Subscribing to and reading newsletters on Substack has become like second nature to me. A lot of people know and have said that the good writing, and the journalists who don’t want to be edited, are here. Only last week, I came across a newsletter about women’s literature, called Written Out, by Kelsey McKinney. For writing inspiration, I love Jami Attenberg’s Craft Talk and Ope Adedeji’s Books and Banter. But this month’s newsletter is inspired by this particular issue of Lisa Tozzi’s newsletter The Shitshow Room.
In the letter, (issue?) Tozzi writes about how a photo she took 15 years ago made its way around the world wide web and back to her. I enjoyed reading it, and it reminded me about the time a photo personal to me made its way around the internet. It made me think about how far a photo can travel, and what it’s like to watch, like a bystander, something you’re familiar with or have intimate knowledge of circulating far and wide.
Okay, to my story.
This happened eight years ago. I was a freshman in college, and I think it was my spring semester. Many things have led me to the conclusion that it was, in fact, my spring semester, but what I remember most about that day was the glumness that is synonymous with the winter months of the new year. I was sitting in my dorm room after class when a friend texted me to tell me that there was a photo of me making the rounds on Twitter. Or at least she thought it was me. She wasn’t sure because my head was down, but it looked too much like me to not be. Before I knew it, she had sent it to me and I was looking at myself on the screen of my unbelievably small Blackberry.
In the photo, my head was bowed down, and I was on a train, presumably going home to my dorm in New Jersey. My eyes were smudged eyeliner with black eyeliner and whatever drugstore lipstick I had applied earlier in the day had almost faded off. On my head were small, meticulously done single braids that I had pulled back into a low hanging ponytail. I looked at the picture and acquiesced that it was me, but other than the fact that the photo had been surreptitiously taken, I couldn’t figure out why a photo of me looking very much like the end of the day would interest anyone online.
And then my friend told me, “everyone’s making fun of your forehead.”
“Oh,” I said.
Okay, so my forehead has been a thing for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I didn’t notice that my hairline started much farther back than people are accustomed to. But kids, with eagle eyes and sharp tongues, pointed it out rather quickly. My first brush with this was in the seventh grade.
I don’t remember exactly what a classmate said to me, but I do remember asking my father, who picked me up from school that day if something was wrong with my head. If it looked different. My dad, who hardly ever picked me up from school, looked flustered. He mumbled something about it being a thing in my family, but no more than that.
In high school, there were names and jokes tossed off casually, which I won’t repeat here because I believe that they weren’t intended to be mean or hurtful. In fact, making fun of each other was almost a rite of passage at that age. In college, I thought I had escaped the prepubescent humour and I didn’t hear much about it, at least not until the photo.
Okay, let’s get back to the photo.
So, I was in my dorm room, on my twin bed scrolling through the homepage of a Twitter account I had only started actively using a year before. Boys from neighbouring schools that I had met in passing at parties made jokes and wrote LOL’s with an embarrassing amount of O’s. My face was lined up next to Lebron James and people voted on whose hairline was worse. I think someone (very creative and adept with photoshop) actually drew something on my forehead to show its vast surface area. At that, I actually laughed through my disbelief.
I don’t remember if anyone found my own personal Twitter account and made the connection between the person and the meme. I don’t think so. Or maybe not enough people did for me to remember. So, instead of fighting off people mentioning me or messaging me on Twitter, I was watching the circus just like everyone else, except I was the act.
After a while, I closed the app and told myself I wouldn’t open it (ever) again. Instead, my friends stood watch, refreshing the app, reporting the carnage at my request, and telling me it would blow over in no time. And it did. It’s been nine years and I’ve moved on. And I honestly had no intention of ever bringing it up.
But after reading Tozzi’s piece, I thought - if a picture of me, that I have no control over, exists on the internet and can resurface at any time, so should the one thing I do have control over in this situation, my account of the experience.
Last, last, this internet is for all of us.
other women (w)rote.
In addition to being a viral sensation, I love reading about the internet. I’ve linked a few (good!) pieces about the internet and social media in addition to my regular roundup.
For Vanity Fair, Arimeta Diop wrote about why Black Women’s Trauma Deserves Better Than Memes.
I love Jia Tolentino, and the only thing I want to do over the holidays is lie down and read Trick Mirror. Until then, her New Yorker story about the era of the Instagram face will have to do.
This piece about Tavi Gevinson by Tavi Gevinson for New York Magazine is a treat.
For The Atlantic, Helen Lewis wrote about the mythology of the Karen meme.
For The New York Times, Taylor Lorenz wrote about Jalaiah Harmon, the 14-year old who came up with the viral Renegade dance.
These New York Magazine profiles of Dolly Parton, Patti Labelle, and Barbra Streisand are SO GOOD.
I didn’t know Zoe Mungin, but I remember reading the news of her death. She’s a teacher from Brooklyn who died from COVID-19 after being turned away twice when she showed up at the hospital with symptoms. This profile of her in her college magazine is a worthy tribute.
I’ve been thinking and writing a lot about home, so this blog post from Ashley C. Ford about moving away from New York and going “home” was timely and refreshing to read.
This Quartz story is an interesting and brutally honest look at what friendships look like from your 30’s and beyond.
I watched The Fresh Prince HBO Max special and I loved it. (Fun fact, my dad named me after Ashley Banks!) No doubt, the best thing was seeing Janet Hubert (the OG aunt Viv) and Will Smith talk it out. This NPR piece details why that conversation was so important.
If you read this New Yorker profile of Fiona Apple when her album came out, the question all of us have been asking ourselves has been answered: for Pitchfork, Jen Pelly writes about Shameika Stepney, the woman behind Apple’s song, Shameika.
(w)rite back.
Send me more good stories about the internet, your favorite memes, burnout remedies, and what’s on your holiday reading list. Leave a comment below or write back via email.