The Caroline Calloway Controversy Is About Us, Too

On Sept. 10, Caroline Calloway — not previously a household name, but now approaching that benchmark — came into the spotlight after a former best friend published an article in The Cut claiming to be the source of Calloway’s editorial and writing prowess. Everyone promptly weighed in. Some thought the author, Natalie Beach, was merely opportunistic and leveraging Caroline’s hefty following to push herself into the spotlight.

Others felt that Calloway has been begging for attention for ages, and that the piece in The Cut finally gave her the spotlight she so craved. Calloway herself, in an interview with Buzzfeed, makes the case that people consume her content because it is, in fact, art. (I’ll let you be the judge of that.) To paraphrase a question she was asked: Why are we so obsessed with her and the brand of Internet culture predicated on “relatability,” “authenticity,” and oversharing?

Because the rest of us want to be seen. Calloway’s drama — played out over Twitter, think pieces, and interviews — is fodder for our desire to throw our own voices into the void. I’m aware that writing this article plays right into the hands of this trap, because writing something means that the product will be seen by someone, eventually.

Maybe the most telling evidence in favor of this hypothesis is how Calloway’s and Beach’s relationship blew up on the Internet. Plenty of other “newsworthy” stories have done so in the past, but the frenzy, the vitriol, and the hot takes that seemed so sure of their definite, arbitrarily-defined truth seemed to hit a little different this time. Calloway herself thinks the online storm occurred because people love to hate “young white girls with lots of Instagram followers,” but the issue seems bigger than that. The very people who comment and write articles pretend not to care, yet spend a lot of time weighing in.

Let’s face it: We’re addicted to Twitter, Instagram, and Calloway’s random musings while visiting The Harvard Crimson’s own building because we’re desperate to throw our voices out there, to have someone hear us and validate the opinion we have – never mind if it’s incomplete, false, or downright stupid.

Perhaps there’s nothing inherently wrong with this need. We’re social creatures. The Calloway debacle seems to have prompted something visceral in the admiring crowd: She’s a woman who has openly admitted — or, at least, acts as though she has — that she likes attention, she’s figured out a way to get it, and she knows that this method works.

Speech is powerful enough that it sticks around for a while: We know that Julius Caesar did a bunch of things, but what we really remember is “veni, vidi, vici.” We throw ourselves into the comment section of Instagram or tweet into the void because maybe we’ll be the next viral hit. It isn’t bad to want that, yet the speed and strength of the firestorm around Calloway and the piece in The Cut should serve as a reminder that the very words we gratuitously fling out will stay out there, thanks to the permanence of the Internet. There’s a kind of danger of opening one’s mouth before having all the facts, and with influencers like Calloway, truly knowing them all is impossible.

And, of course, despite the naturalness of wanting to be seen, another question floats to the surface: Isn’t there a kind of dignity in abstaining from being seen? In observing, listening, and thinking? Visibility is thrilling, but requires a certain responsibility that many fail to properly understand, let alone bear successfully.

I mean, just look at Beach and Calloway: They are always online. Someone is always watching, scrutinizing. Even if they want to draw the curtains around their privacy, they can’t. By now, the curtains are sheer.

—Staff writer Cassandra Luca can be reached at cassandra.luca@thecrimson.com. Follow her on Twitter @cassandraluca.