#I spent an entire 5 hour flight thinking about this stupid comic

[anstarwar]

Hardcase intimidation tactics

…Rex hates inspection days

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Based on this post

[girl-with-the-flaxen-hair]

A “Modern Love” Reject

I got broken up with, moved cross country, and fell in love — all during a pandemic.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a pandemic will inevitably make or break a relationship, or, at the very least, it’s a joke universally repeated throughout the COVID crisis. I suppose there is some validity to the concept  — add stress and prolonged periods of isolation to two people and a volatile chemical reaction seems entirely likely. Not for me, though. My relationship wasn’t ending because of a pandemic.

It was ending because I was moving across the country — during a pandemic. 

He was a college boyfriend who had seamlessly transitioned to a postgrad one. When I moved to New York City after college, he spent the first night with me sleeping on my unfurnished room, a full-sized sheet-less mattress on the floor. He was still attending college six hours away, but he’d visit every other weekend. Immediately, and nearly effortlessly, we fashioned a mosaic of our relationship within the fabric of the city. We discovered a coffee shop near Washington Square Park that put all other cappuccinos to shame. We went bar hopping in the East Village and ate pizza slices on benches at 2 A.M. We made our stomachs hurt trying to find the best wings in the West Village. We would laugh and laugh at UCB improv shows then split slices of cheesecake at Juniors (are you sensing a food-related theme here?) — happily and sleepily riding the subway uptown back to mine.  

It was wonderful, but hardly real life. Real life consisted of 18 hour days on film sets, a nearly 3 hour commute to and from Brooklyn every day, living paycheck to paycheck in a small apartment in Hamilton Heights often visited by a rogue cockroach or occasional mouse. In real life, New York never felt like home. I never felt the ingenue-like emotional catharsis of riding the subway, never looked at the cityscape with wonder and awe, never experienced a sense of belonging that my peers so keenly felt. 

I grew increasingly anxious in New York, especially in the colder months. I began to resent the lack of greenery, the clubbing social scene riddled with blackout finance bros, the sounds of screaming matches and techno music outside my apartment at 4 A.M. The pandemic rendered New York City “dead” to many, but to me, its appeal had passed away long before COVID. 

Newly unemployed and painfully lonely after three months of isolation in my apartment, the decision came easily. I was moving, pandemic be damned. 

The news did not come as a complete shock to my boyfriend, who had been made privy to my unhappiness with NYC-living about a year prior. And serendipitously, he had been given an opportunity to move abroad for a prestigious job opportunity. This was great! We both had exciting prospects on the horizon! Besides, we had done long distance for two years, what was a little more? 

A lot, apparently. It soon became clear that my boyfriend had no interest in eventually moving to the west coast, and every interest in moving to Europe and/or staying in NYC. And, a bit more surprisingly, no interest in committing to me. 

And thus our relationship went into flux — broken up, yet not — jointly deciding to take advantage of any and all time we had left together. The end date seemed interminably unclear — I struggled to find a job or an apartment, his fate abroad left up to the chance of the international travel-during-a-pandemic gods. 

We went through to motions, but it was already over. I daydreamed about my equivocal new life often, a life far away from the concrete jungle, away from the boy who no longer saw a future between us. New people, new friends, fresh start. I was technically broken up with, right? I was going through a break-up. But I felt no sadness, no self-pity. I was too delightfully drunk with the promise of possibility.

Then, towards the end of the summer, things suddenly fell into place — almost comically so. I found an apartment in Los Angeles, then a job — all in the span of three days. My now ex-boyfriend received news that his job was in fact happening, so he booked a one-way flight to Austria. 

We sat on a bench and reflected on our relationship — most fondly, on our warm and wonderful weekends in the city. We said goodbye, and I cried. Then I went home and shopped for furniture online, my new California address written on a post-it-note besides my bed. 

It’s four weeks later. I’m at that California address sipping red wine on my porch (a porch!!) It’s four-dollar Malbec from a Trader Joes walking distance from my apartment. You can actually buy wine in the store — something you can’t do in New York, a discovery that continues to absolutely delight me. 

I am surprised by how my friends and family comment on my “bravery” at moving cross-country. “You don’t know anyone!” “You’ve never lived on the West Coast!” I laugh at them in response. Because it feels far from brave. It feels stupid, and it feels like an adventure. 

There’s a guy on my porch drinking wine with me. He’s from work. I don’t compare him to my ex. He’s too wonderfully new, and inexplicably, I want to know everything about him. He is older than me and seems to know exactly who he is. We’ve both lived in New York. We both dream of being writers. He is so funny that my cheeks hurt from laughing. 

We’d finished work at 7 P.M., and suddenly it’s 3:30 A.M. How? It feels like it’s only been five minutes. I walk him to his car, and I lie awake until 5 A.M. with intoxicating adrenaline coarsing throughout my body. 

Two weeks later, we’re hiking up to the Hollywood sign. It’s hilariously cliché, and I can hardly believe this is my life now. “I don’t want you to idealize me,” he tells me. I shake my head — pained. I don’t either. The question had been surfacing in my mind throughout our time together. Was I sacrificing my independence — an independence most ardently proven by moving alone cross-country — by being with someone else?

Some may think so. But I’ll know what’s more true. That just as my ex was not New York, this guy was not Los Angeles. That by pursuing my dreams in a pandemic I had shown who I was —  truly and fully. 

We reached the top, and he held my hand. I looked around, slyly knowing I would remember this moment. I would remember the lingering feelings of loneliness from COVID isolation being shedded like snake skin. I would remember the quiet feeling of effortlessly falling in love. But most of all, I would remember that Los Angeles was my home, and I made it that way. 

[sound--life]

I have had this written out for a couple weeks now, but in honor of all of Time’s Persons of the Year, today seems like a good day to post it. Below the cut is the story of my interactions with a certain anime English voice actor, and why he and I really DO NOT get along. 

I’m lucky. Unlike most women I know, I have never been sexually assaulted. I can’t recall a specific time when I was catcalled or harassed. I’ve been called nasty names online, which is sadly all too common, but none of it was sexually charged. My own experience isn’t even violent, but it contains elements of manipulation that I, thankfully, was never caught by.

The first weekend in June of 2011, my best friend Sam and I drove to Sandusky, Ohio for Colossalcon. Colossal is an anime convention, and us being huge nerds and having become friends because of anime, and we jumped at the offer to room with some of her casual friends at a hotel down the road. I was particularly excited because a popular English voice actor, let’s call him Dan, was going to be there. He and I had first met at Anime Central in Chicago in 2010, and funnily enough, we were on the same flight to Japan just a week after ACen. I had noticed him as our flight was boarding, and while I was too anxious to say hi, I had been enough of a creep to sneak a picture and text all my friends. By the next day, he’d gotten wind of it via Facebook, and he told me to say hi the next time something funny like that happened.

Flash forward to Colossal 2011. After waiting in the autograph line for Dan for a bit, I finally got up to him. He flashed his usual smile and said hello. After I handed over my item to be signed, I said, “Hey, do you remember about a year ago when some random girl saw you at the airport in San Francisco? And you shared a flight but she didn’t say hi? And she took a picture of you? Yeah, that was me.”

His eyes lit up. “Yeah, I remember. That was you?” He laughed. “Well, hi there.” Then his smile changed a little. “Do you play soccer?”

“Uh, no?” I said, confused. “I mean, I played volleyball in high school, but not anymore. I ran the Illinois Marathon back in April, though?”

“Oh, so you’re a runner then.” He laughed again. “Well you have great legs, my runner.”

I blinked, a little taken aback. “Oh, thanks, haha.” I said, laughing a little. I asked for a picture, and while my friend juggled with the camera and Dan had his arm around my shoulders, I felt almost nervous. Picture taken, I thanked him, and he said, “See you later, runner.”

At this point, Dan had been working to start a fanclub for his work. I’m not entirely sure of how it happened, but somehow Sam and I had ended up roped into it, being one of the 5-6 people who were working to “recruit” people and spread the word about the group. I was a busy college student at the time, though, so while I was interested enough, my actual participation was somewhat lacking. It’s the thought that counts, I guess.

Dan had a panel later that evening, and Sam and I went. After it was done, a small crowd of fans gathered near him to ask for photos and autographs. Sam and I waited near the edge, patient, as we wanted to get a picture with both of us with him. When we walked up to him, he smiled and said, “Hey, there’s my runner!” As we took the picture, Sam said, “You know, Alison and I here are two of the people working with ——- on your fanclub stuff.”

Dan’s interest was piqued. “Really? Hey, hang back a bit when this is done. I wanna chat with you guys.”

At this point, every anime fan alive would be having their “SENPAI NOTICED ME” moment, and we were no different. Giddy, we waited at the edge of the room for him to wrap up, and then he came over to us. He asked if we wanted to go sit in the lobby, and we said sure. He ended up sitting in one chair, and Sam in another. I sat close to them on the floor.

At first we just chatted about his fangroup. He seemed very excited about it, and he told us some of the things he wanted to do with it. We added our own thoughts, and it was great. Then he asked about how we’d   enjoyed the convention so far.

“It’s great!” I said. “It’s even better because it’s actually my birthday on Monday, so it’s kind of like a birthday weekend adventure.”

“Your birthday? How old?” Dan asked. I told him I was going to be 20. He smiled and said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” In a couple minutes, he was back with a small glass from the bar. Pink, fruity-looking, with a little ice. “For the birthday girl,” he said, smiling as he handed it to me.“

"What’s in it?” I asked. I knew it was alcohol, obviously, but I was feeling wary about this. Sam didn’t have a drink, and I knew she was carefully watching this whole thing, but it wasn’t lost on me that a man 8 years older than me had just given me alcohol that I had not seen prepared. I may have been a fangirl, but I wasn’t stupid. This was odd.

Dan just waved his hand and smiled, “Oh, ya know. It’s good, I bet. Nothing crazy.” I was not one to turn down free alcohol, and my defenses were already on alert, so I sipped the drink slowly as we continued to chat. I don’t remember a lot of the specifics, but I do know that Dan mentioned that when he was in college; he had a girlfriend who lived a few hours away, but he would drive there every weekend so they could “read books” together, as he put it, complete with a wink.

After about an hour, we mentioned we had to be getting going, as I had to drive us and part of our group back to our hotel. “Oh, you’re not staying here?” Dan asked, confused.

“No, by the time any of us planned to go, all of the rooms here were long sold out,” Sam said. “We’re staying in a creepy room in which EVERYTHING is covered in teddy bears.” (You guys should see the pictures.)

“Well, if you guys want, I have plenty of room in my room if you guys wanted to stay here instead,” Dan said. And that, dear children, is the exact moment that I really and truly understood everything that had happened up to that point. Yes, a 27-year-old convention guest, a man with rising fame and influence, had made comments about my legs being nice, bought me alcohol knowing I was only 19, and invited me and my friend to sleep in his hotel room, all in the span of about five hours. Senpai was officially a fucking creep.

“Oh, no, thanks,” I said. “Our group has to go in two cars, and I’m the driver of one, so it’s fine. We’re fine, really.”

“Okay, then. Safe drive. But remember, my room is always an option,” Dan told us as he waved goodbye.

Listen, I’m aware that I was an adult, fully capable of giving consent. And Dan was an adult, fully allowed to pursue someone of legal age. I get that. But that’s where it stops. I was a convention attendee, and he was an industry guest. There’s a power imbalance there, magnified by the huge age gap. He bought me alcohol, which anyone knows is the foolproof way to make someone more relaxed and easily persuaded (except me, whose social anxiety comes in handy when it comes to not trusting anyone’s intentions). Worst of all, he invited two young women, two attendees, to sleep in his hotel room. Besides being fucking gross and manipulative, what kind of breach of guest protocol was that? And he knew that I was essentially a volunteer for his fan group – that’s not an appropriate way to act towards someone who is basically a co-worker. From that night on, I knew that I had to keep Dan at a distance. I could manage to be cordial, but there was never going to be a chance for anything other than that.

Dan and I managed to stay relatively friendly over the next couple years, but I always had that day lingering in the back of my mind with every interaction we had, online or in person. We’ve only ever seen each other once since that night – Colossalcon 2012, a year later. He was friendly to us and would acknowledge that he knew us more than an average con attendee, but kept his distance for (what I suspected and pretty much had confirmed later) other reasons, which weren’t malicious. Over the years, though, I witnessed a gradual shift in how he presented himself online. He seemed eager to play the devil’s advocate on sensitive issues, and some of his posts made it clear that his problematic behavior was unlikely to be a one-time lapse in judgement.

We had a somewhat public falling-out in late October 2016. He had shared a comic that basically questioned why a woman was allowed to dress sexy and seen as empowered, but when men drew or designed sexy women for pop culture, they were seen as pigs. In a few comments we made to each other, I expressed my disagreement with that sentiment, and he essentially said that I and other women were being overdramatic. In his last comment, he said that he had more experience in the world than me, and he called me a child. Furious, I addressed each of his outrageous points one by one, particularly his idea that I was somehow a child. I ended my comment with a brief but very clear message: that he was not as innocent as he liked to think, seeing as he knowingly bought me alcohol when I was 19 and invited me to sleep in his hotel room.

I was content to let it rest, but he decided to keep going. Not on Facebook, which made sense –why let the public in on his dirty laundry? Nor did he e-mail, which he easily could have, since he definitely had my information. No, he decided to send me DIRECT MESSAGES ON INSTAGRAM. Which means he had to look me up on there, since I know he hadn’t followed me before. He called me cynical, rude, and “dark.” He said that our interaction back at Colossalcon was strictly friendly and a group setting (I disagree with his idea of “group,” especially when he invited both female parties of said group to his room, but whatever). He also said that he wasn’t in a great place because he was going through things in his personal life. He ended with, “I’m sorry I offended you,” which would have held some weight if he hadn’t spent the rest of the message 1. insulting me and 2. making excuses for his actions, which he admitted did take place.

Obviously, his name isn’t Dan. And a good deal of you probably could figure out who this person is, either by already hearing snippets from me or just knowing general details about Dan’s work. I’m positive most of you know who he actually is. I could use his real name, obviously, and I originally wrote this with his actual name instead of a placeholder. Believe it or not, I’m not looking for a fight. Were his intentions truly just friendly? Perhaps, but that’s not at all how they came across, and he should have known better than to do any of the things he did. I interacted with another voice actor that weekend in casual company, and he was just as friendly without being at all imposing – he was gracious and listened to us and respected us. He’s got a reputation for being a bit overly-touchy, but I never felt creeped out or like I was a target, especially when compared to the encounter with Dan.

Because that’s how Dan had made me feel. Like a target. Like I was some silly teenage girl, starstruck enough and desperate enough for attention that I would give senpai anything he wanted just to feel like I was part of the cool kids. It didn’t make me feel violated – it made me pissed off. I was angry that he had written me off, that he had tested me out to see how easily-manipulated I was, and that there was nothing stopping him from doing this to someone else. Maybe he would find that girl who was desperate enough for validation that she would do anything for him. Maybe he has since then.

It’s only been with the emergence of the #MeToo movement that I’ve been able to properly sort out my feelings about this and word it how I want. I don’t want him to lose bookings or stop being invited to conventions. It’s enough for me that he knows that I’m out there, aware and unafraid. He already knows my feelings on the matter – I made them abundantly clear in that Facebook comment. I just want him to understand that he doesn’t get to do whatever the hell he wants because he’s got this tiny scrap of fame. I want him to understand that people will always remember how you make them feel, and I will never forget that night when I experienced what it truly means to be a woman in this world.