I Got So Busted

I wasn’t going to address this. I was going to blow right past yesterday’s events, hold my head up and just focus on keeping SHERO standards high while I attempt to ride out this sentence. Yesterday, in a grand move of authority, Twitter suspended my social media account due to a report of a Digital Millennium Copyright Act (“DMCA”) violation. 

Trust me when I tell you that I don’t know too much about the circumstances surrounding the infraction — Twitter is notoriously vague in their notifications. Don’t even get me started on how they won’t tell you precisely how long your account will be in this state of limbo. At this point, I can’t research the issue much due to my limited access, and it was explained that I can expect to be in “Twitmo” for 12 hours to seven days. Twelve hours to seven days…hold on, I need to grab my asthma inhaler.

This is a picture of me, no doubt taken on a disposal camera or something, in one of my mom’s college classmate’s back yards where I was in my element and entertaining all of the adults. Clearly, this was before my unfortunate infraction because my spirit does not yet look broken. (Photo by that one hippie guy that always tried to date my mom, circa 1980 something.)

I can still see my account and my tweets, but I can’t tweet, re-tweet or like things and people aren’t able to interact with my posts. It’s extremely unnerving that Twitter is in control of silencing my voice and they did it on International Women’s Day. These recently imposed guidelines also feel so arbitrary, especially considering that I have to report a troll account on Twitter named, “Amee Vanderkunt” almost daily and the speed at which those get taken down is painfully slow. 

Aside from intentionally blocking out these never-ending waves of panic that my ability to make a living is inextricably tied to Twitter, and going down the “what-if” rabbit hole, it’s maddening that the process of defending yourself is fairly non-existent on that platform. Never mind all of the things they let Donald Trump get away with saying and doing, until he no longer had power. I’m also livid that I don’t have the ability to contact a representative directly to help work through this issue, and I have no doubt that is the lawyer in me raging on the inside because I can’t jump on a soapbox and launch my own defense. Worst of all, the idea that I have broken a rule makes me feel horrified and terribly embarrassed — even if the small infraction was a mistake. 

I never got in trouble as a kid — shocking, I know. I am the daughter of a former prosecutor and an English teacher and all of my grandparents were teachers, as well. Following the rules is something that I consider to be a part of basic manners, so I am feeling an odd sense of shame that reminds me of the only time I ever got detention…it was in fifth grade…it was a Friday and it ruined my life. There was an impending slumber party, and I was simply too jacked up on little girl excitement to keep myself from excitedly talking all day during class. 

I got warned three times that day by Ms. Loeb, my most favorite teacher in the entire world — and then she brought down the hammer with that painful “X” check by my name, written out on the chalkboard. This is how it looked:

✔️✔️✔️Amee ❌

I would be sent to detention the next week during Wednesday lunch recess, the day all the naughty, repeat offenders (typically boys) did time and you would have thought they were sending me to the Gulag. My sentence ruined everything that Friday — like dancing to videos in my new Madonna headscarf and matching lace gloves. I couldn’t even really enjoy that euphoric feeling when you eat so much pizza and candy at once that you want to simultaneously hurl, but feel so alive. I felt no joy in our magical triumph of lifting Jenny Horton at least a foot in the air during “light as a feather, stiff as a board.” (We were barely even touching her, but she was floating, I swear.)

All ruined. I hung my head in shame as I walked to the detention room, instead of the playground after lunch the next week. The sweet little old widow, who did volunteer yard duty every day because she missed her husband so badly, knew me by name and when she tried to correct my trajectory and said, “no, Amee honey — to the playground” and I had to tell her I was in detention, I died a little inside. She looked at me with such disappointment when she shook her head really slowly. She made a clicking sound and actually said, “oh, Amee.” I might as well have robbed a bank, because in my innocent little nine-year old heart, I was doing hard time.

A hike in Sabino Canyon, near Tucson, Arizona with my mom that I’m pretty sure was my punishment. She was happy because who wouldn’t be with those legs. (I have no idea who took this photo, I have blocked out the memory.)

There is a current of tension and anxiety running through me right now, even as I write about this. Sometimes, when I am worried or have other anxiety inducing experiences, I will flash on this scene like it is movie clip on an unyielding loop. It takes a lot of focus and redirection to force myself not to think about that detention, that look on that lady’s face and that clicking sound, even as an adult. So, while it seems silly that my Twitter account has taken a minor hit for one of my unintentional infractions, I am properly smushed in a meaty shame sandwich.

I know it is an over-reaction, and that might be part of the reason I am trying to make light of it all in this way. But, now I am starting to think that I am not so alone in this disproportionate guilt thing and that this likely affects women much more than men. I actually said out loud yesterday, “this must be a terrific benefit of being a sociopath, as long as you’re not violent,” and I was actually jealous for a minute. Then I realized I couldn’t tweet that thought and the shame spiral started all over again. 

Update: My account was suspended for more than four months, and while my stress levels were off the chart, my life did not end. I got through this, like I get through everything and it was a great lesson in always getting back up when you get knocked down or you are afraid of getting knocked down. Always get up.

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Amee Vanderpool is currently very ashamed, but writes the SHERO Newsletter and is an attorney, published author, contributor to newspapers and magazines and analyst for BBC radio. She can be reached at avanderpool@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter @girlsreallyrule.

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