On April 22nd, a TikToker posted a video of herself posing for photos in the stands of a baseball game. The onscreen text reads: “Watch my confidence disappear after these random girls make fun of me for taking pics”. The two girls behind her flip off the camera, whisper to each other, laugh, and yell “lame”, among other things.
The video currently has 51.1 million views and 8.4 million likes. Comments are turned off.
The girls in the background were labeled bullies and swiftly doxxed, with their full names and social media accounts made public. So-called internet detectives believed they found one of the girls’ employers and left hundreds of negative reviews on the business’s Google profile. It later came out that she didn’t even work there. The ex-boyfriend of one of the girls was prompted to address the situation on his TikTok account after he was doxxed. He claimed that his own family was being attacked online as a result of the original video.
When TikTok saw bullies, it decided to bully back. Social media users became judge, jury, and executioner.
Of course, this isn’t the first time this has happened. There was West Elm Caleb, whose poor track record with women was seen as ample evidence that he should be fired from his job. Couch Guy was deemed insufficiently happy to see his long-distance girlfriend and assumed to be cheating. And I’m sure there will be countless more individuals whose supposed shortfalls are used as justification for harassment.
I’m not saying that these individuals are innocent of any wrongdoing (aside from Couch Guy; protect Couch Guy), but the reactions have been disproportionate to the offenses.
In cases like these, the characteristics of being “extremely online”— decontextualized judgments, skewed sense of reality, a desire for moral superiority— are funneled into a desire for destruction.
Social media users are eager for this sort of content. Vox’s Rebecca Jennings describes this inclination: “Our collective thirst for gossip and controversy, particularly during and post-lockdown, has trained many to actively seek out content that aggravates us and immediately grasp onto its most extreme interpretation”. Tech companies want us to stay on their platforms longer, and controversies help achieve that. These conflicts also encourage engagement (such as likes and comments) and content creation (like reaction videos, commentary, and parodies). Jennings discusses the reaction to these conflicts, stating, “It’s a genre of content I like to call ‘Type of Guy’ syndrome, where people on the internet create a mostly fictional straw man to represent a certain kind of person they dislike and then project it onto the one in front of them.”
Of course, I won’t pretend to be innocent of this exact behavior. It feels good to pile onto someone you don’t know and will likely never meet. You’re insulated by anonymity and sheer numbers. They are a public persona (whether by choice or not) and you are one of the hundreds, thousands, even millions who are watching and judging them. With this protection, we lose empathy and any sense of accountability. Why feel guilty when your anger is morally correct, as confirmed by the masses?
During the pandemic, I found myself carrying a proverbial pitchfork. A popular fashion influencer, Bestdressed (AKA Ashley), had posted a short film to YouTube. In it, she narrated her first few months of living in New York City, and the loneliness and depression that came with the worldwide pandemic that soon followed.
The comments accused her of romanticizing the pandemic, being tone-deaf, and flouting public health guidelines. Commenters also dug up additional ammo for critique. People posted her full name (she only went by her first name online) and found that her parents worked in academia. They assumed that her family was wealthy and accused her of pretending to be broke for clout. A since-deleted Amazon fashion collaboration was rehashed. “Bestdressed is problematic” videos began popping up, describing other ways in which Ashley fell short of the personality and ideals she portrayed online.
I had been a longtime fan of Ashley’s, somewhat proud that I’d begun following her when she was getting less than 100K views per video (towards the end of her YouTube career, she was receiving millions). But, with my life stagnant during the pandemic, I began to turn against her and sought out this critical content with glee. Of course, I didn’t post disparaging videos or comments myself. But I gave my views and attention to those who did.
With Ashley, I fell victim to the “Type of Guy” syndrome that Jennings described. I’d known privileged students at NYU who were filthy rich but pretended to be broke. I channeled my anger toward that group of people into this new straw woman. And while I was stuck quarantining in my suburban Chicago home, I fumed. How dare she enjoy the same places and things that I once did as an undergrad in the city?
Finally, I disliked her because she reminded me of myself: an upper-middle-class 20-something who moved to New York City with dreams of building a glamorous career and living a more interesting life. I projected what I saw as the worst parts of myself onto her. Rather than face my own contradictions and shortcomings, I fanned the flames that were engulfing a stranger.
Despite (or maybe because of) myself, I had joined the mob.
Ashley differs from West Elm Caleb, Couch Guy, and the “TikTok bullies” because she chose to put herself online. Some may argue that the pushback she received was inevitable: being a public personality opens you up to criticism. But similar to the other victims, the reaction was disproportionate to the offense.
Ashley’s last YouTube video was posted two years ago. There are endless comments asking whether she’ll return to the platform. She used to be vulnerable with her audience, sharing her relationships, insecurities, and struggles with her audience. Fans often described her as feeling like a big sister to them. Ashley now only uses Instagram as an outlet, and it’s understandable why she’d prefer it. Rather than provide more “problematic” fodder, Ashley became inaccessible. The version that we get now is polished, static. It’s much more difficult to cancel someone when all you have is a photo of their outfit.
All of us, at one point or another, have fallen short of our moral ideals. These moments are inevitable. Hopefully, we can grow from them. Hopefully, they don’t mark us as irredeemable, unhireable, unloveable. As humans, we are fallible. Rather than project our shame onto others, maybe we should consider whether we are even changing anything by attempting to punish strangers online.
The central problem with these extremely online callouts is that they’re essentially pointless. By attacking an individual, we do nothing to address the issue at the root of their supposed wrongdoing. The Couch Guy debacle didn’t eradicate infidelity. West Elm Caleb’s public flogging did not stop certain men from being shitty at romantic relationships. If anything, the “TikTok bullies” drama only encouraged more bullying. There is no net positive to this type of culture. We shout over each other in an attempt to be seen as the most virtuous. Nothing changes; we only grow louder.