Generally speaking, being “canceled” only means that an otherwise cushy multi-million dollar career gets briefly interrupted by some bad press. A few people have lost jobs, or gigs, or had work in production literally canceled (Louis C.K.’s movie “
I Love You Daddy” about the relationship between a 68 year old male film director and a 17 year old girl, was taken out back and shot. The case against the gunmen was dismissed on the ground of justifiable homicide.) The only people in any real trouble are (some) of the alleged serial rapists: Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein, and Kevin Spacey. Trial and prison, in their situation, is quite real, not speculative fiction.
Cancelation rarely goes to trial. The fear of being suddenly “canceled” by the wild mob is primarily an elite media fear of being mocked or yelled at ON THE INTERNET, OF ALL PLACES, HOW DARE YOU. But then, if you’re an elite media figure, the internet is basically your living room. You sit on a couch and pontificate—though social media isn’t your house, of course, it’s Jack’s house, and Mark’s house. But you sit there, in Jack’s house and Mark’s house, where the ungodly rabble is also allowed to gather, and sometimes instead of delivering the praise you richly deserve for everything you’ve ever said or done, they just scream at you about how much you suck. This can be very upsetting (and for someone with mental illness, it can also be seriously damaging). But it remains, for most people, a very different scenario than interpersonal verbal abuse, where you can’t mute the abusive person in your personal or professional life. On the internet, you can always log off. If you’re already famous, and your crimes weren’t—or can’t—be prosecuted, you can always choose to ignore (or cash in on) temporary reputational damage. You’ll never be permanently ostracized.
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The only place where “canceling” can have dangerous or long-term effects is for the unfamous, and/or for small spaces populated by the relatively powerless. Consider
Justine Sacco, a random person with 170 followers who made an accidentally racist joke on Twitter, only to be hounded by the internet (even Google itself joined in on the “fun”). Sacco was forced out of multiple jobs, a punishment that far exceeded the crime of a single clumsy joke. Professional ostracism can matter in places with high competition, high pressure, and low wages—as in academia, with its beleaguered grad students and adjunct professors. (The Professor character and her acquaintance in “Now More Than Ever” would make sense if they were legibly adjuncts.) The world of YA publishing, which recently had its own troubling “
cancel” scandal is another space with little power: dominated by (mostly white) women, usually low-paid, and highly competitive. This a sphere where the margins are slim and there are real stakes to cancelation. (But even again, relatively minor stakes: A twitterstorm can end in
free publicity). Regardless, it’s gross and tragic when marginalized people compete for scraps. The grossness and tragedy isn’t a result of “cancel culture” but of the power dynamics in play. The issue isn’t that “YA twitter” (that scary Fury!), has too much power, like those vicious, vicious Tumblr teens—but that it has basically none at all. Frustrations turn inward, directed at policing the community, rather than outward at a publishing industry that pays writers in pennies, imagines diversity as a marketing gimmick, and treats creators—especially in a field as commercially popular as YA—as replaceable commodities.