developed a set of rules for myself to help me navigate toxic, cruel fans. I am familiar with the block and report functions across social media platforms. Although I knew I would never feel a hundred percent safe and loved in larger fandom spaces like New York Comic Con, I decided to give it a chance again this year. 

As I watched the young cosplayer hurry through the crowd to get away from the catcaller, this question came to my mind yet again. She had probably come to Comic Con expecting to have a fantastic time, dressed as one of her favorite characters. Instead of being greeted with open arms, she was harassed and publicly embarrassed. I wonder if, similar to me, she went home trying to figure out what went wrong and if she deserves to be in the fan space. Now, looking back, I wish I had stood up to the guy or at least ran to comfort her. But what would I have even said? There’s no way to express how cruel it is to feel like you are not allowed to exist in a space you love.