Cancel culture, born from a desire for justice, has become a tool of public shaming and swift condemnation in the digital age. As we grapple with its impact, the challenge is to transform this force from one of relentless judgement to one of empathy and constructive change.
Johannesburg, South Africa (11 September 2024) – Cancel culture. The term itself conjures images of public shaming and social ostracism. In an era where the court of public opinion often reigns supreme, the rapid descent from favour to infamy can be swift and merciless. While the intent behind cancel culture may stem from a desire for social justice, its execution often results in a wave of online vitriol and lasting repercussions for those targeted.
Just yesterday, I was at the receiving end of a stranger trying to use something I said online two years ago (and deleted two years ago) to try to humiliate me publicly and, I assume, ultimately cancel me.
But it backfired.
My post was not controversial enough for the masses. It actually wasn’t controversial at all. The context of it doesn’t matter. What matters is that this stranger posted my “deleted tweet” and then tagged me. The entire action was filled with maliciousness and ill intent.
Fortunately (for me), the post didn’t get the support they had hoped for, so they eventually backpedalled and deleted it. Had it gone the other way, a mob may have thoroughly enjoyed my cancelling process.
But this idea of “cancelling someone” seems to be all around us. Another day, another collective mob cancelling a person online but cancel culture is not a novel concept.
Throughout history, societies have punished those who deviate from the norm or do “bad things” in the eyes of a collective. Hester Prynne, one of the most famous and, we could almost say, first victims of cancel culture, was publicly shamed and ostracised for committing adultery and forced to wear a scarlet letter “A” as a constant reminder of her sin. That was in 1850.
However, the digital age has amplified this phenomenon, enabling mass mobilisation with just a few keystrokes. Today, a single tweet or post can rally thousands to join a virtual mob, ready to “cancel” someone deemed offensive.
Consider the case of Justine Sacco. Nearly ten years ago, Sacco, a New York-based PR executive, tweeted something highly inappropriate and offensive before boarding a plane to South Africa. She only had 170 followers. By the time she landed, her life had changed irreversibly. The backlash was swift, with hundreds and thousands on Twitter condemning her, demanding her dismissal, and celebrating her impending downfall. It was a digital spectacle, with people around the globe eagerly awaiting her response as if it were the climax of a gripping drama.
The story gained even more traction when Sam Biddle, a journalist at Gawker, picked up on the tweet. Biddle’s coverage catapulted the incident into the spotlight, ensuring that millions would see Sacco’s moment of poor judgment. Sacco was effectively “cancelled” before she even knew what had hit her, and her career and personal life were shattered in the aftermath.
But there’s more to this narrative than the public’s appetite for outrage.
The psychology behind mob mentality is both complex and deeply rooted in human behaviour.
Derren Brown’s four-part special, “The Experiments,” offers a compelling exploration of this phenomenon. Brown’s work delves into how ordinary individuals, when immersed in a collective environment, can be driven to perform extraordinary and often extreme actions. This shift is largely due to the powerful influence of group dynamics and the sense of anonymity and diminished personal responsibility that comes with it. In the “Remote Control” episode, Brown demonstrates that when people become part of a group, especially one motivated by a shared sense of righteous indignation, they are more likely to engage in behaviours they might otherwise avoid. It reveals that the collective mindset can override individual moral compasses, leading to actions that align with the group’s emotions and goals rather than personal ethics.
Sacco’s tweet was awful but the Twitter mob mentality left an echo that still reverberates in her life today.
It took a couple of months for Biddle to reflect on his role in Sacco’s downfall. In a moment of introspection, he expressed deep regret for his part in the public shaming, recognising the disproportionate impact it had on Sacco’s life. He realised he had become part of the mob and destroyed a human being’s life in the process.
“Not knowing anything about her,” Biddle wrote in an article, “I had taken its cluelessness at face value, and hundreds of thousands of people had done the same: instantly hating her because it’s easy and thrilling to hate a stranger online.”
“I realised suddenly that I felt very guilty about having, I assumed, destroyed another person on what was basically a professional whim. It had only taken half a year to kick in!” he wrote.
“It’s been my biggest regret,” Biddle admitted, acknowledging that his actions contributed to a modern-day scarlet letter scenario.
Cancel culture, much like the symbolic punishment in “The Scarlet Letter”, serves as a tool for public humiliation and punishment. Just as Prynne was branded for her transgressions, those who fall victim to cancel culture often bear an indelible mark that affects their careers and personal lives.
The question then arises: What will satisfy the mob? How much “cancel” is enough? Should we just sprinkle it liberally?
Or perhaps we need to question ourselves, understanding that we are both the mob and one moment away from being at the mercy of the mob.
In seeking to hold individuals accountable, we must also be accountable for our own behaviour. Recognising that our online actions carry real-world weight can help temper the fervour of cancel culture, steering it toward a more constructive and less destructive path. Ultimately, the power of the digital mob can be wielded for positive change, but it requires a collective shift towards empathy, restraint, and a deeper understanding of the complexities of human behaviour. Only then can we hope to transform cancel culture into a force for genuine accountability and healing rather than a mechanism for relentless condemnation.
By reevaluating our role within the digital landscape, we can foster a more nuanced and compassionate society, one that values justice and humanity in equal measure.
One with heart and not hate at its core.
I am not exactly sure what that scarlet letter would look like – perhaps a massive heart filled with love and kindness – but I would gladly wear it.
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