An ode to Karen – a misjudged superhero

I’ve hated Karens since I MCed my first male strip show. Karens, for the uninitiated, are a popular meme of a pushy, entitled middle class white woman who always want to speak to the manager.

Male strip shows aren’t the most restrained of gigs. And that first one felt like galloping on horseback through the burning streets of Paris during the French Revolution. (If the disenfranchised French peasantry has been replaced by hordes of horny hairdressers from West Auckland.)

So I was already shattered when two hours in, three blondes in pleather jackets charged at me. ‘‘We want free body shots!’’ screamed the ringleader, swinging an oversized pink plastic penis like a medieval knight with his lance, ‘‘we’re VIP!’’ I bravely explained that her VIP tickets didn’t include body shots. But she lowered the penis, stabbed me in the collarbone and screamed, ‘‘WE WANT BODY SHOTS!’’

She then shouted, spat and threatened me with bad Google reviews for the next 10 minutes. Eventually I surrendered, wiped the bubblegum-flecked spit off my face, used my own credit card to buy them shots and fled for the backstage loos.

And since then, I swore I’d never, ever tolerate a Karen in my life.

Which is a bit of a problem because my oldest friend has turned into a Karen. We

were in Queenstown last week with absolutely every other school-aged family in NZ. The place was already struggling with staff shortages, but now it was fuming with so much fermented, familial fury that it made a male strip show look like a Wiggles concert. And something completely unexpected started happening.

It started in the cafe where we waited 20 minutes to get a table, only to be told nonchalantly upon sitting down that it was a 30-minute wait for coffee and 90 minutes for food. I smiled painfully. But my friend rose magisterially and said with firm politeness, ‘‘well, this is unacceptable, we should have been told while we were queueing.’’

Then she sailed out of the cafe like the royal yacht, only stopping to tell everyone queueing how long they’d be waiting.

Something even more dazzling happened at our hotel, when the manager wrongly tried to tell us we owed an extra $400 on the room. My friend stayed for a full hour, getting steadily more determined, repeatedly presenting the email confirmations until the hotel eventually backed down.

And I started to see in her a rare combination of tenacity, justice, and zerofigs-given-ness. I’d never have done what she did, even when I knew I should. I’m the person who gives in even when I’m right. I frown, pay, compose a furious email, delete the email, get overwhelmed and just never go back again.

But my friend was so full of conviction that nothing else mattered. It stoked her up, making her determined to pursue justice above embarrassment. That’s impressive on sensitive topics like money and when you’re being talked to in a way designed to make you give up your legitimate claim.

So as the week went by, I realised that maybe I’d misjudged Karens. Obviously, there are bad Karens. People who’re entitled, pigheaded, or just like treating humans like cabbage patch dolls. But I now see there are good ones too. Those who have the rare tenacity to fight for what’s right when everyone else is too embarrassed or exhausted.

So maybe they’re not always the villain, but can also be the fairy godmother of consumer justice. But as in any fairytale, they just have to learn to use their powers for good.