Three Things

I’m deathly afraid of three things. Strangulation. Rope Bridges. And E.T.

I wish I was kidding.

Basically, I’ll break it down for you. The first one is not so bad. I mean lots of people are afraid of being choked to death. Even the fact that seeing anyone be hit in the neck or strangled on screen makes me queasy is not so bad. There’s actually a phobia of that – Al Gore’s daughter has it with wrists. It does mean I can’t wear turtle necks, I tug my collars so there’s a weird stretch that still confuses my mother, and that I have a smacking reflex if someone even gets close to my neckline.

The Rope Bridge thing is probably where I lost you. But that’s not so bad either. Ever watch a movie? Indiana Jones, anything really with a rope bridge? Have you ever once seen it where it didn’t break? And if it doesn’t, it creaks and crackles and builds the tension even if it’s not accurate to the scene. I may have also fallen off one when I was younger. Either way, it’s a logical fear—one that doesn’t happen to come up too much. At the movies those scenes are usually arm grabbers anyway and I think I’m safe as a sane person to say “no thank you” if anyone tries to convince me to cross a suspension bridge. I’d rather take the long way around.

Now, the E.T. thing. That’s… even I don’t really have an excuse for that one. There’s just something about that little freak that just gives me the shivers. Even just thinking about the fingers that stretch out with those little globs and --- ugh that’s just horrifying. That voice… that scratchy voice that just stretches as long as the fingers and I really have to stop writing about him, because it’s freaking me out. You should have seen me during the anniversary where all those car commercials had the little creep in it. I screamed and threw the remote at the TV, before I realized I couldn’t turn it off that way.

It hasn’t gone away either, just today the Food Network had something about Reeses Pieces and showed that little moon and bike thing and I had to flip the channel.

Just the thought of it is making me not want to sleep.

I’m probably the most afraid of E.T. than I am of anything else on that short list, which makes the logical part of my brain shake its head. After all, the thing was made out of playdough and chicken wire.

Doesn’t mean I’m not sleeping with the lights on tonight.

Boob Windows

Strong female characters that wear no clothes are not strong role models and they perpetuate a horrible example for young men. This statement seems clearly made and logical for anyone who thinks about it for a second, yet in video games, comic books, basic media, women are still portrayed by their appearance first and their personality/skills second. Click onto the new line up and just watch any show. Chuck NBC’s new, admittedly funny, show has a normal looking guy as the main character. His friend is normal and not fantastically attractive.

His sister is modelesque attractive. The secret agent he’s assigned to (a woman) is skinny, attractive, and uses her feminine wiles on him to start with.

It’s not hard to tell that looks come first with female characters and then whatever personality happens to be required gets filled in. Watching a movie you’ll see a wide variety of male shapes and forms. You’ll see two of women. There will either be the skinny, very unrealistically attractive woman. And then there’s the fattie. There’s no middle ground. No ‘real’ looking woman who has maybe arms or a little bit of a stomach. And usually when this character is the main of the movie the entire focus is centered around her weight.

It’s not hard to flip on the news and see models getting skinnier, more anorexic actresses yet flip over to the entertainment network and all there is – is showing who’s wearing what and what looks bad.

It’s image appeal. And it’s killing our society.

Little girls are growing up with serious image issues from what they are bombarded with every day and no one is doing anything about it. There are no normal looking actresses or newscasters. There’s no one telling clothing companies to stop shrinking their sizes. There is just a constantly flow of hot women as the first and only ideal.

And what about our boys? It is not their fault that by the time they’ve hit their teens that they’re hormonal driven on the road to find the hottest girl. Women are trying to appeal to this idea and all that boys are bombarded with is scantily clad women.

Take comic books for example. Power Girl still has, what can only be described as a ‘boob window.’ New female heroes get short skirts to fly in. I don’t know about you, but if I was flying up in the air, I would not be wearing a skirt.

Even when a female character is not drawn in a revealing costume, her breasts are enlarged, her outfit is skin tight. She is gorgeous. She is woman.

And this is just the stuff the kids are reading.

What do we expect of our men when this is what they get as boys?

What do we expect of our women when this is what they get as girls?

What do we expect of anyone when we keep ignoring it and saying ‘well that’s the way it is’?

Different

I never could have imagined it was going to be different, because it started the same. My palms were sweating, I stepped out onto stage with my heart banging against my rib cage, and I tried to pretend that acting from six to sixteen had actually helped my stage fright. What really changed was my own reaction. I usually start and then my pulse is still pounding in my ears, but it’s nothing compared to my deafening voice and just complete absolution in getting lost in the part. Acting was fine. I’d never sang on stage by myself before. I should have known this was different.

I held the microphone in my hand, gripped just lax enough so that I wouldn’t drop it. Too many things went through my mind. Was I going to trip? Which of my parents had shown up? How many were in the audience? I should look at the on point above the audience since I’m facing them so I can’t see faces. Faces always ruin it.

The music turned on. I waited for my cue (beat one, beat two, beat three – one more) and started my speaking part. It was easy, I slipped into the Puerto Rican New York accent like a charm and went through it flawlessly – then the singing happened. I sang through the first verse easily, with no catch or thought.

Then the first repeating chorus came up – instead of singing the right part, I sang the next. As soon as “And I trieeeeeed to meeeeeelt!” came out of my mouth, I knew I had completely screwed it up. I’d flubbed lines on stage before; you have to know how to react and improvise to get to the next one. I was great at improv.

But this was different. I had completely skipped half the song and the music was still playing. My bowels froze and options ran through my head at a breakneck speed. I could either keep going from that junction or rack my brain to skip ahead to where I should have been and hope no one noticed.

Would they notice? They didn’t know the song, but they had to know, because I’d screwed up so badly. I just knew they would, but then I tried to convince myself that they couldn’t, because they didn’t know the song.

And in that horrible thought process there was nothing on stage, but silence. The fear that crept up in me every time I got on stage was now back stronger than ever. I had never done this before. I had never stood on stage and completely still—my legs were locked together and I was just staring straight ahead. I could just hear the thought processes of everyone there –What’s happening? Did she screw up? Did we actually pay to see this? How dumb. I can’t believe I got off work for this. Stupid, Mia.—and my heart pounded louder and I felt like I was going to fall through the stage.

So I ran.

I ran offstage to the safety of the thick curtains blocking out all the scrutiny from the audience I could hear pounding my ears. I stuffed the microphone into someone’s hand and left everything up to them to do on stage, while I threw myself in the corner by the curtain wires and just cried my eyes out. I was crying like I hadn’t since I was a kid. It was all over me and down every part of my body. I was humiliated and horrified with myself and just wanted to curl up and never talk to anyone again.

A few girls came over and tried to comfort me. It wouldn’t help though; I was too disgusted with myself. The crying had added to it. The fact that people were surrounding me had just compounded how completely revolting I was.

So I got up. Stopped sobbing and knew that if I didn’t go out there and do the song that I had practiced for two months I would hate myself this much forever. I walked right up to my high school theatre director who’d never once given me any of the respect that I deserved and said just that.

“I want to go out again. I’m going to.”

He went out and introduced me again.

Those fifteen steps back on stage echoed in my ears. They were some of the toughest of my life. I went anyway to the middle of the stage, right by the lip and faced the audience.

I stood again with no thudding heart beat and just grim determination.

And the music came on. I started again, the same repetitions. And then I got to my screw-up. I slid flawlessly into the right verse just as easily as I’d messed up the first time.

I finished the song. Every word punctuated and my ecstasy just eluding from all the songs. I could hear my voice on the microphone, I actually liked it. All my fears from this had gone away and I felt unequivocally proud of myself for facing the humiliation I was so afraid of and just doing it anyway. For me. I’d never enjoyed singing as much, if I wasn’t in character I wouldn’t have been able to stop grinning.

I was on my knees singing the prayer part. I was almost at the end.

“And a voice from down at the bottom of my soul,” and I lifted myself up, slowly and steadily like I was reaching towards the heavens, “Came up to the top of my head. And a voice from down at the bottom of my soul, Here is whaaaaaat it saaaaaaid:” I let the rest fly, because it wasn’t just Diana Morales singing it. It was me.

“This man is nothing!” And even stronger. “This course is nothing! If you want something go find another class. And when you find one,” And I smiled. “You'll be an actress.”

Then I stared out at the audience and I sang the last part with every thumping beating of my heart. “And I assure you that’s what finally came to paaass.”

I couldn’t feel my legs, but I smiled as the music ended and walked calmly offstage.

Every thought that could have come to mind about how I’d screwed up before, what i could have done better in that performance was roving through my mind, but that part of me that had managed to walk out there just told it to shut up and it did.

When I walked off stage my theatre director was waiting there, right by the curtain and he said: “I’m proud of you.”

And that didn’t even matter, because I was proud of me and I knew I’d never be too afraid to go out there again.

It was different.

Scorching Buttons

Name a hot-button issue and I’m sure I have an opinion for it. I’m a pretty opinionated gal and I’m very strong in all my reasons for them. I know my history. I know my human decency. I know my bible. I know my literature. I know the news. But when it comes to feminist issues – well it’s not just because I have a couple of xs in my chromosome list that lends me some creditability on the subject.

Growing up I can’t remember a time I wasn’t told that boys are built differently than girls. That a woman will never be as good as a man in sports, because she has a different body type. That women can’t handle math, can’t handle science, because their brains are different. Even if it wasn’t stated outright it was always there. I never believed this. I never had someone telling me not to, but I never believed it. I was a feminist by the time I was six. A feminist is just someone who believes that women should be equal to men. A guy can be a feminist. I hope there are a lot out there.

I always believed this. In every aspect. I still believe it.

I went on to believe it even more when I had to a research project for my senior year in High School. I wanted to find all these ‘scientific studies’ that proved that women were so different and so incapable of all these things.

After countless hours of research – I found nothing.

Which was great for my theory and made me pleased, but left me a little screwed when it came to the paper. That’s besides the point.

Later, in my junior year of college, I found a scientific article on why men and women are built differently and women can’t work up to the same things. It was a propaganda published extensively in the 1700s.

It’s amazing that it is still around today.

That I still have to deal with sexism at school, at work, everywhere I go. That I get boys thinking I can’t play video games. That I can’t know about sports. That there is surprise in the industry that women read comic books, when they’re a huge part of the consumer process. That a lot of the games out there are bought by women and played by women.

If that’s the case, there should be a female character for us to play in every game. There shouldn’t be the default of thinking everyone is a guy in every case. We’re out there. I know a huge community. I also know a lot of men writing for the industry who think we’re not.

It’s that absence that makes me feel like I’m six again, hearing that (like the new playschool commercials are proudly pronouncing) : “Boys are built differently.”

And I still don’t believe it.

Temperature Control

One of the houses on our block is painted a gaudy color that makes me stall every time. There’s thick gravel that heats up enough to scald bare feet during the summer. A skittering little cat darts across the street like that’ll make you not see her. Her bell jingles and pretends not to hear me calling her name, until she decides to roll around on the ground and get dirt all over her fur.

I’m outside looking at it from her point of view. She’s thrilled I’m on her land, her territory. There to bask in her glow while the other cats stay away. She’s a little runt and would run back to the house without me.

On the corner there’s an entire group of people that I would get the same impression if I was a stranger. Cold. Unfeeling. Kept.

No one opens their door, except for one house that always has the garage open.

It’s a small suburbia with pale Arizona peach and numbers on the houses. They are all evenly spaced out, sameness spreading through every angle and degree.

Walking further up the street and turning the corner, it’s more of the same. And another street and I can see the park off in the distance.

The slide gives static and the swings pinch. The grass gets flooded.

The street signs never get fixed and there are always cars parked in front of things they shouldn’t be.

There is never anyone out of their houses, but there is a few children walking home. They get cold calculating stares as you pass them. The pedestrians are too frightened to walk across the street if a car is coming. They just stand there and stare.

Most of the time this is the right move, because the cars ignore them.

It’s amazing how cold a neighborhood can feel in a place so hot.

Escape

When I was little and we’d moved to Spain I used to play with the ocean. I used to pretend I was in a race and see how fast I could run to the other side while it tried to splash my legs. I’d jump in the water and under waves. I’d be pushed back and forth by the water and just completely embrace the water in my bones, until it felt like I was water too.

It was an escape.

We went there almost every week; it was a very easy escape. When I moved to Arizona there wasn’t the same option of the beach. Driving to San Diego every other summer didn’t seem to do it. My soul almost cried out for the fresh salty air, the slapping splash of water, and the unforgiving sun tingling my skin.

It subtly tore at everyone, the longer we went without going to the beach. It wasn’t just a vacation to us. It was an escape.

To me more than anyone. I would still rush into the water when it was no longer child-like glee. Just to feel the crisp bite of the cold, until my body accepted the fact and bowed to the whims of temperature. I’d never want to get out. I could be thrown about, but all I could hear and feel were the waves, the water, and the wind.

It was nothing in my brain. No thoughts of school. No thoughts of my family. No thoughts of work. No thoughts of anything other than the tempestuous nature of the ocean and how I could stay in it as long as possible.

And feel like I was apart of that too.

Pink Consoles : The Elusive Girl Gamer

On the hunt for a most elusive prey, the right tactic is something to draw them in. Some prey likes shiny objects, or a more colorful variety of console. Other prey tends to enjoy vast character profiles and less pixel ratio on their screen. Then of course there’s our prey, hard to snag and impossible to pin down, rare as can be – almost a myth. The girl gamer.

Do we wiggle games based on popular female realities like Barbie or Bratz, use shoddy gameplay and bad graphics, but the same price as the general consumer won’t know the difference? Or should we take a different approach? Perhaps something in pink, that will draw her in!

Or the best bait of all could be set out, what every girl gamer wants – to be acknowledged as part of the market who plays just as hard as the boys.

I know I do.

I’ve been playing video games since the NES first stepped up to plate. The old Nintendo system with it’s pixel to pixel screen play and massively exciting side scroller action was always at the reach of my brother’s hand. Occasionally that second player controller would slide my way and I would actually have a chance to jump into Luigi’s shoes, to dazzle as Tails while Sonic pushed it out there, to squeeze in some time at duck hunt and try not to shoot that laughing dog. Second player, second choice, was my life. I was the little sister, the younger, the odd little child that liked to grab onto the video gaming system and play. I’m probably the only person I know that had to use a step stool to play Mortal Combat on an Arcade, but I have, I did, and I am – female and a gamer.

It sometimes feels like it’s an impossible concept for the main public to wrap their mind around. The general idea is that the gaming gene doesn’t come about unless there’s a y chromosome firmly shoved somewhere in the DNA. More than one third of the video game consumers market would strongly disagree. Because, they’re all girls. Or more accurately, females. A third of the market that seems to be completely ignored.

Shutting my eyes and pretending that Tails was a girl and that one day the Princess would save me, didn’t really last too long. Even the small opportunities presenting themselves, such as Lara Croft bounding along with cleavage I still don’t have, and Terra and Celeste rocking it hard in a Role Playing Game of Final Fantasy. At least Japan seemed to know that girls did exist, though watching my brother and friends play with Lara and watching her bounce along, she didn’t seem like that strong female figure I was hoping for. Though that, and the thousands of other games where squinting might make those tights Link is wearing feminine, didn’t really stop me from playing. I thought that’s all there was, because well… I was all there was. I didn’t know any girls who liked to play video games and mainly people around me held the same opinion.

It’s not hard to figure out why this idea prevails, all one would have to do is browse their local video game store to see shelf after shelf of completely male directed games. The only women usually seen on the boxes look more like they should be in Maxim (which actually had a special issue with undressed video game girls) more than made out of polygons. So where’s a girl like me go when she wants to get a game and doesn’t want to settle?

The answer – she doesn’t. She, like me and many other girl gamers, settle again and again. It’s not like I have anything against playing as a male character, just like I’m sure guys don’t mind messing around with Lara on occasion. I have no problem dawning the tunic and Master Sword and taking on Ganon as Link, while I go save my Princess and I would change him or that fat plumber for the world – but sometimes, I’d really like to be able to play as Zelda. And not just for a mele game.

Growing up where women in RPGs are always the weaker healer characters, pushed aside for stronger male leads. Where if there is a female character, it’s a gimmick made for a multiplayer game. Where most of the time if there’s even a female non-playable, she acts like a complete waste of air. Well it’s more than a little discouraging, especially considering what I know now.

Women have been growing up with video games just as long as men and while I, like many others, started by watching my brother play the first Nintendo, eventually the boys left home and the consoles were left all on their lonesome. It was only right to pick up the controller and have a crack at it ourselves. And like my other—sisteren—it wasn’t long after that that new consoles, games, and adventures began to present themselves.

A few years after the fun adventures of Super Nintendo and that short lived tryst with Sega Genesis, the ultra new consoles started to come out and I got my first taste at what could be. We (foolhardily) picked up an N64 and a copy of GoldenEye, only to ever play it on multiplayer (for you young folks it’s like James Bond in Halo) to shoot at each other. My brother and I had loads of fun with it, even more so when I discovered not only could I play as a female Russian hot stuff who could kick serious butt, but I could also beat him.

And oh did that feel good.

It was just a taste though and my brother eventually got tired and moved onto bigger and better things. Like out of the house. Leaving the console. Finally I had the option to pick up the controller and actually, well, control something. I could play as a first player and shift and change. The first occasion I had the time to beat Ocarina of Time, well I felt like I’d become a woman. I played progressively more and more, enjoying every second of the time where I was actually playing out long quests and not watching my brother do it first. To be fair the N64 didn’t leave me with much and it wasn’t until I bought my Xbox did I discover pure bliss – and the realization I didn’t have to settle.

I popped Knights of the Old Republic into my Xbox on a gaff, I liked Star Wars and it looked fun, and there on the loading screen was a choice between the usual stats and upgrades that are required when you starts, personality points and whatever – but what was really shocking was that there was a choice to play a girl. As the main character. I was excited, but no where near as mind blown as I was once I’d actually finished the game (eight hours from the climax to the end, no sleep, all shaking). The plot was delightfully thought-out and thorough in every sense. There was a deep sense that the characters were actually talking to a woman who completely kicked ass. A woman I was playing. Not to mention the other implications that Bioware did amazingly well and not to spoil anything (if you haven’t played it yet, what’s wrong with you?) but the “Luke, I am your father” level of reveal during the climax of the game pretty much sealed the bad-assness of my character.

The best part was after I was done with the game, replaying as a male (and then a female a few more times), I actually found the game had more zest the first way. There was actual thought put it, like they’d actually talked to girls and asked them what they wanted. Turns out, they did.

Notice to all you game companies out there, Bioware’s full of smarty-pants who realized the easiest way in the world to appeal to a third of your consumer market is to just ask them. Turns out what most girls wanted was just a good character to play. No big-jugs-McGee, no ridiculously shallow outlook, no lame assed healing powers as the only thing available, no pink. Don’t get me wrong – some girls like pink. I, on occasion, happen to find the color okay, but that is still not a way to drag girls in. We don’t want much, which works out since that’s about as much as video game corporations are willing to give.

Though it seems the critically acclaimed success of Knights of the Old Republic, wasn’t enough to change video game companies’ mind. My excitement about grabbing up ‘Fables’ which claimed to be even more inclusive and full of crazy choices that would shape every part of your world, didn’t even include the option for a different gender. The only thing that changed for me then was that I put the box back.

I have yet to play Fables and I may never unless they make a version where I can play as a girl. It’s not that I still don’t mind playing as a guy, I preferred it in the sequel to Knights of the Old Republic (but that and Lucas’ apparent attempt at making any Star Wars related product official and giving us girls the throw-away is another story) – and I still wouldn’t trade in Double-Oh-Seven’s gender for anything, but if there’s an option and an advertisement for choice – well then, give me one!

Needless to say it’s not surprising that the games that do well in the market right now in that one little consumer branch that’s over a third now and still growing are the ones that appeal to every part of the brain. The Sims is one of the highest selling computer games out there and its entire market is pretty much picking and choosing what you want and creating your own world. Where you can have an entire Amazonian society if you want.

It’s not that I do, it’s just nice to have the option every once and a while.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be saving up for my Wii and playing my female character on my Nintendo DS’ Pokemon Pearl.