It’s funny how sometimes we are more logical as children than when we are older. I blame high school for feeding me the forbidden fruit of self-consciousness. Now if my writing was bad, or didn’t fit within a stifling set of criteria, the consequences were splashed in hideous block letters on my school report. The more I chased academic success and validation, the further I ran from allowing myself to be bad at anything.

It suddenly didn’t matter if anyone would ever read what I was writing, or knew that I was writing at all. An invisible audience now peered over my shoulder; my secret universe was corrupted by my own insecurity, the most judgemental, pervasive critic I had come across. I once read a quote by Clarice Lispector that seemed to express how writing began to feel across my teenage years;

“When I reread what I’ve written, I feel like I’m swallowing my own vomit.”

And that violent, convulsive sickness I now got from rereading my own words, the encroachment of that invisible critic, lead to the birth of this very Substack page.

The snake seemed to have eaten its’ own tail in January of this year; I was spending another summer at the very bottom of the globe, an untamed landscape still wild with ancient forests, tumbling green hills and the sun-soaked sea. I think this type of environment, untouched by the civilisation 2000 kilometres back home, always emboldens me into my braver creative decisions. Wandering up and down the storm-coloured shoreline, I decided on a whim to make my own Substack publication like the ones I had been perusing over the previous months. It seemed the natural next step in improving my writing—composing, editing, and publishing finalised works that can then be publicly read and critiqued seemed like the perfect exposure therapy. My secret universe, plagued by the elusive, invisible critic, needed to be unlocked so that actual critics could read it and give me an opinion outside of my own imagined ones.

I’d love to say that Tall Poppy Syndrome fixed all of my anxieties about my writing capabilities, but if that were the case I would not be sitting here typing this out right now. Rather than feel excited at the thought of people reading and subscribing to my work, works that I had written and edited and initially deemed decent enough to publish online, I felt visceral dread. Was it embarrassing? Cringey? Melodramatic? Was it bad?

The most unbearable torture of all was when friends or family mentioned my writing to me in person, or even worse, read it in front of me. There were many times I smiled and laughed good-naturedly, pretending as though my disembowelled insides didn’t lay exposed across the floor. Of course I’m aware how silly and overdramatised all of this really is—after all, people can only access all of this because I put it there—but just because a sensible person can identify an irrational fear does not prevent that sensible person from being irrationally fearful. You can still choose to board a plane despite being afraid of flying, and be afraid of flying regardless of knowing the improbability of a plane crash.

My fear at its’ fundamental core is being a bad writer who is mistaken in thinking they are a good writer. Being bad at something I care a lot about, and have loved doing since I learned that writing could be a lot more than just kindergarten weekend recounts, is frightening to me. And this is a fear that has only developed in the last 6 years of my life; fed by my shameless need to receive compliments from teachers and shiny A’s across all of my assignments, to the point that everything I write and do must receive its’ own cutthroat mark from the invisible critic, from myself. I would be far more justified in fearing this if I were to believe myself a good writer in the first place, but I’ve never written because I’ve thought myself talented at it, but rather because I love to do it. How am I supposed to ever confront the fear of being deluded about my writing quality if I was never deluded to begin with?

I’ve had this concept stored within my vault of Substack ideas since I wrote my first post. I’ve never reread my first Substack post since the week I published it (defeating the purpose of my thesis here, but I digress) however I can recall the inadequacy I felt and hopelessly tried to deny whilst drafting that first piece. I was envious of the many writers on this platform who could weave prose worthy of museum display, or articulate emotions I hadn’t even been conscious of experiencing. However, by contorting my voice to imitate the writers I wished to be like, I was shooting myself in the foot; my writing is so much more authentic, so much better when I lean into how I really am feeling, including if I’m feeling like an insecure, jealous bitch. Hence this think piece.

This essay will, unfortunately, not cure me of my anxieties about whether or not I’m a good writer, or if anyone else thinks I’m a good writer. But what it does do is hold me accountable, force me to look this phobia in the face and recognise it as something to grow from rather than avoid. My antidote is not to view myself as a good writer at all, but rather to actively seek improvement and critique instead of imagine what it may look like and shy away from it. The worst that can come from criticism is wounded pride—the worst that can come from an avoidance of criticism is remaining static in my skill.

There’s a reason I haven’t written anything for the last few months, aside from the increased schedules that come with senior high school; I needed time to take a good look at myself as a writer and question all of these hang ups. I’ve always thought that one of the most important characteristics of an artist is self-awareness and a thorough understanding of yourself, or at the very least, a desire to understand your identity. My favourite writers are only able to dissect humanity the way they can because they have first dissected themselves; examining every detail of the ugliest parts in order to craft that same detail in characters, or analyse said parts in an essay. My quality of writing depends almost entirely on if I recognise my flaws and insecurities.

Over the course of writing this I began to scrawl a list of rules into my commonplace journal. These rules were to be followed in order to gradually unburden myself of the invisible critic that had buried itself in my brain, forcing me to lose sense of any privacy or self-pleasure within my writing. I doubt this list will remain exactly as it does in this post, however it is definitely a start within this long, painstaking process.

Rules for my writing (in the making):

1. Lean into insecurity and your own emotional state. Stop trying to be someone else and write like you.

2. Reread your own writing, no matter how much you hate it. What do you like about it? What don’t you like about it? What exactly would you improve? Your old self can’t actually hurt you.

3. Don’t wait by the phone for the perfect idea or choice of words to call. Bad writing is still better than no writing at all.

4. Edit AFTER writing, not during. Do not get into a spiral of editing and editing and editing the same paragraph you wrote 5 minutes ago because you still aren’t Donna Tartt or Toni Morrison.

5. Seek feedback and honest opinions. A bruise is temporary, but a lack of change is forever.

6. Remember that private writing, unless you share it with someone, is private. Writing is allowed to be a selfish act if you only intend the audience to be yourself.

As I sit at my drink-stained desk, staring into my laptop screen like the reflection of a transcribed looking glass, I have no idea whether anything I’ve written is good. Maybe I’ll post this and people will tell me they hate it, or think its’ poorly written, or maybe they’ll tell me they love it and that I’ve had nothing to worry about. I truly don’t know. But I encourage you to tell me whether you love it or hate it. Was it embarrassing? Cringey? Melodramatic? Bad even? Was it the word choice, the excessive use of commas and italics, the stench of an inferiority complex? I’d love to hear it. And even better, I’d love to learn from it.

I want to be a tall poppy too!

I’ve always loved anything to do with words and communication. Ideas tumbled out of my mouth into speech the second I learned to talk, and streamed in hand-smudged ink the moment I learned to write. I hastily began to devour books and history and law, the preserved ideas of others. When I learnt I could announce my ideas I entered public speaking competitions, and won those too. I am a one-trick pony; if it is something to do with the conveyance of ideas and beliefs, I am enraptured. I have a Substack account, proof enough of this phenomenon. No matter the format, the nucleus remains the same—everything is a discussion.

It’s true that my voice often fills the room, but the moments I’ve savoured the most are the rooms filled with everyone’s voice but mine. I love to talk and write but I also love to listen and read; I gorge myself on the opinions and experiences of others, regardless of the taste it leaves in my mouth. My contribution to the table is my own thoughts and life, devoured by some and spat out by others. Discussion is the dinner table we remain seated at for the rest of our lives; it will bring us closer together, tear us apart, and heal broken bonds. Discussion underlies all speech, all media, all legislation, all history. Our identities are shaped by the discussions we have digested throughout our lives.

I used to naively believe that debate was discussion in a competitive, academic format; that verbal and written sparring was some kind of intellectually superior version of the discussions we come across. However, debate is nothing but a sterile imitation of discussion, discarding the humanity and complexity of discussion in search of something else—the self-indulgence of righteousness. Specifically online, debate is inescapable, the commercialised substitute of discussion that leaves the consumer constantly hungry for more, without ever quite fulfilling them. Oh the tooth-rotting sweetness of being right. Makes you almost forget the emptiness of your stomach, and soon your head.

Something about debate content has always left a sour taste in my mouth. I don’t say that to appear more honourable than everyone else, because it makes complete sense why many of us consume debate content. There is something so pleasing about watching a man as repulsive as Charlie Kirk or Ben Shapiro be humiliated over and over again by people half their age. Except this is the fundamental fallacy debate content prospers on—because no one actually will ever humble Kirk, Shapiro, or any other right-wing grifter. These people are bred and survive through debate and discourse, not only because it is their main source of income and attention, but also because of the composition of debate itself.

My mother has always advised me to only speak when I have something to say, rather than speak for the sake of speaking, and that the person who only opens their mouth when they have something to say, will always be more listened to than the one who constantly speaks. What she means is to differentiate two types of conversationalists—those who talk in order to gain attention and appear worldly to others, and those who talk in order to engage genuinely in a subject. Even though she has always meant this about people, this same wisdom can be applied in comparing discussion and debate; to discuss is to only speak valuably, and to debate is to be the loudest at the table. It’s not particularly hard to work out which of those options people like Kirk and Shapiro take part in (I don’t think either of them could say anything valuable if they tried).

However, this is not just a flaw within far-right debaters, but integral to debate itself. The aim of debate is not to become more knowledgeable or open-minded, but to win, and this key distinction is why no one ever will humble these men. You cannot win if you admit that the opposing side has a point. Not only does this mean that political debates push people further into extremes rather than open spaces for conversation on complex topics, but the goal of winning morally and intellectually has created discourse-driven media companies, such as Jubilee.

A self-described centrist corporation, Jubilee has presented inarguable topics like human rights as being debate-worthy. This is a deliberate move in order to gain the most views; the matters discussed are often politically divisive, such as abortion or slavery. And by appearing to not favour a specific side, Jubilee can create the sensation that which ever side the audience aligns with is winning. If the viewer is left-leaning, they may falsely believe that the leftist college student has actually taught Charlie Kirk something. And if the viewer is right-leaning, then they may be deluded that Kirk absolutely owned the woke-a-cola college student. Both sides of the political spectrum are witnessing the same video, and interpreting the winner through the lens of their own ego. And so a winner can be identified through debate—it’s not the college students, or Kirk. It’s Jubilee. And until their 10 million subscribers stop licking the debate plate clean, they will continue to win every time.

My mother’s take on conversationalists also rings true when observing internet discourse outside of traditional debate content, even within the same political fringes. This type of debate is much easier to mistake as discussion due to its’ less conventional environment, however the perpetual use of extremes is internet debate’s give away. Everything within online discourse is measured in extremes, stripped of its’ intricacy until whatever buzzword ingredients are left. Online controversy this way is hardly ever discussion, because the participants are typically not interested in anything but preaching their own opinions on the latest hot topic, the reward being views and moral superiority.

A recent instance of this is the discourse surrounding the release of the cover art for Sabrina Carpenter’s upcoming album Man’s Best Friend, in which she is posed on her hands and knees, her hair being grabbed by a faceless individual (assumed to be a man) in a suit. The cover art’s suggestive depiction of female submission sparked both internet backlash and support, ensuing heated debate amongst leftist fans and critics on the art’s ethics.

What I found so intriguing about the discourse was that much of its’ most impassioned contributors were apart of the same leftist beliefs, and yet were opposing in their stances. Doom scrolling on TikTok at the height of the conflict allowed me to witness the extremes many creators spoke about the cover. Some argued that the cover art was just as regressive to feminism as extremist OF creator Bonnie Blue, and the recent advertisement for Sydney Sweeney’s bathwater soap in which she addresses the audience with, “Hello you dirty little boys.” Two scrolls down others disputed, stating that Carpenter’s album cover was an expression of female-gaze sexuality, and that anyone who disagreed had allied themselves with purity culture. What bothered me was that hardly anyone seemed willing to view the cover from more than one angle1, which after further inspection I know is characteristic of debate; to acknowledge that the opposition is right is to confess that you did not completely triumph. Debate also reduces multi-faceted subjects to attention-grabbing, emotive bullet points, a trait common amongst the content created by both Carpenter’s supporters and detractors.

I won’t overly elaborate on my own take. I think at best it was poor lamp shading, and at worst made harmful reference to 1950s imagery of women being abused by their husbands. However, the critiques thrown around in online discourse were often absurd in their extremity. Sabrina Carpenter did not set feminism back 100 years, but the cover art is also not ingenious satire misunderstood by the public—it’s just bad. Debate often removes the liberating concept that many things can be true at once, and the most vocal debaters also often forget that their opinions on a topic are just opinions. Matters open to conversation are open due to their subjectivity, and objective matters, such as fundamental human rights, are inarguable. To claim otherwise is to lack self-awareness, but I suppose that is something else to debate me on.

The growing inability to understand other perspectives makes debate an undiscovered culprit of Gen-Z’s growing apathy. It is entirely rational to not empathise with right-wing debaters (especially because, unless you are a cisgender, straight, white, upper-class male, they won’t make much effort to empathise with you), however seeing the humanity in someone does not relegate you to agree or even understand them. Rather, it compels you to view them holistically, as an entirely complicated person who lives on the same earth at the same time as you do. If anything this can actually make you loathe the other person even more, because it is so sickening that another human being would ever hold such beliefs.

And it’s for this reason that we are prone to choosing the sheltering option of debate—discussion forces us to reckon with the disorder of humanity and ourselves. Discussion can be harrowing. It can be difficult trying to comprehend someone’s views or educate them, and it can sometimes prove more uncomfortable to be educated, or exposingly understood by the other person. But this emotional rawness is crucial, and completely missed within debate. Discussion humanises, meanwhile debate simplifies complex individuals into walking representations of political and cultural opinions. If we lose the capacity to listen to others at the risk of being wrong or vulnerable, to put it frankly there is nothing deeper than surface level discourse left.

I had noted whilst planning this essay that the issues and limitations of debate could be identified within 3 groups of people; the vocal pride of the participants’ in their own virtues, competing to be the loudest, smartest, most moral at the table; the glutinous consumption of viewers, binging on debate content until they fancy themselves winners too; and the greed of corporations, who yield from the poisoning of participants and audiences alike. Discussion is a shared banquet of thought, tasting and nourishing oneself until you fingertips are stained and your spirit is light. Debate, though also a form of consumption, is scarcely alike. There is something so individualistic about debating an opinion—you do not leave space for the other person to carefully chew on and digest your words. And you can only chew for so long until you starve.

I want to be a tall poppy too!

This tranquillity is only capable of prospering in precise circumstances, like flower buds requiring the perfect ecosystem to bloom. My skin feels flushed and exposed, hot from the blaring absence of others if I’m alone for 5 minutes at lunch. The taste of coffee bitters on my tongue at the eyesore of the empty chair facing me at the school cafe. I can’t help but anxiously glance over my shoulder, paranoid I’ve been caught in the appearance of friendlessness. I’m dying for someone to come and talk to me. What was once observation sours into voyeurism.

It’s not sadness that is at the forefront of such loneliness—it’s embarrassment. I feel ashamed of myself that for even several minutes I could appear to be isolated, in spite of thriving in isolation at other times. I feel anxious at being caught in the act of friendlessness, like being seen sporting an unfortunate outfit by someone you know. Loneliness can be humiliating.

Whilst considering this sensation over several days, I decided to Google if any psychology studies had been focused on the embarrassment of loneliness, only to come up empty. It can be theorised that there is a psychological, instinctual aspect behind shameful loneliness; human beings were hardwired to gravitate towards larger collectives and groups for survival. That instinct has now been modernised in order to socially survive, to avoid ostracisation. I’ve witnessed other students notice a person sitting alone, and promptly begin to dissect what could possibly be wrong with them in order for this to happen. The immediate assumption is that the person is broken in some form, tarnished beyond socialising. In media, introversion is often portrayed as a flaw the shy, awkward character overcomes throughout the narrative. It is a perceived negative trait. And this has influenced why I feel so ashamed to be exposed as existing by myself for a moment—I’ve witnessed the fault-searching stares lonesome people have been subjected to. The natural, selfish reaction is to feel anxious of the same fate.

The “Shameful loneliness” phenomenon has mutated with the rise of social media and the digital age. It has evolved from the embarrassment of sitting alone to being omnipresent. My Instagram account has eroded the relief of private, hidden solitude; my isolation (by choice or not) can be determined through the prying gaze of a thirsty mutual. How often I add candid photos of friends to my highlights, how often I’m tagged in posts, the number of followers displayed in white digits on my profile1. No matter if anyone cares enough to search my account for such information, or if I am even concerned about the pitifulness of my Instagram presence. The sensation of never completely existing truly and comfortably alone is enough to recall the empty school cafe chair.

Productivity culture has only further fostered this environment, like steam feeding the blackening mold of a bathroom. We’re expected to maximise our lives completely, slicing our minutes into the surgical segments of a pie chart; school, work, loved ones. To spend those minutes alone in public spaces, environments that serve as social terrain, is considered wasteful.

The slow endeavour of eliminating this line of thinking has been liberating. I’ve always been a person to value personal solitude—there have been more times in my life where I have found loneliness more comforting than other people. Even with this, I still feel self-conscious about being perceivably alone. Prior to planning and writing this Substack post, my own insecure cage was unexamined. I had hardly even taken notice of its’ bars. After writing, I’m not entirely free of the sensation, but rather self aware. I’m currently alone at the school cafe, and not once have I glanced over my shoulder or questioned if anyone is observing my isolation a little too closely. Once this is published, I’ll be entirely laid bare. Many people I know read my Substack (hello to those here) and they’ll all now be aware of the prickling uneasiness I had felt every single time they had walked past me alone. The thought of this is uncomfortable to say the least, but I think its’ important.

Enjoying your own company is essential in a world with the expectation of constant availability. Not only does it provide moments to retire into self-exploration and reflection, but it makes time spent socialising with others more meaningful. For someone as chatty as I am I get extreme social fatigue very quickly. Without intentional and unintentional solitude I would have gone mad by now. I would not be able to find meaning and enjoyment with friends and family. If you cannot even find meaning within your own self, how can you do that in the company of others?

Deliberately or not, eat alone at cafes. March alone across one end of the shops to the other. I find I notice the most about humanity when I’m by myself. Because you never completely are, are you? I have my own person for company, and that can sometimes be more than enough.

I want to be a tall poppy too!

Depending on the person, the mention of the alternative music festival Woodstock may conjure two polar opposite images; one of a ‘60s festival brimming with harmony, free love and hippie optimism-and one of what could only be described as a ‘90s wasteland lit ablaze by frenzied youth.

Commonly referred to as the “death of the ‘90s”, Woodstock ‘99 was located on Griffiss Air Force Base in Rome, N.Y. It was the third of its kind (after 69’, the most notable, and 94’), and remembered to have been the catastrophic result of poor planning and hyper-agitated teens and young adults. This is due to the festivals’ rampant sexual violence, poor conditions, extreme pricing of food and water, brutal crowd injuries, and fiery end. The Woodstock brand was discontinued after the calamitous results, and remains a popular discussion of bacchanalian behaviour and ‘90s history. Documentaries, books, podcasts, and more have attempted to dissect what exactly caused the destruction that would ensue, as well as the loss of the initial festival’s pacifist ideology. However, what interested me was how the Woodstocks each acquired their own mythos and legacy; through time, community, culture, gender, power, and socialisation, Woodstock has become synonymous with the generation that attended it-regardless of how accurate that representation is.

My research process for my Mini PIP was not always smooth, however it was always captivating. When I first thought of the idea I immediately began to rewatch the Netflix docuseries Trainwreck: Woodstock ‘99, which had first introduced me to the event. I personally disliked the compositional choices made within the docuseries itself, however it was instrumental in creating a chronological timeline, which proved vital in my research. After reintroducing myself to the sequence of events of Woodstock ‘99, I further developed my research question that would guide my mini PIP; How did the death of the hippie movement, capitalism, and the moral panic of youth crime create Woodstock ‘99 and its’ legacy?

In order to answer this, I structured my PIP chapters accordingly; my first chapter begins with an examination of the 1960s, the hippie movement, and how that contributed to Woodstock ‘69 and its mythos. I then analysed the 1990s, and how the changing politics, culture, gender expectations ultimately produced Woodstock ‘94 and induced the conditions for Woodstock ‘99. In my third chapter, I then revealed how Woodstock ‘99 unfolded due to these factors.

My research relied heavily on secondary data gathered from interviews, articles, podcasts, and books. This was due to the challenge of not personally knowing eye witnesses at any Woodstock festival, however I was able to collect primary evidence of how Woodstock has been conceptualised and remembered amongst the general public. This was through a survey and interview with an individual who, though not actually present at Woodstock ‘99, was a young adult during the time interested in many of the artists and genres in attendance. Unfortunately, the interview transcript was lost due to technical difficulties (which was a major challenge in my research process), however it has instead been paraphrased within my mini PIP.

I have come here to lose the smog/ And I feel to be cog/ In something turning

Despite writing and singing the 1970 folk song “Woodstock”, Joni Mitchell actually declined performing at Woodstock due to scheduling issues. She wrote her hit song imagining the perspective of someone attending, later stating in an interview that “Woodstock…impressed me as being like a modern-day fishes-and-loaves story. For a herd of people that large to cooperate so well, it was pretty remarkable and there was tremendous optimism.”1 Mitchell was not the only one who would feel this way about a festival she didn’t attend; media surrounding Woodstock 69 would flourish into the flower-power utopia that it is now remembered for.

The Woodstock Music & Art Fair was located at Yasgur's Farm in Bethel, N.Y, and ran from August 15th-18th, 1969. An estimated 500,000 people attended the festival, many of whom did not pay, in order to witness the popular acts performing, such as The Who, Janis Joplin, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Joan Baez, and most notably, Jimi Hendrix. Despite its’ polished reputation, Woodstock experienced many problems, from organisational issues to lawlessness within the crowd. The festival experienced unprecedented amounts of rainfall, which caused the grounds to become extremely muddy, delay performances, block roads, cause sanitation issues, and even risk mass electrocution due to the exposed wiring and use of electric instruments2. The event promoters only supplied food and water to cater for 50,000 people, resulting in shortages. There was no security on site in order to maintain Woodstock’s peaceful messaging, however this failed to consider the abundance of attendees, nor their actions; many reports describe individuals publicly having sex, as well as excessive amounts of drug use, specifically hallucinogens like LSD and marijuana3. The lack of security lead to the preventable deaths of 17 year old Raymond Mizsak, who was run over by a tractor whilst asleep, and Richard Bieler, whose death was ruled as an overdose though may have actually been hyperthermia4. Music critic Steven Hyden would later clarify Mitchell’s song, “It’s worth noting that the song Woodstock, Joni Mitchell’s classic anthem about a generation trying to get back to the garden, was written about a festival that was declared a disaster area.”5

Although the organisation for Woodstock was deficient , the ethos of Woodstock is what has withstood the test of time. Woodstock took place in the late 1960s, a time in history famous for the Civil Rights Movement, the Countercultural Movement, Second-Wave Feminism, the Stonewall Riots, and the Vietnam War6. The Vietnam War was especially essential in fuelling Woodstock’s fire; the war was heavily protested against by young people, and greatly influenced Woodstock’s anti-violence values. The product of this was the Hippie movement7, a counterculture valuing communal living, free love, anti-war, anti-consumerism, individualism and psychedelic drug use. Hippies are now the backbone for Woodstock ‘69-not only due to it being the event’s target audience, but also because it fuelled Woodstock’s ethos and controversy; older generations especially disapproved of Woodstock’s far-left politics and audience, and many were concerned about the frequent hazards, overdoses, and deaths occurring during the festival.

In spite of the infamy of these concerns have not been remembered within the public memory. In a survey question asking participants what images they associated with Woodstock ‘69, many people mentioned words and names such as hippies, Jimi Hendrix, drugs, peace and love, and rock & roll. These images reveal Woodstock’s presiding legacy-free from the initial festival’s disorder. This legacy was influenced not only by media highlighting Woodstock’s passiveness, such as Mitchell’s song or the 1970 Academy award-winning documentary about Woodstock, but by the collective retrospect shared of the 1960s, and the benefit of hindsight for the following two Woodstocks over 20 years later.

You don’t really know why/But you want to justify ripping someone’s head off

In a survey conducted about Woodstock, one participant recounted how the media at the time of Woodstock ‘94 commented on the festival. The participant wrote, “I remember music commentators of the time talking about how commercial it was compared to 1969. Although it tried to embrace the vibe of 1969 it failed miserably as a social generational event.”

By the 1990s the zeitgeist had greatly shifted since the first Woodstock. The ‘90s, though now warmed by the nostalgia of more primitive technology and a pre-9/11 and 2008 GFC America, were an unsure time. If adults during the 1960s were concerned about the rebellious, political youth, that same criticised generation now feared for the futures of teens and young adults. The early ‘90s marked the rise of grunge bands such as Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden, which attempted to usher realism about the state of the U.S after the artificial perfection of the 1980s. The 1990s also created the “Riot Grrrl” movement, a feminist punk-rock genre pioneered by artists such as Bikini Kill and Bratmobile. Hip-hop also skyrocketed in popularity through artists such as 2pac, Beastie Boys, Lauryn Hill, and more. By the late ‘90s, the “Nu Metal” movement had prospered, led by artists such as Limp Bizkit, Korn, and Deftones, and incorporated elements of hip-hop and heavy metal.

The development of the rock and hip-hop genres would not be initially celebrated. Many news outlets during the ‘90s incited fear about the influence of “rebellious” and “antisocial” music, as well as other popular contemporary young adult media8. The rise of video games such as Mortal Kombat opened conversations about the influence violence presented in video games could have on children, stirring further concerns.

Youth crime statistics had decreased over the decade, however “tough-on-crime” policies aimed at juvenile delinquents were introduced9, as well as pseudo-scientific terms like the “juvenile super predator”10, inciting fear in adults and parents. This was all the offspring of the 1980s “Satanic Panic”11, a moral panic that demonised rock music and horror films for allegedly brainwashing adolescents into satanic worship.

These public fears caused campaigns such as Drug Abuse Resistance Education (D.A.R.E)12, which attempted to frighten adolescents away from drugs, gang violence, and juvenile crime. However the program’s “just say no” mentality proved ineffective in preventing drug use, as the program also exaggerated certain facts. The parents of the 1990s, despite being the condemned Woodstock attendees of the 1960s, were wildly concerned about juvenile crime, drug use, and gang crime, resulting in the youth crime moral panic of the decade.

This discourse was regurgitated during Woodstock ‘94, which had been promoter Michael Lang’s venture to revive hippie sentiments of the ‘60s 25 years later. Located in Saugerties, N.Y from August 12th-15th, Woodstock ‘94 set a precedent for what was to come 5 years later; artists such as Green Day and Nine Inch Nails, diverted greatly from the folk-ness of the ‘60s, representing a cultural change. The festival would later be nicknamed “Mudstock” due to the sheer amount of mud caused by poor weather13. However, the festival was mainly criticised for its’ soulless commodification of ‘60s values. Rock journalist James Greene Jnr. would later describe it as a “corporate jack-off music festival disguised as some kind of important cultural event for the young generation,”14. If only journalists knew about what was ahead of them.

Let me stand next to your fire

The loss of ‘60s virtues and youth crime would ultimately produce the Lord of the Flies disaster that is Woodstock ‘99. Following the Columbine shooting, an event that showcased the pervasiveness of gun violence in schools, Woodstock promoters Michael Lang and John Scher planned to re-introduce Woodstock 30 years after its inception. This was in order to promote peacefulness amongst youth, the original principle of Woodstock ‘96. Aside from a brightly illustrated “peace wall” bordering the entire site in order to prevent unpaying individuals from attending, the event did not seem to encourage peace and anti-establishment whatsoever.

Rather, Woodstock ‘99 had leaned further into using hippie imagery as marketing; a festival for drugs, sex, and rock&roll. The presence of MTV, a company that by the late ‘90s embodied the corporate music industry rather than its subculture origins, stirred resentment further within the crowd. The promoters also continued to follow the trend of illogical executive decisions, such as inviting hard rock musicians to perform at an event focused on replicating the original Woodstock, as well as providing easily breakable water fountains that were scarce in supply. Food vendors had no price ceiling, allowing for price gouging on limited food and water during the unbearable July heat, which was only made more unbearable by the lack of trees and shade on site. There were also no adequate security-instead a “Peace Patrol” was hired, which consisted of young adults with little-no prior experience wearing yellow t-shirts. Supposedly this was to follow the ethos of the festival, however speculation has occurred that this was budget-cutting.

Although the poor governing of Woodstock ‘99 played a consequential role in Woodstock ‘99’s outcome, the demographic of the audience was also at fault. Photographs and footage of Woodstock ‘99 display a majorly, White, Cisgendered, Straight male population between the ages of teenagers and frat-boy college students. Evidence of the festival reveals dangerous and violent behaviour from many of the men within this demographic, such as excessive drug use, fights, and sexual harassment. Despite the decrease of youth crime by 1999, sexual violence and rape against women was almost normalised by the end of Woodstock ‘99’s run; David Schnieder, a volunteer present, would recall horrifically that, “They were pushed in against their will and really raped. From my vantage point, it looked like initially there was a struggle, and after that there were other people holding them down. It seemed like most of the crowd around was cheering them on. No one I saw tried to rescue them. There clearly wasn’t anything I could do….”15 This is just one chilling example of the organiser’s neglect and the toxic masculinity of the audience; the violent men within the crowd were allowed to perpetuate such behaviour due to the promoter’s failure to protect women through security. Neither Lang nor Scher take accountability for this negligence, Scher stating in the 2022 Netflix documentary Trainwreck: Woodstock ‘99, ““There were a lot of women who voluntarily had their tops off. Then you get into a mosh pit and you crowd surf. Could somebody have touched their breasts? Yes, I’m sure they did. What could I have done about it? I’m not sure I could have done anything.”

By Sunday, attendees had grown restless from the price gouging, the presence of MTV, the poor sanitation, the heat, the lack of accountability from promoters, and the persistent drugs and alcohol, when one more lapse of judgement from the promotors caused everything to spill over. A surprise had been announced to be unveiling at the end of the festival, which provided incentive for the dissatisfied thousands to remain until the bitter end. Rumours circulated that artists such as Guns N’ Roses, Bob Dylan, The Grateful Dead, and even Michael Jackson were performing a surprise set after the Red Hot Chili Peppers, however these predictions would all prove incorrect. Instead, a candle-lit vigil had been announced to commemorate Columbine, which resulted in Peace Patrol officers handing out 100 000 lit candles into the crowd. This served as the catalyst for what had been building up all weekend, and Griffiths Air Force Base would go up in flames to the tune of the Pepper’s cover of Fire by Jimi Hendrix.

Woodstock ‘99 has remained a polarising event since its occurrence. Its outcome was the build-up of long term factors such as capitalism, the death of the hippie movement, and the youth crime dilemma, and sparked by short term factors such as crowd aggression, drug use, and poor decision-making. When asked what images were brought to mind about Woodstock ‘99, many participants listed words and terms such as violence, anarchy, sexual assault, fire, riots, and even Limp Bizkit, who was particularly blamed by promotors and the media for encouraging destruction within the crowd. Though it is impossible to identify lead singer Fred Durst’s true mindset during his performance, to say that his scheduled performance of the song “Break Stuff” was the sole defect producing the rest of Woodstock ‘99 is uninformed. Such an opinion disregards the long term and short term problems ultimately creating the monster of Woodstock ‘99, and instead places unfair blame on artists who were hired to energise and entertain crowds. The events of Sunday at Woodstock ‘99 would have transpired regardless of Limp Bizkit’s Saturday performance.

However one may feel about Woodstock ‘99, its’ clear throughout research that without the long term and short term effects explored, the event would not only have not turned out disastrously, it wouldn’t have come about altogether. In the words of an interviewee, “You cannot replicate a cultural event like the 1960s. You just can’t do it-the political, social, and cultural landscape has changed too much. Instead what happens, is a regurgitation of those aesthetics, which is now used to sell an era.”

I want to be a tall poppy too!

TikTok was banned for a frightening 12 hours before being “saved” by Donald Trump, who was unfortunately inaugurated the next day on the 20th of January. Project 2025 will soon come into effect, mass deportations have already begun across the United States, and if the American government wasn’t a fascist oligarchy made up of silicon valley billionaires before (which don’t be stupid of course it was), then it sure is now. Not to mention that in my home country of Australia, our own version of Trump will be running for prime minister in just a matter of months.

During the absolute shit show of the 74th US inauguration, richest man on earth Elon Musk was, lamentably, difficult to miss, behaving like some kind of frenzied cheerleader for the ochre toad taking office1. During a speech expressing his gratitude for the Republican audience around him, Musk brazenly extended his right arm towards the crowd, keeping his arm straight and palm turned downward, in what was a Nazi salute. He then repeated the gesture towards the American flag behind him. This all occurred on live television, and was even blurred out in several countries.

Immediately after occurrence there was plenty of discourse online about if people had actually witnessed what had just happened. Many of Musk’s supporters took to social media and internet platforms to deny Musk’s actions, exclaiming that it was the Roman or Bellamy salutes, which just happen to look similar, and are a totally normal and a common thing to do on live television at a far right inauguration!

Despite the online misinformation, there is no historical evidence that the Roman salute was ever used in Ancient Rome at all. The first emergence of the salute can be traced back to the 1784 painting Oath of the Horatii by Jacques-Louis David. The painting depicts the three Horatii brothers of Ancient Rome swearing towards the protection of the Roman Republic against the enemy city of Alba. The painting was created during the French Revolution, when many French revolutionist republicans compared their beliefs to those of the Roman Republic2.

Centuries later, American minister and author Francis Bellamy would create the Bellamy salute to be enacted whilst reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, which at the time he had also written. This salute looked practically identical to the Roman Salute. By the late 1910s, Italian fascists and nationalists adopted the Roman salute as their own, and by 1926, the salute had also been adopted and made compulsory by the National Socialist German Worker’s Party. The Roman salute, now known as the Nazi salute, would be made globally infamous by Adolf Hitler, though had already been synonymous with fascism decades prior. The Bellamy salute was finally retired from use on December 22nd 1942, due to being indistinguishable with the Nazi salute3.

If you clicked on this think piece, I doubt you need much convincing about what kind of salute Elon Musk did, however many individuals online have still disputed over the intent behind the action. This lead to the creation of the TikTok sound by @cameronjerrad, where Cameron exclaims the ridiculousness of justifying Musk’s actions as the “Roman salute” (inspiring the name of this think piece thank you). Though the polarisation can be partially explained by just how abrupt and shocking the salute was that is is hard to reckon with its’ happening, there are deeper historical implications to this. Because of course there are.

Debate, erasure, and misremembrance of historical events isn’t new. Historical events such as the Nakba, the Holocaust, the Armenian genocide, Portuguese colonialism, Japanese imperialism, and more have been commonly denied and overlooked both shortly after occurring, and even hundred of years later, despite an abundance of historical evidence. Even ongoing genocides, such as the Palestinian, Congolese, and Sudanese genocides, are heavily debated about in the media despite tangible documentation of the horrors experienced every day at the hands of oppressors.

This phenomenon is called historical negationism4, which is the deliberate misremembrance of historical events used to propagandise, or support the claims of a specific political agenda. This is most famously portrayed in George Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984, in which the main character literally rewrites historical records and evidence in order to support the continuously evolving political narrative of The Party, the novel’s corrupt government5.

All of this has reminded me of an experiment studied in my high school psychology class, Asch’s Conformity Test. Psychologist Solomon Asch had wanted to research the extent of which humans will conform with the rest of a group in order to fit in, even when the group is discernibly wrong. A series of psychological experiments were thus conducted, in which a participant was seated amongst a group of actors (in the belief that the actors around them were also participants) whilst a researcher showed the group a sequence of slides. Each slide would feature several lines, and the group would be asked which line was the longest. Often times the actors would answer incorrectly, and the participant would follow suit. This was in spite of how obvious it was the group was mistaken. Asch’s research uncovered that majority of participants would conform with the majority even when that majority was visibly wrong; it didn’t matter how plainly the truth could be portrayed, the participant would still often times accept the narrative presented in fear of ostracisation6.

Let this year’s presidential inaugeration be a lesson to you. If something feels wrong, if something you are being told by the authority or people around you doesn’t sit well with you, I can almost guarantee you are correct. Trusting gut feelings and your own instinctual and researched judgement are imperative during a moment in history where the truth may be so obvious and somehow, still be distorted. Vocally expressing your awareness and intolerance of a political narrative being pushed towards you is vital in preserving freedom of speech, something of which Elon Musk himself has expressed wanting to protect. Tech billionaires and politicians are not your friends and are not obligated to truth. Do not let a fascist, anti-Semitic salute be repackaged as an expression of compassion and American history. Just like the lines in Asch’s experiments, the truth is right in front of you.

Share tall poppy syndrome

New year’s resolutions have a history far more extensive than initially thought; foundations for the resolution can be traced back to an ancient Babylonian king approximately 4000 years ago, who had publicly vowed during the beginning of the new year (at the time occurring during the spring equinox) to be a better ruler for his people1. Then in 45 BCE, Roman leader Julius Caesar installed the “Julian Calendar”, which was the first calendar to begin the year on January 1st. Not only did religious festivities and rituals during the new year encourage renewal, but smaller acts such as spring cleaning, mending old debts, and making promises of personal improvement began to become standard.

These ancient groundworks wouldn’t be further elaborated on until early Puritan America, where emphasis was placed on self-reflection and introspection over dissipation. This then popularised, and modernised, the Roman custom of religious resolutions. Some of these resolutions included abstaining from alcohol consumption or avoiding gossip.

By the 19th century, new years resolutions had lost much of their religious origins, and by the 20th century, many had already lost faith in their success. An article released by the The Miami Daily News in 1938 discouraged women from making “glittering resolutions which you know in your heart are as brittle as Christmas tree ornaments, wedding vows, or campaign promises.” Another article, released in 1941 by The Afro-American Times, agreed with the modern sentiment that many do not form resolutions due to their inability to be upheld2.

Today in Australia (where I am from), almost 75% of individuals are expected to create 2025 new year’s resolutions, with the most popular resolutions being health and fitness related3. Though, many specifically Gen Z individuals are opting out of the traditional new years resolution, and instead popularising “ins and outs” lists.

Often displayed in the form of notes app screenshots or typed up in Times New Roman on a Google Doc, ins and outs lists typically portray a few nouns or sentences that quickly paint an image of the users’ idealised year. Many “ins” lists include things like clothing items, niche interests, and virtuous habits, whereas “outs” lists often discuss ditching mainstream culture, undesirable habits, and anything else the user deems repugnant or unsatisfactory.

I first started noticing ins and outs lists early 2024, and at the time I was very on board with the idea. I liked the simplicity of just a few key words being sorted into an “in” or an “out”, rather than performative vows of self improvement posted onto social media to impress followers. It’s no surprise that, like me, this also appealed to many others online. Ins and outs’ plainness, use of little words, and two-box categorisation made them both easy to create, as well as attention grabbing on social media platforms such as Instagram and TikTok. Ins and outs also emphasised personal tastes and comforts over standard, productive goals. As Walter-Nelson describes for The Guardian, “largely subjective, reflecting individual opinions rather than any kind of objective data or analysis of objective data. They seem to blend personal preferences with humorous observations and so they are more of a cultural commentary as opposed to the original, which was a researched reflection of trends.”4

Despite being considered more candid and sincere than resolutions, the truth is that both resolutions and ins and outs carry external perception in mind. You may not be telling the internet about how great you feel being on paleo, but you are telling the internet about how reading Russian lit is your in and minimalism is your out. The key words and phrases seemingly jotted down quickly into a notes app and intimately exposed on a TikTok post, attempt to indicate the user’s values, interests, and overall identity, whilst being heavily curated in order to portray a certain image.

I write this not to say that the many people posting ins and outs lists or resolutions are wrong, or even disingenuous. I am no better than anyone else! I have my own ins and outs list at the end of this post! Though to ignore the underlying intentions behind both resolutions and ins and outs lists is to ignore a frequently discussed issue ever-present on social media; the desire to be perceived in a specific, aesthetically pleasing cage that can, supposedly, be achieved by anyone willing to contort themselves into fitting inside, as well as pay for the cage themselves. Public resolutions are often fuelled by the desire to appear more productive than we truly are, and ins and outs lists charged by the aspiration to be as individualistic as possible. These are both Western ideals that often manifest on social media landscapes.

While posting about your 2025 ins and outs or resolutions is harmless, it is clear that both concepts are a product of wanting to appear like we are unique, interesting, and constantly in a state of work and self-improvement. Even the legend of the Babylonian king bestows the impression of artificiality; after all, it’s not clear whether he ever followed through on his promise or not. And perhaps that’s the moral of this entire story, that we do not know enough about the lives of those we come across on our for you pages to be able to tell if they ever really did read any Dostoevsky or finished off the scarf they had begun to make. But what we do know is that they wanted to tell strangers online that this was their new year intentions, this is the kind of person they are attempting to be. And although there is nothing wrong with posting online about what you want to include (or leave behind) in 2025, when is there a distinct line between vulnerability and performance?

William Shakespeare’s quote “All the world’s a stage,” is often misinterpreted due to the rest of the passage being neglected from conversation, though the first 5 words are momentous, and relevant, enough to convey their own meaning during the discussion of social media perception. Everyone, including myself, strive to perfectly emulate the impression we desire to convey, even down to the few imagery-producing nouns or snappy set of goals we choose to share with our viewership. The world of the internet is even more of a performance than reality, and to acknowledge that is not only self aware, but also freeing.

If the topic of internet performance and perception interest you further, I highly recommend reading club reticent’s how to be perceived and all over the place’s I’m smart and I need everyone to know it. Both are incredibly well-written and provide a lot of insight into the current online performance landscape.

And to anyone interested, here are my own 2025 ins and outs, as I too feel the need to portray myself a certain way and also, introduce myself more and more to anyone reading.

Ins:

• using my journal regularly

• short stories

• funky hair clips and socks

• having a productive and fulfilling daily routine

• being responsible with money

• filming on my laptop during school

• wearing my glasses

• learning languages (consistently)

• planned friend outings

• learning to make my own barista-made drinks

Outs:

• last minute studying

• buying unnecessary things

• strict journaling rules

• forgetting to text people back

• avoiding medication

• never watching the movies on my letterboxd watchlist

• canteen food

• lack of time dedication

If you have managed to make it this far thank you so much for reading, I appreciate every single one of you and love you loads!

I want to be a tall poppy too!