We are a nation of posters
What is the common trait among the Capitol Insurrectionists, QAnon congresspeople and InstaGays? An insatiable desire to post, post, post.
There is a common trait among the pro-Trump Insurrectionists getting arrested for storming the Capitol and Puerto Vallarta InstaGays getting dragged for going to circuit parties in the middle of a worldwide pandemic: an insatiable desire to post, post, post.
We are a nation of posters, content with threatening our personal and professional lives for fleeting social media reaction. And as we approach a full calendar year of living under semi-lockdown, this disturbing phenomenon will only get worse. The pandemic has accelerated many trends: the shift to e-commerce, unconscionable inequality. But most of all, it’s finalized our descent into the digital abyss. We are lambasted for leaving our homes, never mind gathering with friends. Our online personas are increasingly becoming our lifelines to the world.
Look no further than the sad tale of @realDonaldTrump, who was permanently suspended from Twitter last week. Despite being President of the United States, Donald Trump is silenced without his airbrushed avatar.
And that makes perfect sense. Donald Trump is just a body. Our actual president for the last four years has been his Twitter character, @realDonaldTrump. He’s the one who espouses the crazy shit. Donald Trump is the guy who fails to clean up the mess with half-hearted statements from the Oval Office.
Undoubtedly, Donald Trump enjoyed playing @realDonaldTrump a lot more than he enjoyed playing president. One of his greatest joys was reportedly watching the reaction to his insane Twitter rants unfold in real time. Like many of us, he did everything for the retweet—just on a far larger and more disastrous scale.
Taking @realDonaldTrump’s lead, the entire Republican platform is now essentially a plea to post. When Amazon, Apple and Google took Parler off-line last week, Devin Nunes bemoaned Republicans now have “no way to communicate” (maybe he can ask his cow)? Prior to cheerleading an insurrection, Josh Hawley was pinning his presidential dreams on his war against Big Tech, fighting for delusional boomers who complain about Twitter purging their followers.
As a self-proclaimed free speech guy, I know I’m supposed to care about Apple and Amazon possessing the power to silence people on a whim. This is a slippery slope. First it happens to Parler, then it happens to me. Blah, blah, blah.
But here’s the thing about that: who the fuck cares? From the election to the Capitol riot, nearly one-third of Facebook’s most popular posts were from right-wing media. Dan Bongino will be just fine. Over the last week alone, tens of millions of people have downloaded Telegram and Signal, the encrypted messaging services. The action is simply moving elsewhere.
Nothing will stop us from posting. I know that, because we risk our freedom to do it. For example, two people were arrested this week for breaking into Nancy Pelosi’s office during the riots. And how were they caught?
They bragged about their crimes on Facebook!
Texas woman Jenny Cudd (a close relative of the “Florida Man”) boasted about being part of a group that “tore down the doors” to Pelosi’s office. Meanwhile, a Chicago man was also arrested for his role in the riot. He posted a photo of the plaque outside the Speaker’s ransacked office, and took videos inside of the building as well.
Most notably, the Arkansas man who proudly posed for a picture with his feet on Nancy Pelosi’s desk was arrested last Friday.
We’re lucky these people were more interested in trolling for “likes” than actually overthrowing the government. Way more people could’ve died, including the Vice President, whom they supposedly wanted to hang.
Many of the Insurrection’s most infamous characters—the “QAnon Shaman” whose mother says won’t eat inorganic prison food; the Texas real estate broker who flew down to the riots on her private jet; the litany of off-duty police officers—would probably still be walking free if they didn’t out themselves with selfies and Facebook screeds.
But what’s the point of a coup if you’re not going to livestream it to your followers?
In a recent story, the New York Times chronicles the social media history of three posters who became overnight right-wing conspiracy mongers: “They Used to Post Selfies. Now They’re Trying to Reverse the Election.” Not too long ago, all three users strictly shared motivational quotes and banal musings. But then they started posting about election fraud and Covid denialism. Their engagement skyrocketed. In due time, their pages starting accumulating thousands of followers. Now, they’re full blown MAGA trolls.
For Dominik McGee, who’s created multiple “Stop the Seal” Facebook groups, that’s meant alienating his entire family. But he doesn’t mind. “My perception of the group, and what it is and what it offers, is starting to change,” he says. “It was election only, and now it’s becoming even greater than that.”
Most of us have been crafting our online personas since long before we could drive. Mine started with Facebook, where I would post pictures from family vacations, always decked out in Hollister polos. The goal was to get people to think I was this teenage jetsetter. Surely, that would explain my absence from every social event imaginable.
“Oh, of course Alex isn’t here. He must be in South Beach—with his parents!,” I imagined my classmates thinking.
Eventually, I started to throw my own parties (if they won’t invite you, then invite them!), and my Facebook page became inundated with blurry beer pong photos. That’s the reputation I wanted in college. When kids from COM 101 friended me, I wanted them to think I was the drinking guy. Soon thereafter, I joined Twitter, where I would tweet random late-night song lyrics and complain about the dining hall menu. That was a sad chapter.
My point is, we all curate our online personas. But sometimes, they can become larger than ourselves, and that usually happens when we start getting reaction. When I worked at WEEI, it was tempting to light up the digital world with my thumbs. I spent far too many nights squinting at my iPhone screen, battling “PatsGuy54” and “BostonSportsFanTB12.”
When a big event happened, I felt an internal compulsion to weigh in. If I didn’t, it felt like part of me was lost. My persona and person became increasingly intertwined.
These days, I just post cute selfies when I need attention. Much more holistic!
The InstaGays who posted New Year’s group photos from PV or Rio or Miami—taking the risk of getting doxxed, and then, maybe fired—are similar to the Capitol rioters in this regard: their quest for attention. They couldn't quietly get vaccinated at their health care jobs and then take G at the White Party. They had to post about their journeys every step of the way.
One day, Shangela is being socially conscious and telling us about her “quiet Christmas.” The next day, she’s in a speedo on the beach!
We know about this, because the “GaysoverCovid” crowd wants some attention, too. Tearing people apart online is part of our fabric.
Look no further than the parade of QAnon congresspeople, from Lauren Boebert to Marjorie Taylor Greene. They are nothing more than online trolls getting paid on the taxpayers’ dime. During the riots, Boebert tweeted Pelosi’s location to her ravenous followers. Since then, she’s made a spectacle of herself, refusing to go through metal detectors and clashing with police officers.
Greene wore a mask that says “censored” from the House floor. This is all performative. All of the world is a stage … for Twitter owns.
The only thing separating the likes of Boebert and Greene from “Viking Man” is that they’re elected officials, and thus, didn’t need to storm the House of Representatives. They work there. But if Boebert weren’t in Congress, is there any doubt she wouldn’t be in custody right now, too?
It can seem like an utterly hopeless world these days. We think posting is the way out. Become a popular right-wing nut job on YouTube? You can work in Congress. Become an Insta celebrity? You can work as an *influencer.* The louder you are, the better chance of getting noticed, and finding purpose.
Maybe you can even become President. The key is calling out “sissy Graydon Carter” to inform him his Oscar Party is no longer “hot.”
More often than not, however, you’ll just get into a heap of trouble. But that’s OK. Infamy equals engagement, until we all just move on to the next thing.