[Now With Photos!]
Who are you? No, I don't mean your character. Who are you?
I wonder this question every time I go to a con. I try to find a quiet spot and people watch. And my eyes are always drawn to the cosplayers: the young, the old, the exper...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The origin story.
Most anime characters have one.
It is the story of what happened before, before the hero became who she is now, before she was known, respected, recognizable. It is the story that answers the "how." How did she acquire that signature weapon? How did she learn that special move? How did she get to be so, you know, awesomely epic? For anime fans, that is usually enough. Just seeing their character living a normal life is endearing, adorable, and memorable in its simplicity.
Sometimes, the really good origin stories also answer the "why." Why does this character continue to strive for her goal, despite all the obstacles? Why did this character choose a life of danger and disaster over a peaceful, normal life? Why do they choose to be so -- let's just say it -- different?
Cosplayers, much like the characters they adore, also have origin stories. How did they get introduced to anime and manjga? How did they get hooked? How did they first learn about cosplay? And more interestingly, why do they choose to wear costumes in public?
Cat has given careful thought to the answers to these questions, not just in relation to others, but herself. As a quasi-famous podcaster and blogger in her nerd circles, she has been asked to speak and write about the culture of cosplay multiple times. Every time, she forces herself to answer the question many cosplayers would rather brush off: Why am I dressed like this?
Her answer is a complex one, rooted in shame and a quest for self-identity.
Not the kind of shame that drew most of us to anime and cosplay. We were losers in middle school or high school; we found other like-minded losers; we bought anime boxes at the now-defunct geek heaven Suncoast; we refined our tastes; we grew obsessed; we bought or made costumes. Some parts of this common, community-wide origin story are also Cat's story, but her shame is not as one-dimensional. Hers is the kind of shame rooted in the questions that have puzzled many characters and their human creators and fans forever. What is home? Who am I? Where do I fit in?
She knows these answers now, but it took her many, many years and many, many cosplays to find them.
It is a hot June day. St. Louis summers are notorious: from late May to early September, area residents are held in a tight grip, and that grip is sweltering, smelling, and swimming in its own sweat. Typically, there is a progression to this misery, in which the peak is typically not felt until mid-August. However, there are exceptions, always exceptions. Like this June day, and Carmen Sandiego is getting out of my car.
We are standing at the tip-top of Art Hill next to the St. Louis Art Museum, and Carmen is not dressed for the weather. Her wide-brimmed, felt hat is tight against her head. Pleather combat boots reach her knees. Her black gloves are lined with white fleece. A belted trench coat reaches her calves. The sun is directly overhead, and the only shade is being cast by the proud, looming statue of Crusader King Louis IX and his mount. Young families, solitary art students, and hipster couples are milling about on their way into the museum, and their reactions range to peeks over the shoulder to blank stares. I can't blame them. Carmen stands out. She is a cartoon character, with blacks too black, reds too red, and yellows too yellow compared to the dying, dusty grass and brown dirt covering Art Hill.
