Anyone who knows me well enough is aware that I’m probably one of the most aggressively nerdy people you’ll ever encounter. I’ll read pretty much any book I can get my hands on, ranging from sci-fi and fantasy, to literally any piece of classic literature you can think of, to a translation of the Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead, and I’ll probably be ridiculously enthusiastic about it no matter what. A great performance of an opera or some piece that I love will fill me up to the brim with so much emotion that I can hardly handle speaking because it makes me feel so alive. The Star Wars movies are some of my all-time favorites, and I have a deep emotional connection to both Spock and Bones from the original Star Trek series. I look for ways to flaunt my Hogwarts house when I can (shoutout to all the other Ravenclaws out there), and my dad and I have a signature dance move to the Doctor Who title theme. And, of course, I have a massive obsession with comic books that could easily be considered unhealthy.

But as much as I love all of these things, it can really suck. Like, a lot.

Sure, there are great things about it. The amount of random historical facts and weird literary and musical jokes I receive from people on practically a daily basis fuel my life force, and there’s definitely a part of me that loves being That Guy™ who throws in random fun facts into conversations about historical figures and events. And finding another person who’s equally as obsessed with even one of my geeky interests is a wonderful experience, because it’s an opportunity to rant about that One Thing™ for an obnoxious amount of time, and a person to geek out with as soon as something new is revealed about that One Thing™.

But here’s the problem:

The majority of the items on this list are not marketed to me.

The historical and musical stuff? The books I read? Sure. That’s a simple enough thing to handle. However, that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t suck that I have to go out of my way to learn about prominent women, people of color, and members of the LGBTQ+ community on my own, rather than learning about them in classes during my grade school career like I should have.

But Star Wars? Star Trek? Doctor Who? Comics? No way.

Yes, there are products made for women that are related to each of these things. Yes, there are female characters involved in all of them. Yes, these characters are amazing. But are they ever the centerpiece of the plot? Rarely. Are they a major part of the marketing of the product? Not often. And even when they are, there is so much backlash from (generally male) members of the fan base that is quickly incredibly frustrating.

I don’t mean to say that these franchises in themselves aren’t progressive, or that they don’t do progressive things. Episode VII of Star Wars and the upcoming Rogue One movie each feature incredibly strong female leads in much more prominent positions than women have ever held in the previous films. The casts are gradually becoming more racially diverse, and there have been hints from cast members that Episode VIII may reveal that one of the main characters is a member of the LGBTQ+ community. The original series of Star Trek featured the first black woman who played a character other than a maid in television history. Even that early on, racial diversity was a focus of the creative team (even if the show ultimately was still predominately white) - the character Pavel Chekov was added in season 2 to demonstrate that eventually, the world could move past the Cold War. The latest of the new series of films, Star Trek Beyond, revealed that one of the main characters, Hikaru Sulu, is gay. Doctor Who always has a female companion who leads the show alongside the current Doctor, and the addition of nonwhite and LGBTQ+ characters in each episode has been gradually growing. And I could write an entire article on the important political strides comic books have made since their creation (and probably will -- keep your eyes out).

But why can’t I find a Rey action figure in the piles of ones of Finn and Poe? Why are Uhura’s plotlines in the current Star Trek films constantly centered on her love life, rather than her top-notch linguistic skills? Why does the Doctor’s companion need to be saved almost every episode, even though she’s always clearly smart and capable on her own? Why aren't Black Widow and Scarlet Witch included on Avengers products? And why did I have to wait this long for a Wonder Woman movie?

And, most importantly, why do other fans, and often, creators and producers, get mad at me when I ask these questions?

I love each of these franchises. They are a major aspect of who I am as a person. But it hurts when the people running them make it clear to me that they don’t care as much about me as I do about them. And it hurts even more, when other fans tell me I shouldn’t be upset about it -- that these aren’t franchises that should mean so much to me. That these are products for men and boys, not for women like me -- that women exist in these worlds for the purpose of saving, as prizes, and nothing more. That I should be satisfied with the small slice that’s given to me through Jessica Jones and the Wonder Woman movie -- that that should be more than enough to fill my hunger for representation, despite the decades of underrepresentation and invisibility before them.

As one might expect, this phenomenon is by far the most prominent in the world of comic books -- or, at least, that is where I experience it the most. And although, yes, representation has improved in this industry, that does not mean that the problem is “fixed.” Storylines that feature female characters are often not written/drawn/edited/inked/etc. by female creators - according to a 2014 study done by Tim Hanley, a prominent comic book historian, and researcher, male creators outnumber female creators approximately nine-to-one at Marvel and DC and their subsidiary companies. And, I know from my personal readership experience, that, although a good number of the female-centric storylines I read are written and/or drawn by women, a decent amount of them still have all-male production teams. According to the full lists of characters that have appeared in comics at least once since the companies’ creation, only 29.3% of DC’s roster and 24.7% of Marvel’s are female. And this trend continues despite the fact that recent market data shows that women make up between 46.67% and 53% of comic book readership.

But that’s a topic requiring its own article.

I love being a geek girl. And I love to see myself reflected in characters I love in the things I read and the movies I watch. And I love to surround myself with other geek girls, as well as with male geeks who are sympathetic to my frustrations with the numerous struggles that come along with being considered a “geek girl.” I love tearing through my weekly stack of comics, and I love to turn on Star Trek when I need a laugh, or Star Wars when I need to escape, or Doctor Who when I need all logic to be thrown out the window. I love digging through encyclopedias and databases and primary source materials to find every scrap of information I can about an event, or a person, and I love the hunger for more that comes with each new discovery. But it can be increasingly frustrating that, whenever a stride is made to further include women in these communities, members of the fanbases emerge from the woodwork to inform us that we are not welcome as fans and that we are not welcome as creators. And, frankly, I am tired. Having to constantly fight for the right to be included, and the right for others to be included, in a community that I love so much, is exhausting, especially when I know that it shouldn’t be nearly as difficult a task as it’s been made into. When the problem could be stopped if everyone just stopped yelling incoherently and listened to each other. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop fighting for our place, not by any stretch of the imagination. Because, the fact of the matter is, we are here, and we will be heard. We will be included. And we will not be stopped.