Authenticity online is a tricky beast.
With the growth and normalization of Internet influencers, values associated with digital entertainment have changed drastically. While we might watch a movie or TV show to laugh, cry or stare in awe at Chris Pratt's abs, there's an added layer to video sharing platforms like Twitch, Tik-Tok, or YouTube: not only do we want to be entertained, but we want to connect, to relate, and to identify with the figure on the screen.
Basically, we want to be one of our favorite YouTubers' 100,000 best friends.
We see influencers capitalize on these seemingly intimate relationships time and time again. Just a few days ago, I stumbled upon Jaclyn Hill's video titled "Get Ready With Me + Opening Up (Vulnerable)," only to hear her repeatedly say things like "oh my gosh you guys, I can't wait to tell you this," and "I love you soooo much; thank you for believing in me," all of which was summed up with an announcement that she was coming out with a new product in a few weeks.
Transparent? Yes. More common than we'd like to think? Also yes.
Why this pandering and audience manipulation? #Capitalism.
In YouTube's early days, connections with viewers seemed more a result of influencers' desires to express their interests and create content they couldn't in their "real lives." OG YouTubers talk about using the platform as a means to share skits and jokes with friends. From YouTube's inception to 2010, there was no such thing as "YouTube famous." You couldn't get rich from posting videos online. Quite frankly, you couldn't make any money from posting videos online. Then Google bought YouTube and was all "hey, people really like watching people talk on the Internet—let's bring in some advertisers and make millions!" That change, paired with the increased traction content creators gained, resulted in YouTube becoming a profession, rather than a hobby.
As Connie Glynn articulately noted in "The Death of the YouTuber" (a video that has since been taken down), viewers often deem the "golden age of YouTube" as the time before monetization of content: when online figures used video production to express themselves, to share their passions, and to create content when they felt creatively inspired, rather than pressured.
Flash forward a few years, and authenticity became a massive commodity on YouTube. What initially drew viewers to the platform became a metric for advertisers and algorithms to determine popularity and marketability. Some influencers purported "being real" with their audience, yet that realness became more curated, more calculated. It was almost as though you could apply a formula to someone's online personality. Creating a sense of intimacy with viewers resulted in subscriptions. Using self-disclosure, including negative emotions, meant more likes. The more saturated YouTube became with new voices, the more content creators had to use these strategies to make the algorithm work in their favor.
Except Jenna Marbles. Viewers around the world comment on her genuine authenticity, her refusal to "sell out," and a certain realness that's difficult to find on the Internet these days.
So, being the
If you are new to the YouTube world and don't know who Jenna Marbles is (real name Jenna Mourey), allow me to explain. Jenna Marbles, coined "The Queen of YouTube," has been around the Internet-verse for ten years. She first gained popularity by putting out a video called "How To Trick People Into Thinking You're Good Looking," which racked up over 60 million views.
Since then, Mourey released primarily satirical videos such as "What Girls Do In the Car," "How To Trick People Into Thinking You're Rich," and "Drunk Makeup Tutorial." She gained a massive following in this time, and remained popular, even as other people took to making videos online. While Mourey's content evolved slightly over the years, viewers could consistently look to her for gendered parodies and rants. Until 2017, that is.
Starting with a video titled "Shaving My Eyebrows," Mourey's channel turned into "Jenna's Selfish Time, Where I Just Do What Makes Me Laugh." In later reflections about 2017, Mourey stated that this was a much needed personal change. It was a risk to so drastically change her content, yet oddly enough, Mourey not only maintained her devoted subscriber-base, she gained more followers, all of whom made comments like, "Jenna doesn't believe in clickbait," "she's been staying true since day one," and "I feel like Jenna is just living her life and don’t give an f about drama and I love it."
So what makes Jenna Marbles different from other seemingly authentic YouTubers?
Her authenticity is resistive.
Resistive authenticity is a term that I just made up, but it's informed by people who are much smarter and much more scholarly than me. Basically, resistive authenticity is a form of digital self-presentation marked by differentiation, implicit critique of platform practices, and explicit critique of corporatization. Jenna Marbles is a perfect example of resistive authenticity, but it's also important to look past one of the top YouTubers for forms of authenticity that shake up YouTube and challenge its money-hungry, corporatized direction. But more on that later.
Mourey's most marked demonstration of resistive authenticity is actually a feminist one, as told by badass women like Cheryl Glenn and Krista Ratcliff. Differentiation is consciously identifying oneself as different from the surrounding members of a community they're part of. It originated by women noticing that their worlds were dominated by old white dudes who purported to know the secrets of the universe, and said, "hey maybe, just maybe, there's a different perspective that's like, just as valid."
Perhaps Mourey's differentiation is less explicit than that, but it's resistive in inferring that she won't consider herself an "in group member" of a huge media conglomerate that emphasizes numbers and money. She will exist on the platform, she will even make money from the platform, but she won't identify as a YouTuber in the 2020 sense.
Let's take "Making My Dog a Bed Out of Soap," for instance. Shockingly, soap carving is an existing genre on YouTube (although there is nary a "soap carving for dogs" video). However, early into the video, Mourey says, "this isn’t all pleasant like those soap carving videos on YouTube. This is violent. This is real life." I'm sure the irony is not lost on us that Mourey's video is, indeed, a soap carving video on YouTube, but her distinction shows that she won't project a flawless, unattainable life, despite that being the standard for DIY content.
The phrase "this is real life" makes us see Mourey as the viewer struggling alongside an airbrushed, perfected tutorial, only for it to fail. Mourey isn't the "better version" of ourselves that we constantly strive to become—if only we bought another sponsored crafting tool, or watched another ad, or watched 20 more soap carving videos. She is the messy, imperfect version of us. She's the work in progress, the self that other YouTubers edit out. And she's having so much fun doing it.
Another way that Mourey resists platform practices is through implicit critique via satire. We don't exactly look to Jenna Marbles's channel for serious, intellectual discussion about YouTube's corporatized direction. But, by that same token, we shouldn't overlook the subtle jokes that challenge expectations and norms for the modern-day YouTuber. These satirical jabs at YouTube point out problematic aspects of the platform without being aggressive or confrontational.
Her authenticity is resistive.
Resistive authenticity is a term that I just made up, but it's informed by people who are much smarter and much more scholarly than me. Basically, resistive authenticity is a form of digital self-presentation marked by differentiation, implicit critique of platform practices, and explicit critique of corporatization. Jenna Marbles is a perfect example of resistive authenticity, but it's also important to look past one of the top YouTubers for forms of authenticity that shake up YouTube and challenge its money-hungry, corporatized direction. But more on that later.
Mourey's most marked demonstration of resistive authenticity is actually a feminist one, as told by badass women like Cheryl Glenn and Krista Ratcliff. Differentiation is consciously identifying oneself as different from the surrounding members of a community they're part of. It originated by women noticing that their worlds were dominated by old white dudes who purported to know the secrets of the universe, and said, "hey maybe, just maybe, there's a different perspective that's like, just as valid."
Perhaps Mourey's differentiation is less explicit than that, but it's resistive in inferring that she won't consider herself an "in group member" of a huge media conglomerate that emphasizes numbers and money. She will exist on the platform, she will even make money from the platform, but she won't identify as a YouTuber in the 2020 sense.
Let's take "Making My Dog a Bed Out of Soap," for instance. Shockingly, soap carving is an existing genre on YouTube (although there is nary a "soap carving for dogs" video). However, early into the video, Mourey says, "this isn’t all pleasant like those soap carving videos on YouTube. This is violent. This is real life." I'm sure the irony is not lost on us that Mourey's video is, indeed, a soap carving video on YouTube, but her distinction shows that she won't project a flawless, unattainable life, despite that being the standard for DIY content.
The phrase "this is real life" makes us see Mourey as the viewer struggling alongside an airbrushed, perfected tutorial, only for it to fail. Mourey isn't the "better version" of ourselves that we constantly strive to become—if only we bought another sponsored crafting tool, or watched another ad, or watched 20 more soap carving videos. She is the messy, imperfect version of us. She's the work in progress, the self that other YouTubers edit out. And she's having so much fun doing it.
Another way that Mourey resists platform practices is through implicit critique via satire. We don't exactly look to Jenna Marbles's channel for serious, intellectual discussion about YouTube's corporatized direction. But, by that same token, we shouldn't overlook the subtle jokes that challenge expectations and norms for the modern-day YouTuber. These satirical jabs at YouTube point out problematic aspects of the platform without being aggressive or confrontational.
One of Mourey's newest tropes is telling her viewers to "unsubscribe below," or to "smash that unsubscribe button." This is in direct response to YouTubers' persistent reminders to subscribe, like, and share their videos. Viewer engagement is key in YouTube's algorithm, yet Mourey resists this kind of self-promotion. If anything, she's more like that person in high school who accidentally became popular and is all, "I'd really rather not be crowned prom queen—I'd just like to spend a weekend in my pajamas binge watching Survivor."
In "Taking a Nap for 20 Million Subscribers," Mourey says, "thank you so much for subscribing to my channel. I don't know why people continue to do so, especially when I tell you not to." This is perhaps an extreme example, and she certainly has the privilege to build her audience as she sees fit, but it's still worth noting that Mourey's practices are antithetical to the likes of Logan and Jake Paul, who seem to promote their channel and merchandise every two seconds.
Speaking of merch, Jenna Marbles doesn't have any. This is partly resistive unto itself, as merch is one of the most prominent ways that YouTubers make money. Mourey's refusal to produce merch is a clear statement that YouTubers' sole purpose need not be financial gain. The satirical piece of this refusal is in "Reacting to People Who Have Smash or Passed Me." In this video, someone "passed" Mourey because she was "2008 hot." In response to this response (how meta!), Mourey wrote in her video description, "here's the imaginary link to my 2008 tee-shirts." The link directs the viewer to a video of a 10-hour loop of a boy singing the intro to "Mad World." Mourey could have easily made thousands of dollars from selling tee-shirts, but instead satirized the notion of branding personal descriptors.
In "Taking a Nap for 20 Million Subscribers," Mourey says, "thank you so much for subscribing to my channel. I don't know why people continue to do so, especially when I tell you not to." This is perhaps an extreme example, and she certainly has the privilege to build her audience as she sees fit, but it's still worth noting that Mourey's practices are antithetical to the likes of Logan and Jake Paul, who seem to promote their channel and merchandise every two seconds.
Speaking of merch, Jenna Marbles doesn't have any. This is partly resistive unto itself, as merch is one of the most prominent ways that YouTubers make money. Mourey's refusal to produce merch is a clear statement that YouTubers' sole purpose need not be financial gain. The satirical piece of this refusal is in "Reacting to People Who Have Smash or Passed Me." In this video, someone "passed" Mourey because she was "2008 hot." In response to this response (how meta!), Mourey wrote in her video description, "here's the imaginary link to my 2008 tee-shirts." The link directs the viewer to a video of a 10-hour loop of a boy singing the intro to "Mad World." Mourey could have easily made thousands of dollars from selling tee-shirts, but instead satirized the notion of branding personal descriptors.
While Mourey's main channel focuses on implicit critique, her podcast titled "The Jenna and Julien Podcast" includes explicit critique of YouTube, which is along the lines of publicly criticizing your employer (like that one time I posted "The Communist Manifesto" in a Wegmans break room). YouTube has enforced restrictive demonetization policies which largely target small, minority YouTubers, particularly those in the LGBTQ+ community. Mourey has used her podcast as a platform to call out a platform that punishes diverse voices and rewards white dudes who film dead people in forests. As Mourey has said, it's scary to "bite the hand that feeds you," but it's encouraging to see a top-tier YouTuber using her influence to call for company change.
The thing is, we may look to Jenna Marbles as the emblem of authenticity on YouTube—she was my inspiration for resistive authenticity after all—but she is not the only YouTuber who challenges what we've come to know as Authenticity TM. She's in a position where she's more noticed than others, and she can jumpstart a turn towards resistive authenticity, but it's up to us to acknowledge and promote other resistive YouTubers. YouTube's algorithm won't do that work for us. We can't passively consume resistive tactics. We can, however, seek out other authentic YouTubers with different identities, world views, and stories.
