Stir The Pot

Trolls & Troublemakers: Why They’re Impossible to Ignore, and How Apps Can Bring Out The Worst In Us

In a perfectly organized digital atmosphere, we like to believe there are two very distinct camps: trolls and victims. One is a loose cannon, the other an unfortunate casualty. The troll sits slouched in his mother’s basement, Cheeto Puff dust peppered like damp soil on unkempt sprouting stubble. His forearms are liquified with sweat, poured over a mahogany desk littered with Coke cans and burger bags. Somehow, he maintains just enough force to lift his sausage-like fingers onto the keyboard. With no windows or natural sunlight to snap him out of it, he hurls his insults and aggression in the la la land luxury of anonymity, free to wreak havoc on unsuspecting online innocents. Black eyes, bad feelings, and blocked accounts ensue.

So, why do online attacks run rampant? Invisibility on the internet has complicated things, to say the least. As with the argument regarding empathy in Lunchroom Law, context is rejected in this hyper-speed online social environment. Though we can project pretty profile pictures and divulge our deepest secrets in our 150-character bios, when we interact digitally through a third party medium we are simply not processing the same physical sensations and emotional cues as we would in person. Additionally, a defamatory insult flung at someone else is not simply an attack—it’s a second-rate reality show, an amateur stage production for the world to see. Though the production value and commitment is low, the potential for notoriety and eyeballs is high. And this attention incentive couldn’t be more of a bargain. Surely there’s a mixed bag of both positive and negative emotions all over these apps, but the negative ones, i.e. outrage, envy, fear, jealousy, and hatred, get more bang for the buck. Humans naturally react (or engage, in this context) more intensely to these adverse emotions. That’s great news for trolls; with the lift of a finger their animosity can reach viral heights. And we’re wired, literally and figuratively, to engage.

It’s no secret that there is an infinite ocean of bad actors on the internet who, quite unimaginatively, have adopted the tactics of a middle school bully. Perhaps less obvious, but even more alarming, is how social media has turned each of us into a willing accomplice. The transformation from playful engagement to senseless enragement is actually quite simple—human nature does most of the work.

According to Ohio State University psychologist John T. Cacioppo, PhD, negative information weighs more heavily on the brain than positive. It’s automatic, and we further feed this compulsion with the ever-updating immediacy of outrageous content. On one hand, it’s truly an evolutionary advantage that we’re so perceptive of negative emotions; they warn us of danger and keep us out of harm from a survival perspective. But online, it seems, we’re now beautifying and monetizing bad news—a gross overcorrection.

Concerning the Cheeto Puff trolls of our nightmares, their M.O. is to wreak havoc on the world for no other reason than to cause hurt feelings and embarrassment. Social media is a secure enough evil lair in which to carry out their carnage, eye patch and all. Though I’d rather lose an eye than admit to being an internet troll, over time, I noticed myself becoming increasingly agitated, impatient, hysterical, and mean in the digital sphere. I could no longer deny the chronic sourness I began to see in myself during social media overuse.

My morning routine included an espresso-dosage of celeb hot takes akin to TMZ, mostly concerning couples who crumbled and starlet weight-gain slideshows. I’d gulp down Facebook next, hoping to stumble upon strangers hurling F-bombs and passive aggressive punches in a debate over civil rights. Instagram was a smooth brew of caption creativity judgements. I’d zoom in on pictures of people to scan for editing and imperfections with the precision of an FBI agent.

As an artist in the music industry, I begged the algorithmic gods to shine their favor on my posts and song releases. Simultaneously, I prayed for those I envied (and even looked up to) to fall out of grace with the almighty gods of virality to make more room for me. This desperation for fame, coupled with distain for competition, made me dislike who I was becoming. It became sadly difficult for me to authentically enjoy discovering new music as a whole, as any newcomers simply meant less room for me. When I wasn’t wallowing in jealousy, I was maniacally chasing clout, dishing out surface-level niceties for the purpose of directing that attention back to me. This is a helplessly shallow, uninspiring way to connect.

Social media, by design, identifies every single one of its users based on a numerical standing. This promotes an all-powerful pecking order that is anything but connective. In this numbers game, there is no higher incentive than to optimize popularity and avoid losing followers. The social landscape becomes an unmanageable scramble to the top, with the whole world as competition. We’re forever on the defense. This very fact drove me to seek out misfortune stories of others to make my life feel better. I soon began to love bad news. It prompted an outrage addiction in me, masking deeper shame rooted in my own procrastination and inability to focus.

Social media does a sneaky, wonderful job of touting an “every man for himself” kind of individualism, with its glamorous follower counts and viral tug-of-wars. Simultaneously, it incentivizes a collaborative and connective quality in order to up engagement on one’s own page. It was within this paradox that I discovered my inner troll. I found it nearly impossible for numerical competition not to color every move I made online—there was no opting-out. To promote my support of others online I would bend over backwards, flooding pages with empty praise. To me, it always felt like backstabbing. I’m embarrassed to admit, but I can’t count the number of both follower and random posts I’ve “liked” and commented on, simply in hopes of redirecting that very same support back to my content. Fishing for compliments in an infinite ocean of competition, I was never satisfied.

Worse, I had tricked myself into believing I was authentically supporting fellow artists in my deep sea endorsement diving. This disorientation only further complicated my in-person interactions and musical collaborations with those people. How could my digital judgements of them, cast while hidden safely behind my screen, not affect my ability to be authentic with them in real life? As you could guess, it did. It was almost like we both had a secret distain for our opponent’s online statistical standing, but had to pretend we hadn’t previously stalked each other before meeting in person. If creativity flourishes in authenticity, vulnerability, and openness, it withers in environments plagued by hierarchy. Death by Insta-stalking.

As we dive deeper into the digital, I find it necessary to be acutely aware of vulnerabilities from all sides, not just ones that are easily blocked or reported with the push of a button. We are vulnerable not only to pop-culture’s caricature of man cave-dwelling internet trolls, but also to becoming everyday internet trolls ourselves. Of course, this shift to the “dark side” doesn’t happen overnight. Chances are, if you polled people on the street and asked about their online etiquette, most would believe they were on the “good side”. But, while fun and connective, social media chronically exposes us to the dark side simply due to code. Negative emotions are the most salient which, in turn, lead to the most eyeballs and engagement. This, naturally, means less meaningful connection and more outrage. Even if I wasn’t the one hurling insults, dropping gossip, or egging on animosity, there was no doubt I was engaged, interested, and reliant on it for my daily entertainment. Moreover, we’re all constantly tempted into a losing game of compare and despair online. Jealousy colors how we project our identities and interact with others, and to our own detriment. Between the positive affirmations in comments, sunny vacation pics, and meme DMs with friends, there slithered a much creepier quality, just shameful and quiet enough to keep confidential. I came for the connection, but stayed for the pain.

If this experience is unique to me, I suppose I’ve outed myself. Helloooo world! I may not inhabit a musty basement with chip-stained fingers, but I too can be a troll sometimes. It’s a truly terrifying reality to accept, but I’m holding out hope that I’m not alone in this concern. Though I can claim innocence in never outwardly “trolling” someone, my hands aren’t clean. My prolific use of platforms which prized outrage, envy, yes-men morals, and cut-throat vanity metrics was turning me, slowly but surely, into someone I didn’t like—an undercover, poor man’s Regina George. Equally concerning, it colored my social experience outside the screen.

As Jaron Lanier, founding father of virtual reality, said, “I just stopped using [social media] because I didn’t like who I was becoming. You know the adage that you should choose a partner on the basis of who you become when you’re around that person? That’s a good way to choose technologies, too.” No one’s a perfect angel, regardless of how many halo and cupid wing filters we use. For that very reason, it’s crucial we take a more deliberate look at the “not-so-pretty” sides of our human nature. Let’s give our media a makeover, and leave the mocking to Mean Girls.