Unverified
The privilege of a seemingly useless symbol legitimately meant I could establish myself as a storyteller.
Most journalists spend countless hours — often unpaid hours — trying to access the resources necessary to tell good stories. It is what we all sign up for at the start, always with the hope that one day this part will get easier.
A large percentage of those in the “most” category mentioned above do not have the name recognition, well-known employer, or connections to reach the people they want (or need) to talk to. I, for example, am publishing these words on Medium because I have nowhere else for them to go. I am just another writer who believes they might have something to say.
I am staring at several unanswered Instagram DMs, wondering if I’m going to have to — once again — shake up my podcast production schedule because the guests I planned for haven’t even seen my messages.
They might have been notified of the outreach if I had a blue check next to my name, but I do not. I have not for quite some time. I likely never will again.
The day Twitter verified me (it was 2021, on the first day of my first full-time senior editor role at an established media outlet) was just as underwhelming as the day my blue check disappeared. But verification was, at the time I was granted it, a necessity. It wasn’t just a safety measure, though as a woman on the internet, that was an appreciated side effect in case I ever needed it.
At the time, verification meant that I could actually reach the people I needed to reach as a journalist. Literally, not figuratively.
Back when a blue check next to your name meant you were the person you said you were and you’d done something, at some point, to earn it, new opportunities opened up for you. In journalism, such opportunities were sometimes as small as being able to reach out to a potential source or expert, know they’d at least see your note, and hope they found you credible enough to warrant a response.
For someone as unknown as me, that was a game-changer. The privilege of a seemingly useless symbol on my profile legitimately meant I could establish myself as a storyteller.
Now — on every platform, not just Twitter — being unverified means that when I reach out to accounts that don’t follow me, my messages are automatically filtered into a holding cell people rarely check on. I cannot break through that barrier. I do not have the name recognition, the get-out-of-jail-free card that could get me access to the people I want to talk to.
Because that card is now a monthly fee — even on Instagram where I have my biggest following. If I pay that fee, I can more easily reach out to people for the stories I want to tell.
But I can’t afford to pay that fee, because I cannot tell the stories people want to read. Because no one is receiving my messages.
One could argue that I’m not an established journalist for many other reasons aside from my lack of online verification. It’s an oversaturated space. I’m not a great writer. I’m morally against following up with sources more than twice when they don’t respond. I still don’t have a byline in a publication my mom has heard of. I no longer have much interest in expressing unpopular opinions online.
None of that takes away from the fact that verification was essential for many journalists back when it was a resource reserved for people who needed it. While it’s still possible to get traction on a story without verification, while plenty of experts will still respond to journalists without blue checks, to know you had a slightly better chance of making a career out of storytelling was a lifeline.
If I’m settling for unverification, why don’t I just write or work for a verified publication? If that were an easy thing to do, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this for free.
Layoffs will continue to sweep through the industry, destroying jobs I might have been good at. I will continue to send pitches and job applications off into the void, never to be replied to, and none of the years of hard work I’ve put into establishing myself previously will grant me any leverage.
Verification would not have saved me from any of this, but it might have made it easier to find my footing as I struggled to find work to financially support my family.
There is now a verified Twitter account that uses my name and profile photo, with my handle spelled backward, and I can’t do a single thing about it. If they're posting as me, I don’t know about it. I’m not self-centered enough to believe anyone would actually use my name to destroy my public credibility. But in a digital world where the verified are favored by the algorithm, I’m terrified that I’ll lose the small chance I have of saying something that matters before I even know I’ve lost it.
To be unverified is not a commentary on our worth as human beings. But it does speak loudly to the growing belief that storytellers do not deserve protection, resources, or recognition. If you weren’t already well-known before verification became a subscription service, your chances of becoming known through social media are now close to zero — even if you do pay to get noticed.
This is not to say that storytellers with verified accounts don’t deserve the perks they might get from exchanging funds for digital favorability. But I’ve had a lot of strangers tell me over the past year that hard work will earn me the same opportunities, and most of them pay for Twitter.
My stories will likely always go largely unheard. And I suppose that is to be expected. I am no one special with few revolutionary things to say. I prefer telling stories about other people over myself, but without the privilege that grants you access to people whose stories deserve to be told, there are few avenues left through which to reach and establish a loyal audience.
As long as there are people willing to pay to feel important, the most impactful stories will remain unseen.
