Update: I reported the user for harassment, impersonation, and violation of the Twitter terms of service, as well as requesting verification of my account. I've since been notified that her account has been removed for violation of the Twitter rules regarding impersonation. I'm still awaiting a decision regarding verification.

Dear Parody-me,

I’ve never been one to complain about harassment over social media, mostly because I’ve watched Big Social enable bullies on the left while silencing big names on the right. I read Milo’s review of Ghostbusters on Breitbart, and I saw Leslie Jones firing back at the trolls with insults that were just as appalling as the ones they were hurling at her. I was aware that it takes a conscious choice by an individual to treat someone else like that, even over the internet, and to this day I know it’s not Milo’s fault that it all went so far. I read the tweets that Milo sent in response. I know Milo was no angel, and admittedly, I laughed at the jokes he made about the uncanny resemblance between Jones and his boyfriends. But then, Jack Dorsey asked Leslie to DM him, and moments later, Milo’s account had been suspended from Twitter. This was in June, and it still hasn’t been reinstated.

Since then, I’ve watched more and more conservatives’ accounts suspended without warning. Accounts of all kinds—meme accounts, Wikileaks-centered accounts, and even more recently, some of the bigger Alt-Right names. My feed is now full of people tweeting and retweeting links to their alternate sites, hoping that if that day comes and their account is taken away, they may retain some followers somewhere else. A majority of my own tweets from the past few days have included #GetOnGab and tagged Gab Support @GetOnGab. I’ve now added a link to my own Gab account in my Twitter bio. I am genuinely scared that I may log in one day and there might be nothing there. I think part of me knows that day will come. I’m dreading it.

The reason for this panic goes far beyond outrage over partisan censorship. Many users spend time cultivating and perfecting their craft. We’ve used certain hashtags to get our content to the right readership. We’ve changed and formatted our profile pictures and banners in search of the perfect visual representation of our identity. We’ve pinned just the right tweet to show who we are, and we’ve created a bio to try to sum up the personality of our account and encourage new followers. We do all this, in pursuit of creating an identity that is entirely our own, and we put pieces of ourselves into it. My online identity has become a part of my real personality, too. I’ve learned to be confident and stand by my convictions, to think before I speak, and to ground my arguments in fact if I want to convince anyone else, and above all, to speak the truth.

I’ve also grown particularly fond of my Twitter following since they’ve become a faithful and supportive readership. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Now my followers hear my voice uncut, unfiltered, and without a character limit. I am so grateful for them, and I take so much joy in creating content they’ll enjoy reading.

But then I met you.

I was done after responding to you once. I’ve stopped responding to trolls because it’s pointless, and as soon as I’d responded to you, I had already forgotten about you. But then one my followers, who’s become a close friend through our shared political ideas, told me that you’d tweeted another response, but hadn’t mentioned me. And in that moment, I was every #tcot who’d been doxed and bullied and eventually censored. I was burning with righteous indignation, that if you wanted to respond to content I’d posted, it should be done publicly where I could stand up for myself.

I’ll admit, I could’ve been more polite. But I also could’ve been meaner and pettier. I met each of your digs with a straight response, as I did in my conversation with your other friend who decided to join in. The difference is, she and I had a debate grounded in arguments supported by legitimate facts, and I think she and I both grew from the exchange.

You, however, chose to go low. You changed your profile picture, your banner, your display name, and your bio to match mine exactly. You copied a picture that I took, one of the few of myself that I can stand having other people see, and the banner that I’d cropped and edited to fit exactly the way I’d wanted it. You used the name I’d taken months to decide on, a name that I took pride in because it fit me and the purpose of my account, a name that let me be myself and gave me the confidence in myself that I’ve lacked my entire life. You took away a public persona that I’ve spent months building. And it felt like in doing so, you’d stolen a piece of my inner self.

But you didn’t stop there. You zeroed in on the one physical feature I’ve always felt self-conscious about. I really wasn’t joking when I said I’d be getting it fixed; my mother offered just a few weeks ago to undergo the change with me, and I’d broken down in tears because it meant so much to me that I could finally look the way I wanted. I tried really hard to not let your words phase me. I remembered Tyrion Lannister’s words to Jon Snow: “Wear your insecurities like armor, and no one can ever use them against you.” So I engaged with you. I played the game, agreed with you and hoped we’d just have a laugh and then you’d stop. I mistakenly thought that, because you are a fellow woman who also has insecurities about herself, you’d realize that you were being unkind, and simply just stop.

But that’s not what happened. You went far beyond anything I’ve ever said about anyone online, and what’s more is that you threatened bodily harm to one of my heroes, while also violating Twitter’s terms of service. #KillMilo? What if I’d said #KillRachelMaddow? Or #KillLena? Or #KillAnita? Would I still have an active Twitter account?

What if I’d chosen to mock your physical features, like the color of your skin? My physical features are a part of my racial identity. Italians have been the victims of some of the most heinous racism over the years. I live near where the Sacco and Vinzetti trials took place, where two men were tried and executed as anarchist sympathizers when their only real crime was being Italian immigrants. I’ve had family members who joined the Mob to feel like they were part of a group after the larger community rejected them. I’ve heard my uncles call each other “greasy whops” and learned the hard way that “whop” isn’t a word one says in polite company. The one holiday that my people can lay claim to has been demonized by academia, to instead be replaced by a day to exalt Cesar Chavez. Our innovations in science, astronomy, and circumnavigation, which led to the creation of the Western world and the freedoms we enjoy today, are minimized and undermined to higher and higher degrees each year. I would never personally attack you for anything relating to your racial identity—I’d never even think about it. Why is it ok for you to do that to me? I really wish we could’ve talked as two women, instead, and shared our insecurities, and become friends. I’d still welcome your friendship, should you read this.

I think I’d really just like to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that, instead of having a lively discussion of my criticism of the mainstream media, you had to resort to doxing and mocking. I’m sorry that you don’t value your own identity, and instead used your platform to create a cruel parody of the one I’ve created for myself. I’m sorry that your online following isn’t collectively supportive, loving, and loyal like mine is. I’m sorry that you don’t get to sit down every week to write content that will interest others, and that you don’t get to thank those who consistently support you. I’m sorry that you can’t appreciate diversity of thought, and that your voice isn’t important enough to you that you’d want it to remain your own.

I also want to thank you for reminding me of my own personhood, and that of others. I am, in this moment, acutely aware that every like, every repost, and every new follow is a person who’s been inspired to some action (however small) by my words. My hope for you, parody-me, is that your words can inspire someone, too. But you must know that you can’t inspire anyone when you’re pretending to be someone you’re not. You can light a fire by telling the truth, but that flame can’t be sustained when you aren’t truthful about who you are.

I wish you happiness. I wish you joy. And I most fervently wish you truth.

Truly yours,

Lexi

AKA QueenInTheNorth (the real one)