When Going Viral Ruins Your Life
One tweet about sandwiches should not ruin a life. Unfortunately, social media excels at turning small accidents into permanent identities via the phenomenon known as going viral.
A man clears his throat on the internet and wakes up the next morning as the viral “voice” of a cartoon minister. Someone’s pup slides on a patch of ice while chasing a squirrel, someone else films it, and suddenly the dog’s owner is lumbered with an oppressive nickname and is booked on morning television to explain canine slapstick to a panel of very serious adults.
For these and other reasons the Support Group for People Who Accidentally Went Viral meets every Tuesday night in a folding-chair circle in the basement of a community center that usually hosts karate lessons and blood drives. The group’s motto, printed on a modest paper sign, reads: You are more than an algorithm.
The moderator, Dennis, opens the meeting with the traditional greeting. “Welcome, everyone. Remember, what is shared here stays here, unless someone clips it and posts it online.”
A shy-looking, middle-aged man wearing huge glasses, raises his hand first. He introduces himself as Martin.
“Hello, Martin,” the group says in the weary unison of people who have learned that recognition is not the same thing as sympathy.
Martin clears his throat. “Three years ago I tweeted that a sandwich tastes better when you cut it diagonally. I included a photo. It was not meant to be controversial.”
The room nods with practiced gravity.
“Within twelve hours I had fourteen thousand followers,” Martin continues. “Within twenty-four hours I was asked to keynote the Regional Food Innovation Summit. They said my ‘triangle philosophy’ had disrupted lunch.” He looks down at his shoes. “I just wanted people to enjoy a sandwich.”
An attractive woman across the circle whose sweater is too tight lifts her hand. Her name tag reads “Just CARLA.”
“My dog slid on a patch of ice while chasing a squirrel,” she explains. “Someone filmed it. The video got twelve million views.”
The group waits. They know the rest.
“For five years,” Carla says quietly, “I have been introduced at parties as Hot Dog Lady. I have never owned a hot dog stand. I did eat one at a baseball game in 1998. That is my entire public relationship to hot dogs.”
Dennis nods with clinical compassion. “Thank you for sharing, Carla. Remember, you are more than the condiments of fate.”
A teenager speaks next, arms folded. “I posted a sarcastic comment about a homework assignment,” he says. “Someone reposted it without the sarcasm.”
“What happened then?” Dennis asks.
The teenager sighs. “It went viral. Two political podcasts invited me to debate constitutional theory. I failed algebra last semester.”
Around the circle heads bow in understanding. Viral fame, the group has learned, does not arrive as applause. It arrives as a misunderstanding that refuses to die.
The meeting concludes with the customary affirmation.
“Repeat after me,” Dennis says gently. “I am not my viral moment.”
“I am not my viral moment,” the group echoes.
Outside, in the parking lot, several members check their phones. One gets a notification that reads:
Local Support Group for Viral Victims Going Viral.
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