My grandfather, in a remark typical of his almost endless witticism, used to say I had incredibly large thumbs.
“Those are texting thumbs.” he would say, holding my hands up to the light and inspecting them in a manner reminiscent of a Victorian detective searching for clues, before bursting into his deep, chesty laughter.
Apart from providing anecdotal fodder after his passing, I often find myself, oddly, smiling at my thumbs when I am on my phone – increasingly these days — as I scroll through an endless barrage of text messages, e-mails, and most frequently, social media.
Like most of us, when I find myself drifting into boredom, or simply attempting to occupy my time, I pick up my phone and scroll through the litany of apps, neatly organised on my phone.
It has become an almost chronic occurrence: a reflex of sorts. The notorious black mirror sits on a nearby table, taunting me, or burns a hole in my back pocket. And besides, what is a better way to spend a few minutes than risking potential repetitive strain injury in my (incredibly large) thumbs?
My most used app is Instagram. Whilst I am not caught up in amassing a mammoth amount of likes — in fact, my profile is rather small — there is something oddly satisfying about endlessly scrolling and double tapping, looking through rose-tinted Instagram filters at the glamorous lives of friends, family and influencers with the seemingly perfect lives. It all seems pretty harmless really. But what happens when it turns sour? And how do we reconcile ourselves to the idea that social media may not be all it is cracked up to be?
Being Reeled In
Incidentally, I’m scrolling through my phone when it occurs.
I’m at one of those university mixers — you know the ones — with the cheap plonk and the forced confrontation with that one professor you find deathly dull. I’m interested enough, filling intervals with remarks on my thesis, and what book I’m planning to read next, but when we all, staff and students alike, become tired of this repetitive dance, scrolling through Instagram, is, yet again, a pleasant way to pass the time.
But then my good friend’s voice cuts through the monotony.
“Yeah, it was awful,” she says, and when I look up from my phone, she is wincing at the taste of the wine, “It was as if they’d stolen my entire identity.”
Safe to say, my phone was abandoned quickly.
This was a story I’d heard in the days shortly before our uni shindig. In fact, Melissa* and I had spoken on the phone for a good hour and a half about the entire dilemma.
“Oh my God!” exclaimed a mutual acquaintance, nearly knocking over her glass in surprise, “It’s like Catfish!”
Catfishing, a term which has now become part of universal lexicon, is the act of using an online fictional persona, usually to trick an unsuspecting victim into a relationship. It gained worldwide notoriety through the 2010 documentary of the same name, created by US producer Nev Schulman (a victim of the aforementioned act), so coined for the elaborate fishing metaphor used to describe Schulman’s online ‘relationship’. Alaskan fishermen, said Schulman, used to have an issue where their cod would become “bored” when being transported from the US to China. As a result, they would lose their delicious taste. Fishermen remedied this by placing catfish in the tanks alongside the cod to “nip at their tails and keep them active” whilst on their trips — producing more lively and fresh cod as a result. So too do the “Catfish” keep their victims active, stimulating them, keeping them hooked. Catfishing, then, has provided fuel for over 130 episodes of a multi-season television programme which has often featured intense drama and controversy.
But what is notable about Catfish, is that it focuses predominantly upon those who are victims of fake relationships. Whilst it touches upon photos stolen from others, I believe it often does not give the weight deserved to the gravitas of the issue faced by those who have their photographs stolen and used by the ‘Catfish’. What does it do for their self-esteem? Does their privacy feel invaded? How does one begin to make sure they are not used as a scapegoat by the Catfish, reeled into their scheme?
The Mirror Image
For Melissa* this is an issue which has hit particularly close to home. Whilst she is not one of the aforementioned Instagram influencers — people who literally make money to promote their lifestyle on social media — she has a significant number of followers – some of whom she knows, and others she has never met. Just as she scrolled through the app, looking at photos of others, so too were others reciprocating, scrolling in our synchronised social union, peering into her life also. But it seemed someone may have become too caught up in the Instagram fairytale, choosing instead to make it their own kind of warped reality…
Melissa wouldn’t have otherwise noticed, but, in a ritual characteristic of her time spent on social media, she was — somewhat mindlessly, out of her own admission — scrolling through her ‘followers’ list when she spotted it. In a twist eerily reminiscent of Jordan Peele’s recent horror/thriller Us, Melissa found herself staring back at herself. That is to say, a picture of herself, attached to an account she had never created, nor heard of.
The account had 70 or so followers, nowhere near the amount that Melissa had herself, but nonetheless, seeing a photograph of herself attached to an account that was clearly using her identity was a frightening prospect. For those of us in the 18-24 age bracket, Instagram’s core audience, posting elements of our lives to social media is a concept which has been the norm for most of our lives. Few of us truly remember the days before social media, and if we do, we were probably too young to feel the true effects. But for victims of Catfishing and impersonation, questions immediately begin to swirl about the information placed on social media, and who has access to it.
But what was even more unsettling about this pseudo-Melissa, was that the Catfish had used a photograph which had long since disappeared from Melissa’s profile.
Instagram has a unique feature known as archiving, which the social-media giant rolled out successfully in 2017. Instead of deleting that embarrassing photograph, or one that you no longer like, it can be archived, stored out of sight of the profile for solely the user to see. Melissa had done this with the photograph being used by the Catfish months prior to the incident.
Which logically followed that whoever this Catfish was, was undertaking their endeavour with deliberate intent, in a plan which seemed to have been concocted months ago. How long had this account been up for? How many people had it tricked? What was the purpose of it?
So began our super sleuthing. Melissa and I and a few mutual friends were determined to work out what happened, how, and who was responsible.
We began where it was logical, social media itself. First, Melissa reported the account. This is a step which Instagram recommends itself, stating that it “takes safety seriously”. What seems to be the only issue with this line of action is that others are unable to report an account for impersonation. Only the person who is directly affected by the issue can speak up and say something about it. Instagram requires the impersonated individual to provide a photo of themselves, usually holding up a unique code, to prove that they are real. Whilst this seems to be a thorough and water-tight method, it takes a while before action is taken.
So, whilst waiting for Instagram’s response, we decided to take matters into our own hands.
I distinctly remember putting up my own social media post, urging my followers to report the account as ‘spam’ – the only option that seemed logical that was at our disposal. In the hopes of getting whoever was behind the account to pull it down, our friends replicated this, and Melissa herself called upon her 800 followers to do the same.
“What was more unsettling about this pseudo-Melissa was that the Catfish used a photograph which had long since disappeared from her profile.”
This was pulling power, we thought, harnessing the contacts we had garnered on Instagram — friends, family, acquaintances, mutual associates — to do the work Instagram seemed reluctant to undertake.
None of us could’ve expected what was to follow.
Real is Fake and Fake is Real
Incidentally, I’m scrolling through my phone when it occurs. Again.
Obscuring my apps, my phone begins to ring. It’s Melissa, and she has news.
“Can you believe it?” she exclaims, “Because I can’t.”
All I can do is shake my head and murmur my disbelief.
Instagram has finally replied to Melissa. And their action? To delete Melissa’s account in its entirety.
When Melissa tries to log on to her Instagram, she is told she has been reported for impersonation. And it’s been successful.
Melissa is no longer Melissa. Fake is now real. Real is now fake. Up is now down.
And there’s nothing any of us can do about it.
“It’s definitely made me reconsider what I put on social media,” Melissa tells me, “When Instagram thought I was a fake even though I proved my identity, I was speechless. I think it’s important to raise awareness about this, because I was kind of oblivious about that kind of thing until it happened to me. It was definitely one of those ‘this could never happen to me’ moments.”
Melissa now chooses not to use social media. Whilst Instagram and Twitter were primary methods of communication, her social media presence is now gone, wiped off the web in what seems to be half a preventative measure, and half reticence – to never experience Catfishing ever again.
What’s in a Name?
So, what is really in a name? Or a photograph?
The television programme Catfish illustrates that the people responsible for these fake profiles have a myriad of reasons as to why they do what they do. But does Catfishing and impersonation speak to a wider issue within our social-media reliant society? In a world where we can make others see what we want them to see, and where we can cultivate our online presence, choosing to be whoever we want to be, is Catfishing merely symptomatic of a false reality we have all, in one way or another bought right into?
Real is now fake. Fake is now real.
Whilst most of us are familiar with the television programme Catfish, it is easy for it to feel detached, disconnected, some other kind of reality suspended somewhere distant. If Melissa’s experience didn’t prove this isn’t the case, then my friend, who just a week ago, discovered her pictures had been lifted from her account to make a fake Tinder profile, cemented the reality of Catfishing in my head. It can be just around the corner, on our doorstep, waiting for us in the little black screen we carry around in our back pocket.
I have certainly reevaluated my relationship with social media. Picking up my phone, I think a lot more. And, sure enough, my texting thumbs slow down.
Somewhere in the world, a person sits behind a screen, or staring down at their phone. They’re using someone else’s photographs for a reason unbeknownst to anyone but themselves. And the effects can be wider than anyone would imagine.
Out there, Melissa’s fake profile still exists. And slowly, the follower count is rising.
*Melissa’s name has been changed for the purposes of this article
