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I remember the day I decided to hate Broadway. It was in 2011, and I had just moved to New York City for grad school. It was a fancy, intimidating graduate program in a fancy, intimidating city. But I was determined to “make it” in New York, so when a group of classmates were talking about theater before class one day, I decided to join the conversation.
I had never actually seen a Broadway show in New York, but had seen a few on tour: Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat on a sixth-grade field trip in Detroit; The Phantom of the Opera my sophomore year of college in Kalamazoo, Michigan; The Lion King, in Japanese, when studying abroad in Tokyo. I knew Broadway. I was cultured. I knew enough to join the conversation and make new friends, at least.
I don’t remember what shows they were talking about, or the playwrights, or the actors. I just remember the pause. They had asked me if I was into Broadway, and I had said “Yes.” Then they asked me what I had seen, and I told them. Then the conversation stopped, if only for a moment. It was enough for me to realize that my answer was insufficient at best, and appallingly wrong at worst. It was a mercy when someone put our silence out of its misery.
“So you’re … not into Broadway,” one of them said, and continued talking without me. I imagine a television camera slowly zooming in on my face for one minute … two minutes … three minutes … while I sat there nodding, pretending to follow along.
From that day on, it was “Fuck Broadway.”
Broadway was boring, elitist, and expensive to the point of inaccessible. Broadway was what snobs pretended to enjoy to signify their class and feel a sense of superiority. Broadway was for rich white people and those who aspired to become them, and I wanted nothing to do with it. And I continued feeling that way for years, until my best friend Daryn—a lifelong Broadway fan—decided to buy me Broadway tickets every year for my birthday until I learned to love it. And I’m glad she did.
I didn’t hate Broadway—I hated my experience with the fandom. I hated being condescended to. I hated feeling stupid. I hated feeling unwelcome. Being a fan of something is easy, but being part of a fandom? That somehow feels entirely different, even though it’s not.
The mistake I made is a common one: I conflated a fandom with the art that the fandom loves. I wouldn’t judge a Broadway show by its merits, but by the worst its fandom had to offer. And ultimately, I blamed Broadway for “creating” those bad behaviors.
But, of course, entertainment and fandom are more complicated than that.
When I hear the word fandom, it comes with a negative connotation, and for good reason: Fandom is often preceded by the word toxic, and tends to include gatekeeping, over-obsession, and incessant arguments. The bickering is more than enough to drive new fans—or casual ones—out of the space, which is exactly what rabid fans want. Toxic fans struggle for ownership of who can be called a Broadway fan, or a Star Wars fan, or a “real” gamer. Nerd fandoms in particular are known for being toxic, which I find ironic given my belief that gatekeeping is the exact opposite of being a nerd. Instead of wanting to share what you love, gatekeeping comes from a place of insecurity that places one’s self-worth in the ability to reign over that thing. Gatekeeping is a glitch in the system, a maladaptation that creates fans who act like monsters.
But criticisms of fandoms can be just as misguided. Take this tweet that criticizes sports, from my fellow Atlantic columnist Tom Nichols. The argument is simple: Sports are a distraction that bring out the worst in people. But the argument is also incredibly reductionist: Sure, fandoms can absolutely be toxic, but a toxic fandom isn’t necessarily an indictment of the object of affection—it’s an indictment of those who misuse it. One can drown in water; that doesn’t mean water is inherently bad. One could be a domestic abuser; that doesn’t mean relationships are abusive. One can misquote the Bible; that doesn’t mean everything in Christianity is wrong.
Toxic fandoms are typically people behaving badly, not the object of their affection behaving badly. More importantly, we can enjoy good art without diving into toxicity. I would argue that’s exactly what most of us do. Toxic fans are just the loudest voices in the room, hoping to drown everyone else out.
If we resign ourselves to believing things like “All fans are toxic,” we only isolate ourselves from those like-minded fans and newcomers who actually are welcoming and concede social ownership to toxic gatekeepers. Similarly, if we, like Tom, choose to believe that a popular entertainment is dumb because parts of its fandom behave badly, we’re making the same mistake I made when I hated Broadway: placing blame in the wrong place and forfeiting enjoyment of something we may love. Worse, we can insult the majority of welcoming and well-adjusted fans by pretending they don’t exist. And as a nonwhite nerd who grew up battling enough stereotypes that I wrote a book about it: Fans exist outside of the clichés that people tend to imagine.
Eight years after the day I decided to hate Broadway, I went to see The Prom. Halfway through the musical, I was already in love with the story, its actors, and its music, and I wanted to join another conversation with Broadway fans who might love it too. So I sent an excited text message to a fellow fan. “It’s intermission,” I said. “And all I wanna say is that The Prom is my favorite Broadway musical of all time.”
There was a pause again, this time in the form of the three-dots animation that indicated they were typing, and it was again a mercy when their response put me out of my misery: “lol, we have very different tastes in shows … not really interested in seeing it.”
But there will always be people who love the same things you do. They want to welcome you; they want to talk about those things; they want to buy you tickets for your birthday each year. So this time, when I felt shot down by a real Broadway fan, I shrugged.
“Cool. Good talk,” I replied.
And I went back to my best friend. Daryn was happy to have me, because she’s the best Broadway fan I know. I loved the rest of the show.
***
My favorite reader email this week came from Will, who actually sparked this whole topic. After last week’s essay about “Natalies” and “Kileys,” we had a great conversation about the role of fandoms, which he started by saying, “Initially I assumed I was a Natalie … I love receiving new recommendations, and have a variety of interests. But I am deeply mistrustful of recommendations that appear to come from a place of fandom.”
Most of us can remember a bad encounter with a rabid fan base, and it might’ve turned you off to the thing you wanted to like. I hope you don’t let them win, though. Love what you love. There are other great people who love the same things, too.
Daryn’s favorite sport is baseball, so this week’s book giveaway is in her honor: Moneyball, by Michael Lewis. It’s a No. 1 New York Times best seller and was adapted into a movie starring Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, and the late Philip Seymour Hoffman. Just send me an email telling me how many years you think you would survive a near-extinction-level event, like a zombie apocalypse or A Quiet Place– or War of the Worlds–type situation. You know what I mean—facing the general collapse of civilization with only your resourcefulness and will to live. I’ll send the book to the first person who hits my inbox. You can reach me at humansbeing@theatlantic.com, or find me on Twitter at @JordanMCalhoun.