After the Twitter Storm, Calm

Having my account hacked made me reconsider my social-media future.

Last weekend, I lost access to my Twitter account for several days. It was hacked, and because it happened less than an hour after I published my newsletter about the new ownership of Twitter, many people expressed suspicion that it was a form of retaliation. However, I have no knowledge of who took over control of my account or why they did so.

During the time that I was locked out, I received a number of sympathetic personal messages about my predicament via text, email, and Instagram. I, on the other hand, wasn’t as sorrowful as people expected me to be. I was a little glib, I’m afraid. I was having a fantastic weekend at the Charleston Literary Festival, with old friends and new; several of the conversations I had were frankly transformative, and will undoubtedly alter my future work. (I was especially moved by conversations with undergraduate students from Oakwood University, a historically Black college in Huntsville, Alabama, who were in attendance.) And the weather was beautiful. I wasn’t thinking about Twitter much at all.

Thanks to support from friends, colleagues, and people I don’t even know, my account was eventually restored. Although I felt grateful, I also wondered: Why were people so upset? And then: Why wasn’t I upset at all?

Two common occurrences from my past came to mind. I thought about going to the arcade as a kid and realizing that my high score on some game had been knocked off the board. I also recalled my college days, in the era of computer labs, and how often entire papers would disappear into the ether after I’d written them. There would be no one around to help, either. I’d just have to start over.

And then there’s the matter of floppy disks and hard drives that I’ve held onto over the years, but whose contents I fully doubt that I will ever see again. I come from a generation that expects digital things to be ephemeral. As much as I use them, I don’t really trust them.

But once I returned to Twitter, I was deeply moved by the efforts people had made to restore my account and the kindness and care expressed for me in my absence. I was reminded that these are real communities, and that the investments we’ve made in them are meaningful—albeit fragile, and probably fleeting. I even signed up for an alternative site that seems to have an ethical participation model, Mastodon, and am slowly learning to navigate it.

It is intimidating, trying to start over. I suspect that the older I get, the less interested I’ll be in learning new communication modes. Although I do have older friends who seem to be among the best at mastering new technologies and social platforms, and they are inspiring, because they remain committed to figuring out how to be with people in whatever way human beings are connecting.

I suppose I want to dance somewhere between the two realms. I like being able to “let go” of social media and revel in analog forms of communication. I like laughter and hugs and the spontaneity of real-time conversations. I like the smell of someone’s soap and saying “Taste this, it’s delicious” to a friend. I also value innovations in communication, especially those that increase accessibility for people who experience isolation and marginalization.

Stated another way, I prefer to read a physical book, and yet I am so glad that audiobooks are widely available. And I’m learning that trumpeting my own preferences can sometimes sound dismissive of new ways of doing things that are incredibly important to others. All of that is to say, if I could retroactively modify my response to the “Oh my God, are you okay?” messages about my Twitter account, instead of saying “Of course. I’m great.” I would reply, “Thanks so much for caring about me. All things considered, I’m good. I hope you are too.”