Many of the points raised by Chinazo had me nodding along fervently, like some novelty Alice toy on the dash of an electric car. The social cachet of having both an understanding and opinion of all facets of social politics — and by extension, politics in general — has become paramount in recent years. As has the ubiquity of existing online. 

I believe that at the heart of the hesitation to wear one’s woke on one’s sleeve is a fear of being seen trying and failing, or being seen failing to try. In a virtual environment, this can prove extra challenging because the way you present yourself is an active, conscious decision. For instance, on June 2nd, I posted a black square believing it was an act of solidarity with a digital protest. A while later, like so many others, I quietly archived it, having understood the pointless and performative nature behind my “action.”

When it comes to creating a profile, the instinct is to give a full and accurate account of who we are, but the About section of your LinkedIn is going to be different to that of your Tinder — save for specifying whether you’re looking for a long-term commitment.

There’s definitely a time and a place for being up-front with your values, a key indicator being what the intention of sharing them is. Maybe your political activism isn’t super relevant to your Insta bio if all you post are pictures of your dog. But if you’re on the lookout for actual human beings to spend the foreseeable actually living with, then what, really, is the difference between advertising a double bedroom for “no smokers” alongside “no racists”? Both are toxic.  

As far as my own online persona is concerned, I accept that people will judge me equally for things they know about me and assume about me. The way I remedy this is by being confident of my convictions. So my advice for others is to do whatever feels authentic and assume that there will be someone out there who judges you for it — they’re not the kind of person you want to live with anyway. AB

A troubling side effect of the pandemic’s exigency for human isolation is an uncomfortably bloated dependence on technology. So uncomfortable that I found myself ordering that phone jail from The Social Dilemma to remedy my own reliance on screens. There is no six-feet rule when you’re in front of a phone or a laptop, rendering the virtual world the most accessible, Covid-safe arena for social interaction, non-essential work, debate, self-expression, flirtation, advocacy… all in the same place, all at the same time, 24-freaking-7.

We’re not just connected by our devices, we’re glued to them — and rather hopelessly at that.

Technology offers an efficient solution to current restrictions on in-person togetherness, but it has introduced a tumble of other problems as a result. Platforms like Instagram and Twitter helped to usher in the post-2016 era of “woke,” only to then dilute the meaning of the word and allow for it to become weaponized against political progressives when the Black Lives Matter movement regained momentum this past summer. Social media may be an effective tool for organizing and generating awareness around social justice issues, but it’s also crippling our fundamental understanding of what it means to be a good citizen, as though posting a black square or sharing a reading list is enough; as though hashtagging allyship is the same as practicing it daily. I fear we’re so consumed with how we come across online that we’re forgetting what it actually looks like to show up for others. 

So my answer to Chinazo’s question comes down to a writing rule I aim to live by: Show, don’t tell. I’m not saying we should abandon labels entirely, because I do think when applied thoughtfully, they can be useful. But we need to ask ourselves who these labels are for. If those words are serving you and your image more than the community or movement you intend to support, it’s performative — period. Maybe instead of wearing our values on our sleeves, we can weave them into the tapestry of our everyday lives. Maybe then a community of like-minded thinkers will ensue naturally, both on and offline. AR

With the advent of social media, it is easier than ever to project allyship, anti-capitalist practices, anti-sexist convictions, mutual aid, and so on. It is also possible to do so within the specific parameters of one’s personal brand, which is where things get tricky. 

As Rema Bhat describes in her essay Hello Kitty ACAB: The Aestheticization of Politics, social media is increasingly used to repost #aesthetic infographics about global tragedies and police violence without any concrete calls to action. She explains: “These memes are readily consumable and appealing because of that juxtaposition: adorable characters with serious declarations!” Sure, they may be a helpful visual shorthand for, say, spotting a comrade en route to a 3 a.m. jail support shift. But when white people rebrand themselves as political activists by peppering their social media accounts with vibey FTP graphics and memes, they risk perverting the fight BIPOC communities experience against police brutality into something cute, cool and, most importantly, palatable. That’s not woke empathy — it’s colonialist entitlement. At its lowest ebb, it looks like a Hello Kitty ACAB wine stopper, available on Amazon for $9. 

In that vein, one of my roommates told me about how cringe it feels for them, as a non-binary person, when straight people refer to their boyfriend or girlfriend as a partner. The gist was, “Can’t you just support us, without having to be us?” The person in question was a coworker whose world was so overwhelmingly, insularly straight. In that context, my roommate explained, the adoption of “partner” had about as much consequence as a car spoiler: Visible, but of no relevance to the vehicle’s deeper workings.  

That’s not to say there aren’t ways to visibly practice solidarity. Who doesn’t love ACAB graffiti? Or how Clarence Kwan uses “Chinese Protest Recipes” to support BLM?  Artists past and present — say, Arthur Szyk and Naimah Thomas, respectively — have created nuanced, revolutionary art that is powerful because it believes in its message without trivializing it.

Practicing abolition in real-time is messy. Communication is messy. I just think that when we pin “she/her” or a “BLM” into our social media bios, we have to ask ourselves: Is this an expression of myself that is not only necessary in this space, but authentic to my actions? There will be moments when even the most seasoned allies and activists mess up, but those moments are opportunities for growth. The scariest prospect, perhaps, is being paralyzed into inaction by fear of missing the mark. Luckily, the solution is simple: Try again. MFK