Life often throws us moments that spark significant transformations. For me, the last presidential election was a turning point. By last summer, my nightly rants at the television had morphed into a cathartic writing spree; it was either that or I might have ended up in a straightjacket. The benefits were twofold: pouring my frustrations into writing was incredibly healing, and my 2-year-old became less prone to dropping surprise expletives. Kids, right?
Having experienced some success, I dove deeper into political writing. As a stay-at-home mom whose recent accomplishments revolved around showering and basic self-care, getting recognition for essays on domestic policy felt fantastic. I was rejuvenated—full of ambition and curiosity—almost as if I hadn’t spent years in the exhausting chaos of parenting. I felt like I was on top of the world!
That was until the so-called internet police showed up, clad in oversized shirts and loud leggings, ready to inform me of my social media transgressions. In between promoting their home-based ventures every fifteen minutes, these self-appointed enforcers had the audacity to declare my political musings unwelcome in their feeds.
I totally understand that we’re all fatigued by the chaos of the 2016 election. However, I firmly believe in the importance of being politically engaged, especially now that I’m a mother. While I get that we’re all tired of the news cycle, I don’t see the harm in scrolling past posts you don’t want to engage with. Besides, I’m not bombarding your timeline every quarter of an hour.
But, of course, that wasn’t sufficient for the internet patrol. It started with condescending reminders, akin to a traffic officer giving you a warning instead of a ticket. Annoying, yes, but not the worst. Then came the passive-aggressive posts, the sudden disinterest in neutral topics, and the inevitable “unfollows.” How do you discover these “unfollows”? You guessed it—through the aforementioned passive-aggressive posts.
This was irritating, but it paled in comparison to the next phase: community service. The leggings-clad enforcers transformed into a bizarre mix of judge, jury, and relentless sales pitch. Despite being publicly scorned for my political views, I was inundated with invitations to join live Facebook events and added to excessively enthusiastic groups without my consent (think: “Flamingos on Your Pants Should Be Life Goals”). I felt as if I were being pressured to donate my time and money toward causes championed by those who had just dismissed my opinions. All this because financial gain knows no political affiliation.
I had dealt with social media marketing before, but this felt different. I had been pushed aside for my beliefs, deemed irrelevant by people who used to enjoy my company—except when it came to my wallet. Where I could once easily ignore aggressive marketing, I now felt exploited. Each generic pitch dripped with a troubling insincerity that was hard to overlook.
As a pro tip, those leggings enthusiasts are as common as Tupperware parties from the ’90s. You can’t move without encountering one, and trust me, being judgmental will get you replaced quickly.
I may not agree with your methods, but I do understand your perspective. You likely view social media as a platform for uplifting quotes, light-hearted content, and, of course, selling products. I recognize that political discussions—especially those that don’t align with your views—can feel inappropriate, a glaring lack of self-awareness from a crowd eager to flaunt quirky attire.
Despite our differing opinions on fashion, I’m ready to meet you halfway. So here’s my apology: I regret if my politics make you uneasy… but maybe a little discomfort could benefit you.
Given that you profit from cozy pants, it makes sense you’d avoid anything uncomfortable. Sure, life ought to be all rainbows and butterflies, especially considering the steep price of some mediocre fabric. But while you’re preoccupied with seasonal prints, don’t forget about those who lack such luxuries. Their hunger won’t vanish with an “unfollow,” and their sickness can’t be cured with an angry emoji. Ignoring their struggles doesn’t make them disappear; in fact, your aversion to discomfort only prolongs their suffering.
So, the next time you encounter political commentary in your feed, resist the urge to roll your eyes. Embrace the discomfort; it’s where growth occurs (and trust me, you’ll eventually need to fit back into those jeans). I assure you, my intention isn’t to provoke. I write to advocate for change, no matter how small that change might be.
We’re all navigating this journey as best we can, so let’s strike a deal: I’ll cease discussing politics when you stop pushing your leggings onto me. Agreed?
Now, can we both acknowledge that such a compromise is as futile as bombing a Syrian airfield without actually hitting the runway? It’s simply not going to happen. We’re both passionate about what we do, and that’s perfectly okay because there’s room for diverse voices online. So, let’s put away the internet police badge—it’s divisive and frankly clashes with your outfit.
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Summary
In this piece, Jenna Thompson reflects on the personal growth she experienced after the 2016 presidential election, highlighting the tension between political discourse and social media marketing. While she values civic engagement, she expresses frustration with those who dismiss political commentary in favor of promoting their home-based businesses, specifically leggings. Ultimately, she advocates for mutual respect and understanding on social media platforms, suggesting that discomfort can lead to growth.