Category: Group D

One of the key themes that jumped out from Milner and Phillips work was the indistinguishability between trolling as a commentary on social norms or as an earnest expression of one’s own views. The convergence of a space inhabited by anonymous people, as well as others who are in control of creating their own identity through the use of what Milner and Phillips refer to as “masks” foments a sense of suspicion online. I know that I assume the worst of anybody who is on some online forum, especially when I read their comments through my individual lens. It would be so much easier if it was internet decorum for things to be prefaced with “read as: satire” or “read as: bigotry”, but alas we can’t make our things nice and easy. Milner and Phillips define trolling as something that, “tends to imply deliberate, playful subterfuge, and the infliction of emotional distress on unwitting or unwilling audiences” (7). And I think that this is where the real satisfaction for people who troll online comes from. They can hide behind the statement “oh it was just a joke, don’t be such a killjoy,” as well as their anonymity.

Sure it does not make sense to condemn a whole group of people, whose intentions we do not know, but at the same time, the act of trolling preys on victims. Whether it be an unknowing user who is not part of an in-group, or it is a user who feels as if they are being targeted by an online interaction, there are people who get hurt. One does not blurt out some potentially misconstrued saying in class, so why does this behavior translate into acceptable online? I would classify the internet troll (as well as the one under most bridges) as a killjoy. Their words and actions are used to divert someone from their intentioned path. Their words are used to make  the reader think about something new, and most of the time it is not some constructive thought.

Phillips and Milner write about the lack of a distinction between the internet and embodied space. As Phillips and Milner state, social media is an example of how these boundaries break down in many ways, or how these boundaries don’t exist at all. People are required to create online identities or “masks” that exist compatibly alongside their IRL or embodied space masks. When we are online, we are communicating simultaneously with groups that we might normally use different masks for in embodied spaces. Our friends from high school, a future employee, our grandparents are all people we connect with all at once through social media. Social media can be a nexus place for different parts of our identity, for better or for worse.

Anyone who looks at my social media knows that I put a lot of effort into it (especially my Instagram). But previous to my current Instagram, I had another account that I made early in middle school. Eventually, I had such a hard time posting on it because I felt suffocated by the knowledge that my real life peers that I went to school with would judge the things that I posted and create an image of me in their head that I could not control. For me it was not the online space that was scary, but how the online space connected to my embodied space. So, in high school, I created a new Instagram with the ideal of complete freedom. With the goal of posting whatever I wanted and only following strangers or people that I really liked/felt safe with so that I would not feel so daunted by the pressure of how my online life connects to my embodied life. I think I only have had mediocre results at feeling less stifled by the idea that I don’t have control of how others perceive the mask that I put on Instagram. I still feel moderate anxiety with how others will perceive my social media, but certainly less than when I was younger. In the end, I think I combat this anxiety by creating a mask that I like so much, that I care less about how others perceive it. 

One of the primary tenets I’ve adopted in my time on the internet is “You curate your own experience.” This means finding the circle of users whose opinions and humor I share and sticking with them, branching out by following the accounts that those users follow and avoiding accounts that clearly have associated drama. This method protects me (to a point) from the misogyny that many women face on the internet but also from any content I don’t enjoy, like the flower-crown-Columbine-shooter edits that Phillips and Milner reference.
The problem with this method is that it can create an echo chamber. When I create an account that’s just meant to connect me with other people who like a certain TV show or video game, I’m not so concerned about isolating myself; isolation provides protection from the more obvious trolls. Places like Facebook, however, which have begun branching into news and are hotbeds for political debate, have become so divided that one side doesn’t always even know what the other is talking about. For instance, when my Republican grandfather and I talk politics, we have such different evidence and perspectives on the issues that I don’t even know how to counter his points.
Phillips’ Quartz article discusses how no one method of dealing with trolls is universally applicable. An effective method in one case might be outright dangerous in another. Does avoiding content I find distasteful contribute to the divided nature of the internet? Do I have a responsibility to engage in online discourse because I exist in that world, as I feel I have a responsibility to engage in national politics? When does curating my experience become a form of willful ignorance?

As someone whose love for Scrooge McDuck and golden age DC comics were always generally private affairs, I never found myself drawn into communities where there was much discussion about a certain fandom topic. The only one that I can really think of was the online game, League of Legends, that I used to play. I think at the time I was playing, most of the player base I encountered was male (although that seems to have changed, as I have seen an article listing females as 55% of the playerbase). I remember the community as a particularly toxic one, especially towards females. One common occurrence was that one player would mention that they were female and the rest of the players would say that they were lying, or make some comment about why they would have brought it up, which is hardly a welcoming environment.

One passage that really struck me from the book was, “Because geek girls deserve to leave their mark on the internet- and on the occasional troll, too (93).” We’ve talked a lot in class about the legacy of those who partake in somethings creation, like the Navajo Women who worked on the circuit boards, and who get left out from being remembered. I see the attempted barring from entry into fandom communities by males as trying to dictate who gets a say in what happens in a community. This is probably especially prevalent in fandom communities, where participants are extra passionate about the seriousness of their craft, as well as the guidelines for what is canon.

The last kind of troll, the one who harasses female users by stalking them and posting their private information online is an incredibly scary reality. I think it brings up this public/private dichotomy problem that the internet has. So much of what we put on the internet is data that can be used to turn our private identities into public ones (see Don’t F*** With Cats), even when don’t mean to release such information. It is truly incredible what people on the internet are willing to do. Creating barriers for entry, and then abusing women for entering a space on the internet, which has almost an infinite amount of space to inhabit, seems so ridiculous.

But I feel that there must be a bright side. I sent a photo of the YA Book Nerds page, asking her if she had read any of the books listed (as she is a big fan of the YA genre), and she said that she had, although the ones that she tends to read are newer. The she said, tend to be more diverse and of higher quality, which hopefully will help create a more inclusive space in which to celebrate one’s passion. Although I wonder if the trend happens in other fandoms.

As I read The Fangirl’s Guide to the Galaxy, I began to wonder who the intended audience for the book really is. The subtitle states that it is a “handbook for girl geeks,” but much of the information, at least in the first chapter, was very basic information that most girl geeks would know by the time they wanted a handbook. The descriptions of each fandom, while amusing, don’t offer me any real information about being a fangirl. I do have to recognize my background: I’ve been involved in fandom since 2011 and have studied fandom history as a hobby and as a volunteer for the Organization of Transformative Works, so I knew majority of the information in the book. As a younger reader, I certainly would have been interested in the information on where to find more fandom friends or guidelines for cons, but I also think I would have picked up the book looking for ways to respond to the men at my local comic shop telling me I wasn’t welcome. While Maggs does address harassment, majority of her action plans would only be effective online, and as Ariana pointed out, they don’t touch on the added difficulty of being a woman of color or even a woman in one of the more male-dominated sectors of fandom, like video gaming or D&D. Only Jamie Broadnaux’s interview really addressed either of those topics, and her answer is less than a page. Looking ahead, the section on geek feminism only mentions intersectionality once and doesn’t go into much detail. The Fangirl’s Guide is very sweet, encouraging, and non-judgmental, but I don’t know how much use it would really be, especially when fandom and the internet itself changes constantly so even the information on major fandoms is now outdated.

I was admittedly excited to read The Fangirl’s Guide To The Galaxy because the topic of the book feels like coming home. This book was written in 2015 and it feels like an artifact of my middle school and early high school years. I was/ am a fangirl of sorts (although I never called myself that). My Instagram handle is still whobibpic (the who is for Doctor Who) from when I made it in middle school and I proudly was part of the superwholock and nerdfighter fandom. 

Although I may have a connection with fandom, it immediately caught my eye that in the first chapter where Maggs writes about the biggest fandoms she makes sure she includes key items that members of the fandom buy to show their connection to the fandom. This shows the consumerist aspect of fandom culture. At fandom’s core is consumption, whether it be watching or reading items that we pay for or buying merch that shows others our dedication to the media we consume. Because fandom partially relies on consumption, fandom privileges those with disposable income. This touches on another complication of fandom, gatekeeping. 

Magg’s books centers around the troubles that women have in fandom space, but she did not mention the issues that people of color have. From my own experiences and from what I have seen of other’s experiences, black geeks/ nerds often feel excluded from fandom spaces because they must deal with the prejudices and stereotypes that are placed onto black people. This is on top of the issue that all of the major fandoms are for media that centers around white people. 

But there is a duality with fandom that I appreciate. Although fandom employs traditional ideas of capitalistic consumerism and race, fandom also makes space for identity creation outside of these norms. In fandom, we can create a sense of identity beyond just having the name and a profile picture of our favorite characters. You can center your identity around your fandom or fandom culture generally, it affects how you act, speak, think, dress, ect.  Haraway mentions our existence within dualities in A Cyborg Manifesto; I believe that fandom is one way to break free from those confines.