I’m not a feminist. I’m a gamer who happens to be female.
And I guess what upsets me when I read about the apparent misogynistic attitudes prevalent in the industry and social circles today, is that it renders any and all experiences growing up playing games, well…pointless.
I’m turning 33 this year. When I was able to hold a controller, my folks put an Atari joystick in my hands—Intellivision paddle, too. And I remember how amazed all of my kindergarten class was when the privileged student showed off her brand new NES and copy of Mario 3. It was cutting edge, engaging, and plain fun. Then came Genesis, SNES, Saturn, PS1: we owned them all, played every day after school. They were my—OUR—friends and entertainment. Memories with friends I’ll probably never see again in this lifetime were made over them.
So what happened? Why am I (and many of my friends) suddenly in the minority of a culture that never even existed when I started gaming? Where did the industry get the idea that I ever stopped caring or playing games when I was growing up alongside them?
I’m not a feminist. But reading some of these posts…I almost wish I were.
The only photo I have of my husband cosplaying Shizuo.
That is a Pikachu DS-XL.
Shizu-chan loves his poggeymans.
Our car’s alternator died at ACen this year, so my husband was gone most of Saturday getting it repaired. We didn’t get to spend very much time together that day. It was disappointing, and scary, being left at con without him.
But fortunately, I had two very good friends (cosplaying Marie and Nanako) that stuck with me and helped me with my anxiety episode. And…my husband later put on Shizuo Heiwajima cosplay for me, because he felt bad that we didn’t get to spend a lot of time in our new DRRR costumes.
My night (and pretty much con) was made when we were walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk from our hotel, and two guys started taunting him with “Shizu-chan” and “IIIIZZZAAAYA!” He didn’t react at first. Finally one of the two yelled, “Hey! Heiwajima! Aren’t you gonna throw something at me?!”.
He spun on his heel, sprinted towards the corner they were on, and slammed shoulder-first into the lamppost, wrapping his arms around it with a growl. He hit it hard enough to made a loud, dull metallic thud. They jumped backwards and laughed shakily before walking on down the road.
I wish I’d had a camera handy to record it, because the looks on their faces as they believed—for just a second—that Shizuo, my husband, could actually uproot that lamppost and bludgeon them to death with it, was priceless.