Picture
this:
a
lazy
Monday
afternoon. I’m sitting on my couch in
the 100 degree weather of Mumbai,
India, scrolling through Twitter. Now,
every few days, I’ll see the occasional
insightful Tweet, but none stuck with
me quite like this one:
“Gen Z will drink one medium
caramel latte, not eat a single thing till
4 p.m., verbally abuse a racist, crack
a joke about their mental health and
pick up a tear gas canister with their
bare hands, but get nervous when
they have to call to make a doctor’s
appointment.”
As blunt as it is, the tweet’s author
makes a valid point here: Gen Z
is brave and unapologetic. Gen Z
doesn’t take ifs, buts or maybes when
it comes to something we believe in.
Be it the Harry Potter community’s
swift cancellation of its formerly-
beloved writer, or the collective anti-
European Super League outrage of
soccer fans across the globe that had
the highest-ranking officials in the
sport quaking in their boots or the
countless social media pages that
try to amplify voices that need to be
heard, Gen Z will stubbornly fight for
what is right, even if it means turning
against the things and people we love.
And it’s not just about what is right
for society, Gen Z-ers know what is
right for us. Is it selfish to put your
needs first sometimes? Absolutely
not. It’s 2021 and mental health is at
the forefront of our conversations — in
large part due to Gen Z’s willingness
to reject doing things that do not bring
us happiness. That is what makes Gen
Z such a force.
That being said, there are some
things we just will not do and it is
hilarious. So, inspired by my mystery
twitter hero, here is The Michigan
Daily’s Bucket List for Gen Z: a non-
exhaustive list of all the things Gen
Z should be able to do, but simply
cannot.
- Make a doctor’s appointment
- Send food back at a restaurant
- Use either Insta stories or Snap
stories, but not both
- Drink water (Just five glasses a
day, it’s not that difficult)
- Be into comic books and anime
(It’s always one or the other, never
both)
- Order black coffee
- Cope in ways other than comedy
- Delete TikTok for more than a
week
- Wear a color other than black,
white and grey (and the occasional
navy blue)
- Not form an entire opinion around
a topic upon learning the slightest
thing about it
- Not make fun of Millennials
- Write a bad Yelp review
- Leave a below-20% tip
- Abstain from thrifting right after
donating clothes
- Make a Spotify playlist without
that one song (Yes I get it, Taylor
Swift is amazing, but you can’t put
“You Belong With Me” on a workout
playlist)
- Have more than one go-to fast
food chain
Now,
these
things
seem
straightforward — some of them
are as mundane as tasks get. So,
why can’t Gen Z do it? As a member
of this fascinating generation, I’d
probably lean towards the “we care
too much about the sentiments of
others” argument, but that answer
seems way too simple. Members of
older generations might resort to one
of their many regular, anti-Gen Z
complaints, including but not limited
to: “They can’t take responsibility,”
“They’ve had it too easy, they don’t
want to get out of their comfort zone”
or my personal favorite “Pfft, kids
nowadays *cracks knuckles* they’ve
gone soft.”
So, I don’t know. I don’t know why
Gen Z hesitates from doing things well
below their pay grade and seemingly
included in a sane person’s comfort
zone. It is intriguing and amusing, but
I guess that could be said about a lot of
things this generation does.
What cannot be argued is that we
keep you on your toes. With Gen Z, you
never know what’s coming next. Gen
Z will carry society into the future
and I have no doubt that we will do a
spectacular job. But I’d sleep a little
easier knowing that our water intake
is a bit more regular, “Sweet Caroline”
doesn’t make it onto our “study music
to focus” playlist and we can actually
call the doctor when our friend’s knee
pops out.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, September 29, 2021 — 5
“Latte foam art. Tiny pumpkins.
Fuzzy, comfy socks …”
Four
months
ago,
comedian,
musician, writer, actor and filmmaker
Bo
Burnham
(“Promising
Young
Woman”) released “Inside.” Today, the
internet is still grappling with how to
feel about it.
Unlike Burnham’s previous specials,
“Inside” is more of a political art piece
than a comedy. Subtle wit is done
away with altogether, and in its place
Burnham has created something that
feels as crude and hopeless as being in
quarantine during a global pandemic.
And for the most part, his artistic
transition from standup to existential
fantasia has been met with applause.
However, there’s plenty of warranted
criticism to be made about the tone
Burnham employs while satirizing the
hypocrisy of the digital age. Mainly, he
can be guilty of the same performative
activism
that
he
condemns.
Accordingly, it’s perfectly reasonable
to find his patronizing attitude off-
putting. In fact, that’s exactly how I
felt the first time I watched “White
Woman’s
Instagram”—
a
satirical
music video from “Inside.”
The song pokes fun at shallow
social media posts, commonly found
on young, white women’s Instagram
pages. At first, I wasn’t sure if the joke
was funny enough to warrant what
appeared, at the time, to be notes of
misogyny.
Yet, Gen Z seemed to embrace the
song. I found it all over my TikTok feed
the day after Burnham’s special was
released, with many users joining in
on the joke. It stuck with pop culture,
and surprisingly, it stuck with me.
Not because of its arrogant dismissal
of white women, but because of the
opposite:
Bo Burnham cares about why we, as
a generation, can’t overcome our need
to post content.
There’s a Bo Burnham interview
that I always think about. In it, he
talks about how young people right
now are perceived as a “me, me, me”
generation, when the truth is that
it’s far sadder than that. For the first
time in history, celebrities are no
longer these massive icons on Mount
Olympus. Thanks to social media,
everyone is on a spectrum of celebrity,
and by the time you reach middle
school, you probably already know
where you rank.
Hence, every time a so-called “Gen
Zer” feels the need to post about
how much fun they’re having or who
they’re hanging out with, they’re
not screaming for attention. They’re
begging for acceptance.
“White
Woman’s
Instagram”
is
simply a caricature of this devastating,
generational
phenomenon
put
to
music. This need for approval does
not only impact women, of course,
but throughout American history and
beyond, it’s no secret that women
have been forced to be aware of
themselves in ways that men have
not. Social media apps like Instagram
and Tiktok are specifically designed
to reward attractiveness — measured
by standards that aren’t even human.
As a result, the entire self-worth of
teenagers right now is dependent on
their ability to achieve likes in this
twisted, virtual world.
The
insecurities
of
awkward
13-year-olds are being tapped into
in ways that previous generations
couldn’t have imagined. Burnham later
touches on this in his wonderfully-
sarcastic monologue:
“Maybe
allowing
giant,
digital
media corporations to exploit the
neurochemical drama of our children
for profit, you know, maybe that was
a bad call by us. Maybe the flattening
of
the
entire,
subjective
human
experience into a lifeless exchange
of value that benefits nobody except
for, you know, a handful of bug-eyed
salamanders in Silicon Valley … maybe
that as a way of life, forever … maybe
that’s not good.”
In “White Women’s Instagram”
and several other “Inside” tracks, the
world is a late-stage capitalist dystopia
nearing its apocalypse.
This is evident in Burnham’s song
“That Funny Feeling,” where he lists
off the strange contradictions of
modern America — “Deadpool’s self-
awareness,” “Bugles’ take on race,”
“stunning 8k resolution meditation
app.”
In
our
pursuit
of
human
evolution, we can’t even tell the
branded, virtual world from the real
one.
Understanding this context casts
“White Women’s Instagram” in a
whole different light. It’s not about the
ridiculousness of white girls. It’s about
the commodification of human life.
“A novel,” “a couple holding hands,”
“fresh fallen snow on the ground.”
These are real, meaningful joys that
life has to offer. Yet, instead of getting
to experience them, the existence of
social media has changed them into
something else: a potential Instagram
post. A chance to earn status. A piece
of social currency.
I cannot imagine something crueler
to take from our generation than the
simple beauties of the world.
That’s not to say that in “White
Women’s
Instagram”
and
other
tracks like it Burnham is being
fully sympathetic to our generation.
After all, he technically rests in the
Millennial age range, and as a result,
much of his criticism is directed
toward individual shallowness and the
loss of challenging art due to social
media “aesthetics.”
However,
like
all
great
satire,
Burnham has a level of empathy here
that makes the song so much heavier
in significance than it seems on the
surface.
For
instance:
Throughout
the
majority
of
“White
Woman’s
Instagram,” black bars appear on
either side to keep the images in a
neat, square dimension, mimicking
Instagram’s
popularized
format.
About three quarters into the video,
Burnham assumes a character who
has lost her mother. As she speaks
earnestly about her grief, the bars
descend to the sides, depicting a shift
away from the digital world and into
a more honest, human one. Before
she can get too sincere though, the
bars come back, reconstructing the
Instagram framing just in time for “a
goat cheese salad!”
In this scene, Burnham challenges
us to consider how social media
compels us to prove our happiness to
others. Rather than being able to face
grief in a natural, healthy way, emotion
is numbed through the forces of
constant entertainment and artificial
self-branding.
If it wasn’t clear already, I love the
people of my generation. Growing up
on the internet has made way for some
of the most hilarious, well-informed,
open-minded people in history. Yet
my heart breaks for how anxious,
insecure and straight-up depressed
we have become due to our hunger
for genuine human experience.
I hope, perhaps with naivety, that
these are just symptoms of being the
first generation raised on iPhones.
Maybe
when
Gen
Zers
become
parents, our understanding of the
internet’s true dangers will inform
our kids in ways that our parents
just
didn’t
have
the
experience
to. However, American life under
capitalism means that things will
always keep going. Our children will
likely grow up in new, virtual worlds
that we aren’t able to comprehend —
potentially ones even more dangerous
than ours.
I know that’s a pretty depressing
note to end on, but keeping with
the spirit of “Inside,” sometimes
confronting the truth is a terrifying
thing to do. If we want real change,
we can’t keep chugging ahead. We
need to slow down.
In the middle of a blue LED-
lit dorm room housing a gaggle of
first-year girls, a phone blares the
elementary ABCs. “Stand up if you’ve
been with a J,” a girl yells when the
letter passes over the phone’s screen.
Every girl shoots up and poses for
the video, collectively groaning about
their romantic experiences with the
stereotypical, thoughtless “J-named
boy.”
TikTok
trends
like
the
“ABC
hookup list” embody how Gen-Z
girls are reclaiming their sexual and
romantic lives. Similarly, Gen-Z girls
post humiliating dating, flirting and
hookup stories set to Seal’s “Crazy”
and “Are they hot or are they just
(insert adjective here)” videos — in
which they illustrate the niche traits
they find attractive in a love interest.
By being honest on social media,
recongizing both the triumphs and
pitfalls of hook-ups and love, we erase
the shame baked into the female
experience. Thanks to TikTok, these
conversations are broadcasted globally
for girls to empathize with.
Older generations tell us what is “too
mature” for our age and the media tells
us what is “too prudish.” We are taught
to laugh when Sandy wears both a
long-sleeved cheer costume and a tight
leather set in “Grease” and to sneer
when Taylor Swift meets “yet another
boyfriend.” Boys high-five their guy
friends and stare at their girl friends
when rumors about sexual encounters
spread in the halls.
When society shames young women
for their sexual or romantic histories,
we internalize our struggles, desires
and experiences as wrong or abnormal.
If
society
were
to
destigmatize
and recongize female sexual and
romantic histories, we would be more
equipped to accept and embrace our
sexuality and ourselves. Until then,
we are stuck in a vicious cycle, held to
unattainable standards wherein sex
and abstinence, being noncommittal
and being romantic and fooling around
and monogamy are all “wrong.” As we
internalize these norms, nothing really
feels “right.”
Teenage girls deserve an outlet to
discuss their personal experiences
with hookup culture. We find that
outlet on Tiktok, where there is little
shame in telling our story.
In dorms across the country, teen
girls have been commiserating in each
other’s romantic woes for decades.
Digitization makes these conversations
(set to music ranging from City Girls’
“Twerkulator” to the ABCs) more
casual, open and funny — within the
dorms and also on a global level.
In TikTok trends like the “ABC
hookup list,” girls blush as they stand
for 26 letters or zero letters of the
alphabet because others tell them it’s
“too many” or “too few.” But within
these small circles of laughing girls,
removed from the pressures and
expectations of what is “normal” for
a teenage girl, there is no judgement.
With secrets out in the open and set
to a soundtrack of bouncy music, girls
can have real, honest conversations.
We can find solace in the fact that
others go through the same things we
do. We learn that sex and romance are
personal, and we are all simply doing
what is “right” for us.
As my roommate stood for “M,”
she told me about a high school crush
who was far more than a crush. As
I stood for “A,” I told her about my h
sumiliating first kiss. We told each
other we would look out for one another
as we navigate college love with rose-
colored
glasses.
These
lovestruck
conversations are just as important as
the basic roommate inquiries: “When
do you go to bed?” and “What’s your
favorite movie?” Tiktok started these
conversations.
When
Gen-Z
looks
back
with
horror at our old TikToks, I hope we
can be proud that we worked toward
destigmatizing love, sex and adolescent
absurdity via a 30-second clip set to
the ABCs.
The dystopian reality of ‘White Women’s Instagram’
Kissing and Tiktoking: Gen Z girls reclaim the hookup story
Gen Z’s bucket list
Design by Maggie Wiebe
Design by Mellisa Lee
BEN SERVETAH
Daily Arts Writer
KAYA GINSKY
Daily Arts Contributor
RUSHABH SHAH
Daily Arts Contributor
Design by Mellisa Lee