As a kid, and with a few notable exceptions, I don’t think I actually *enjoyed* many of the Sunday newspaper comics so much as I ritualistically and perplexedly plowed my way through most of them each week.
Even though its anachronistic, seemingly just-post-WWII references were often hugely mystifying to me, the comic Nancy, with its colorful minimalist and Pop Art aesthetic and its proudly obnoxious little girl protagonist, was one that always at least caught my eye as a kid.
Although I would not have used this language at the time, I was particularly stymied by the lack of relatable or empowering female representation throughout the majority of the (let’s say early 80s or so) “Sunday Funnies.” And, although I didn’t necessarily find Nancy particularly “likeable,” and also wouldn’t have used this language at the time, I guess I appreciated that Nancy wasn’t afraid to get her needs met and to take up space. Like, a lot of it. Nancy definitely got away with shit that you just did not see other little girl or women comic strip characters being able to pull off, and she was unabashed and unashamed. And, she was not at all cute about it, either.
No, Nancy wasn’t perfect. But consider some of the other female role model alternatives waving for help from the Saharan landscape of my childhood Sunday comics:
-the even-then retrograde Cathy, completely undone and reduced to a trembling pile of chocolate, rubble, sweat, tears, and ACK! by swimsuit try-ons, dates, paperwork, and seemingly everything else. Not gonna lie, Cathy completely fucked me up. There seemed no point whatsoever to growing up and having THAT to look forward to.
-Brenda Starr - was she a reporter? a secretary? a detective? - I have no idea, as her comic was like three panels of minimal storytelling mostly obscured by her waves of hair the color of Clifford the Big Red Dog, barely containable within the frame, and her eyelashes that make Kim K. look like the Before of a Latisse ad. I was SO conflicted about Brenda Starr, because she was clearly the most beautiful in all the paper, but also by far the most incredibly boring as hell - like even Prince Valiant was probably better, and he was the freaking worst.
-Broom Hilda. Enough said. Already knew women could be witches: Next.
-Blondie (and Dagwood) and Andy Capp (and Flo?) were adjacent and also extremely anachronistic strips, and thus all tumble into a giant confusing rabbit hole for me. What I remember is the surreptitious fetching of a lot of impossibly towering sandwiches and beers, Blondie’s impossible hourglass figure, and something about wearing curlers and chasing your impossible husband around with a rolling pin. Yikes.
What an annals of dysfunction and bleak map to womanhood, am I right? Truly, beyond the sneaky appeal of Nancy, and perhaps Marcie calling Peppermint Patty “sir” (Mind. Blown!), there was a deficit of anything even remotely gender norm-subversive in there.
So, I was really glad to see that Nancy has been revitalized for the 21st Century, by an anonymous woman (for the first time!) artist, no less, and with all the owning it, IDGAF, BDE that she possessed back in the day - only with references to, say, Tik Tok, rather than, like, the telegraph.
If we ever get to - safely - go to bookstores and birthday parties again, it’s worth mentioning that this book is large-format and pleasing to the eye, and it would make a great gift: a hipster coffee table book that also provides opportunities for intergenerational communication and exchange, once we can again have it!