Ugly Ducklings: the modern geek myth

We need to talk about high school.

When I was younger, we nerdy types were the awkward kids, and I’m sure I don’t need to explain what that means to you. I don’t need to illustrate sitting alone in the library during lunch period. I don’t need to describe evenings and weekends in chat rooms or playing Magic. You remember drawing up primitive design documents for the dream RPG you and your best friend were going to make, instead of going on these mythical camping trips or playing sports. You remember being called weirdo, or fuckwit, or faggot. You know what it meant to be a nerd, a geek, when we were younger. 

You probably also remember the talk about how one day it was all going to be so, so much different. Parents, guidance counselors, teachers told us that when we grew up, and we got out of high school, maybe a little ways into college or after college, the skills and personality traits we were honing this entire time were going to finally come out to shine. While all the popular kids, the normal kids, were gorging themselves on vapid pop culture and pointless drama, a metamorphosis was going on inside of us, to turn from these awkward caterpillars into butterflies. Hyper-intelligent, financially and socially successful, rock star butterflies. The dream might’ve been to start a tech company, or become a writer or an artist, or an actor, or—well, hell, you know what you were going to be, right?

We knew we were better than the people who shunned us, who put us down and stuffed us into these corners and in some cases, lockers. We were smarter than the popular kids. We were more respectful toward women, and we were going to make amazing husbands one day while the football captain was spending every night slamming a six-pack of Budweiser after his shift at the construction yard. Where we found our entertainment, it was obscure, thoughtful—too deep or too different from what was ‘cool’, what was ‘mainstream’, to find larger popularity. That’s why we were the audience, and not them. We rejected the mainstream, by virtue of being rejected.

For some of us, maybe the dream came true. For the rest, something definitely did not work out the way we were told it would.

That’s who we were. Who is the geek today?

Let’s be really honest with ourselves. When you think of ComiCon, or Blizzcon, or the midnight launch of Iron Man 3 or The Hobbit, who’s attending? Go smaller. Think of the game store, the comic and card store. The D&D group. The weekend party. The online gaming clan. Shit, the online gaming lobby. There’s a lot of ‘normal’ people there now too, but look at your friends. We are overweight, or underweight. We are badly groomed and badly dressed-- so much that the terms ‘neckbeard’ and ‘fedora’ have entered the lexicon as shorthand for entire personality types. Supposedly to become amazing husbands one day, now there is no demographic more vocally hateful and judgmental toward women than gamers and comic book nerds.

We can all name someone we know who’s approaching their thirties, or already entered them, that still lives with their parents, and shows no signs of pursuing a meaningful career or even a hobby other than their geek interests. A hobby based on producing, rather than consuming. We no longer reject the mainstream—we are the mainstream. You proudly announce that you don’t own a television or listen to the radio, ever, but you still spend over six hours a day in front of a screen of some kind—and that’s being conservative—taking in all the Reddit and video games and pirated HBO shows you can. We are the consumer drones that we always used to vilify. Our personalities, our entire lives, are centered on the consumption of media and products. Games, movies, comics, merchandise. All consumption, no production. Our brand loyalty is the envy of fast food and candy companies. Some of us haven’t read a book in years but our vitriolic argument about the finer points of Skyrim and Mass Effect 3 would make Roger Ebert blush, God rest his soul.

While our supposed redeeming qualities have all flipped polarity, the things that we used to hate about ourselves have only intensified. In high school we didn’t care about the sports event over the weekend, or the new Christina Aguilera album. Now, I have a friend who is so disconnected from the outside world that he doesn’t even keep up with the things he enjoys—a new movie or video game based on his favorite superhero is in the works, and he hears about it secondhand from me or one of his other friends who actually keep a Facebook and read some kind of news. A mass shooting occurs at the premiere of The Dark Knight Rises and he is surprised by the news three days later. It never occurs to him that his separation from the tribe is going to result in him one day being left behind, to one day sit down at the computer and realize those of us who escaped from the bottom of the social food chain no longer have time for him. Or maybe it does, but nothing changes.

I still enjoy many of the same things I did when I was younger, albeit with what I like to think is a more refined palate. I still play games. I’d still rather be reading than drinking (most of the time). I’ll still argue about the central themes and plot structure of X-Men 2 with my best friend. The thing is that now when I’m making new friends, what used to be an indicator of a healthy shared interest now serves as a warning label. I am scared to talk about video games or comic books on my social media accounts. I don’t want to be associated with the kind of people who enjoy those things. Other People see geeks as misogynistic, maladjusted, malnourished layabouts. We have no grace and no future. 

Speaking as someone who regularly spends time on both sides of the fence: they have every reason to. They’re right.

Adolescence colored by frustration with the opposite sex dovetails into deep-seated resentment. A lifetime of social awkwardness turns into adult self-exile. A life built around things, worlds, products, rather than people or experiences, elevates the value of those objects into deific significance.

When you boil it down like that, it’s actually kind of simple; but then that begs the question of where the guidance counselor’s fables came from in the first place. Are we a new problem? Are we the first generation to debunk the tadpole theory, or are this generation’s bronies just yesterday’s trekkies? Are we a new failure or a reiteration? Why didn’t we turn from ugly ducklings into swans?