Somewhere between the 10s and the 20s of this century there was a shift from blogs to brands. It happened while I was sleeping, or more likely, while I was not sleeping (lots of babies in that decade). Those writers who had extra minutes and change to spare capitalized on WordPress space. Already domain-savvy, they claimed handles and usernames and moved from isolated, virtual landmarks to one common social media neighborhood.
And there they set up kingdoms.
Glennon Doyle, Pioneer Woman, Rage Against the Minivan, Jon Acuff, Ann Voskamp, Smitten Kitchen, Emily P. Freeman. (Can you tell I loved “Christian” perspectives and baking?)
The men and women who were a fun read day-to-day soared into the stratosphere with a new area code. Social media was a boon to their magnetic personalities and witty words.
This is all ancient history to babies who were raised and fed a diet of social media. They don’t even question how the celebrity of such beings came about. But the Nobody-to-Somebody phenomenon was going strong even a decade before that–take, for example, Kelly Clarkson or Guy Fieri, winners of rags-to-riches contests pre-social media.
These events awed me in the moment. (I specifically remember thinking about applying for the Food Network Star–laughable now, because I didn’t even know what cilantro was back then.)
And though most of the awe has worn off and been replaced by a whole family to take care of and cutting way back on screen time, there is still a strong temptation for me to get some skin in the game.
This is the social media tumble dryer, a new and improved version of the 2010’s obsession with blogging and commenting. Log on, keep your screens lit, and always keep the conversation going. It’s exhausting, but everyone’s doing it, and everyone here belongs.
This is why I keep almost falling for the Tribe lie. You know, the one that says we belong, especially on social media, and more especially–with our own personal Tribe.
I think I fall for it because it is a taste of success via association. I missed out on making bank with my old blog and witty words, but this doesn’t mean I can’t board the gravy train and be a part of something bigger than myself.
It’s attractive. It hints at world peace and the pageant-girl, optimistic faith in humanity. It labels us as brave truth-tellers, confident in our own skin and a supreme advocate for self-actualization.
The Tribe lie says you have a home, that you are an ally who requires allies, and that a person or two ought to show up at your doorstep in minutes of a text’s notice–at least long enough to get a good photo.
The Tribe keeps tabs on emotional distress, urges you on in the things you love, compels you to reciprocate at the level you’ve been given. It validates feelings, justifies habits, encourages a cycle of me-first behavior. My responsibility is reporting on me and it never feels shameful or narcissistic.
The Tribe shares a common ideology, rebukes individuality, and passes off bully behavior as support.
The Tribe has one voice, one mantra, and generally one leader to rally the troops.
The leader usually introduces ideas that are accepted immediately, because she is Queen. The Tribe trusts her because they’ve never had a reason to doubt her. Every new declaration is a celebration, every battle cry she utters is one that breaks chains. She is the face, the picture of who we want to be. She embodies our success and represents our potential. The Tribe shakes off any accusations, any questions from the outside that threaten their cocoon.
Fake eyelashes? Whatever makes you look your best. Drugs? Whatever makes you feel your best. Alternative lifestyles? Bring them on, we believe in you.
They defend their leader, even when the queen waivers. Even when the Queen’s own personal life is in ashes, when one and one no longer add up to two. Even when reason has completely seeped out from the bottom, leaving the Tribe naked and vulnerable. Even when their fearless leader has taken advantage of every member as a stepping stone to a higher place.
Gone are blogs–we can be more real, more alive.
The Queen and her Tribe maintain a conversation so the room never gets too awkward and silent.
And I still almost fall for it, because it is lovely. I still desperately want to be a part of some conversation, and I almost believe genuine friendship is found in the Tribe. The Queen and I are just so alike! (If you don’t get the reference, this is what 50% of blog comments were to Ree Drummond–oh my gosh, we’re twins!)
But this is the Tribe lie: that human wisdom and groupthink behavior supersedes an individual’s impact on her world.
That you were never good enough on your own,
That life never held as much value apart from your Tribe.
Jen Hatmaker. Donald Trump. Rachel Hollis. For Pete’s sake, Dave Hollis. (I reckon they’d all hate being grouped together)
But let’s not stop there. History is packed with icons who gained attention and persuaded followers that their version of life was better than whatever anyone else was offering.
And millions of people hop aboard and ride their train.
Why?
Do we catch the scent of an alpha figure and ride their coattails because it’s how we tell ourselves we belong? Are we pack animals who feel safest wedged between the others?
Do we make their rags-to-riches, blogger-to-celebrity story our own? Are our Queens just better at articulating in written media, and we feel so understood?
I can almost go along with it. It’s cozy to have things in common. It’s hopeful to think we’re all on an upwards trajectory, bettering our lives together, day by day.
I’m worried that a lot of younger people do go along with it, not understanding the consequences of not thinking for themselves.
And here is why it is important to put the breaks on and let the train roll to a halt:
Because Tribe-think doesn’t transfer to real life. You don’t owe a social media icon your allegiance.
The sum of you is not attached to anyone else telling you what to think or what to do.
Some glorious things happen in secret, on your own, and it stays between you and God.
Not all beauty and pain needs to be documented in pictures and words and shared with the world, but written in your soul.
You might have to just trust me on that. But I think I’ve learned enough to know it.
