Recently, I developed a newfound interest in reading autobiographies of Influencers.

I yearned to understand how they forged their online personas, achieved virality on social media, and coped with the myriad costs of fame in the Influencer industry. Among the tales that captivated me the most was that of @Jillisblack. Her story stands out not just because she is Black and queer, but because she has been attuned to her audience’s expectations in the culture industry since the moment her first video went viral on Facebook in 2016. Her narrative unveils the complexity of today’s Influencer economy, where the valuable currency is the sale of one’s persona.

Jill Louise Busby, also known as @Jillisblack, spent nearly a decade in the nonprofit sector specializing in diversity and inclusion. Her ascent to Influencer status began with a one-minute video on Instagram, a scathing critique of (in her words) “liberal gradualism and the so-called progressive nonprofit machine.” This video went viral, earning her millions of views across social platforms and establishing her as the authoritative voice on race-related issues. In the ensuing years, she amassed a loyal following of over eighty thousand people:

This book begins in 2016 when I was working in diversity and inclusion at a large nonprofit organization in Tacoma, Washington. Twenty-nine years old, with a frustrating lack of ambition, I mostly sat all day in my swivel chair, reciting rhetoric on conference calls and adding to the diversity of the place. Yes, I was selling my identities to the nonprofit machine, and no, it wasn’t the first time.

Identity Policies in Civil Society: Diversity and Inclusion

Jill had attended NGO trainings with her mother for years, making discussions on inclusion a routine — be it in workshops or social media videos:

I wanted to enjoy it, revel in the benefits like other identity Influencers.

Yet, the dilemma of not appearing in public as she did online presents a significant hurdle. Jill expresses her confusion explicitly while she is talking about her book project:

No matter what I say it’s about, it’s actually about me being scared. Of other people, of the internet, of trying too hard. Or it’s about power. How we make ourselves feel powerful when we don’t feel empowered.

Jill’s struggle with power transcends personal debates; it extends to the broader balance of power in society concerning Black and queer identities. Despite her previous affirmation that she has no issue with selling her identity, Jill now questions whether she is complicit in the white privileged patriarchal system. This internal dialogue delves into the intricate dynamics of identity Influencers and their complex relationship with societal power structures.

‘Confession of Complicity’: Collaboration with “Dear White People”

The most courageous segment of the book, in my opinion, recounts Jill’s experience at an art residency exclusively for Black artists. Here, the author delves into the concept of “positive discrimination” as complicity — being acknowledged and accepted by ‘dear white people.’ This is also where she defines identity Influencers, individuals who trade their ‘marginalized personas’ for opportunities such as moderating panels, delivering keynote speeches, or securing book proposals, grants, and scholarships:

Jill,
We can’t wait to hear all about how our racism influences your art.
If you make us feel guilty enough, we’ll call you brave for your efforts. We’re paying you.
You can’t make us love blackness, but you can make us love the way you use it.
How will you use it?

Starting her videos with “dear white people” is a conscious choice of Jill, a provocative greeting she believes helps clarify her topic, targeted group, and audience. Putting it clearly, Jill starts each video by highlighting her Blackness. Therefore, this imaginative letter above serves as @Jillisblack’s ‘confession of complicity.’ Accepting a grant from an art residency exclusively for Black artists involves collaborating with white privilege, especially after George Floyd — an African-American man who was murdered by a white police officer in Minneapolis in 2020. White privilege invests in Black, people of color, migrant, and/or queer artists to affirm their support for societal change, yet structural racism and gender-based discrimination persist unchanged. Her imaginative letter from the art residency executive emphasizes this stability and questions the impact (or role) of trading marginalized personas for opportunities.

Furthermore, the narrative delves into the accountability of white-privileged NGOs, whether supported by state institutions or private sector foundations dominating civil society. These organizations often translate their purported commitment to societal change into numerical metrics showcased in annual reports. The focus on quantifiable aspects — such as the number of events on intersectionality, equity, migration, and gender issues, attendees, diverse employees, and social media followers — raises crucial questions. Nevertheless, the emphasis on numbers in third-sector fundraising perpetuates a system where the impact is measured by statistics, overshadowing the need for concrete examples of societal transformation.

Reflecting on diversity and inclusion statistics while reading @Jillisblack’s memories triggered a parallel in my mind — the public portrayal of femicides in numbers. Headlines often read in a discriminatory media language: ‘Another woman was killed.’ This pattern continues in the main text: ‘This year, more than 100 women were killed by their husbands or partners.’ No name. No face. No individual stories. Just another number in statistics. This realization led me to ponder: the diversity and inclusion statistics of civil society and the patriarchal numeration of racist and gender-based discrimination and violence are not separate entities. Instead, they are two faces of one medallion — feeding into each other’s further existence.

Identity Policies: the Ability to Sell

The ‘complicity confession’ in the book sheds light on the reality of identity Influencers, who often exclude themselves from criticism of self-commodification on social media. However, consumption society goes beyond the luxurious lives posted on social media, revealing self-commodification in various professions, such as journalists, scholars, lawyers, writers, artists, and entrepreneurs, among others. The imaginative letter sarcastically clarifies that “everybody has a price” by underscoring the subtle dance between online and offline self-commodification adopted by identity Influencers.

What is often marketed as ‘authenticity’ or ‘finding your niche’ on social media is, in essence, a strategic selling of one’s ‘marginalized personas.’ This calculated exchange isn’t limited to virtual realms; it extends into real life, for instance, where acquiring more clients, securing jobs, and receiving invitations become tangible outcomes. The simple arithmetic behind this strategy is straightforward: if they can successfully sell themselves online, the ability to sell any product, regardless of its quality, becomes a logical extension.

In conclusion, despite my reservations about the text’s clarity, I highly recommend “Unfollow Me — Essays on Complicity” by Jill Louise Busby (formerly known as @Jillisblack) to unravel the layers of hypocrisy in the Influencer industry. It’s important to note that identity policies are not a new phenomenon, but social media has amplified their reach and monetary gains. @Jillisblack’s grandmother’s criticism of her social media persona underscores how identity policies have perennially played out:

She says, “That’s what y’all are doing, huh? They were doing all of that when I was a girl. Guess yall think everything y’all do is brand new, don’t you? Y’all trying to figure out how to be what you already are, huh? Well’ She throws her hands up. “I guess you can’t figure out anything else to do but be black. Honey, don’t you already know you’re black? The only people confused about it is y’all.”

I can’t deny it.