Lately I've found myself making the case for TikTok to friends who, like me, are decades older than its primary demographic. Not because it's "good to keep up" with digital trends or because I really love teen choreography. But because, for people who are old enough to be the parents and grandparents of the kids whose lives are ruled by the app, TikTok is the fulfillment of a dream I didn't even know I had: An anti-social social network.

Almost no one I know is using it as a creator, so for me, TikTok is more like ultra-personalized, low-attention-span television. I open the app and turn off my brain, comforted by the fact that I won't have to craft a reply to a friend's life update, suffer the temptation of online shopping, or come up with a tonally appropriate emoji trio. On TikTok, my "likes" do not indicate political or emotional support, because no one but the algorithm is paying attention. I tap the heart to get more of what I want.

What I want from TikTok, apparently, is this: Hilarious bits from indigenous comedians. Quick lectures from feminist linguists and queer theoreticians. Plant-care tips from Black horticulturalists. 60-second art criticism. Wine jokes. Sewing jokes—even though 90% of TikTok sewing humor is about the bobbin running out of thread. Advice on how to get perfect tofu texture (freeze and unfreeze it!). Lizzo. Ghosthoney. A trans gal who does DIY home repair. Teens crafting. Old ladies delivering short monologues. The occasional precocious child. Nonbinary fashion. And, apparently, a man who dresses up in a medieval costume and gently skewers Catholicism.

Where Netflix has tossed me into a cavernous "strong female lead" bucket, my TikTok algorithm is custom-built McDonald's PlayPlace on psilocybin. Me and my algo (sung to this tune) have put in the work together. It isn't perfect, because for some reason it keeps showing me Hank Green. (What dark corner of my personality can it see that I refuse to acknowledge?!?) But that only makes me want to train it better. A few times a week, I open the app and hit that heart button with only one goal in mind: To push the algorithm better delight me as it burrows deeper into every weird niche interest I have.

It is sorta social, in the sense that I pass these links around with friends via text message. I take a wholesome pleasure in identifying which person in my life would most enjoy a particular video. Those bobbin jokes go to the group chat with my sewing friends. The medieval guy goes to my fellow "assigned Catholic at birth" friends. (This, naturally, is a term I learned from a TikTok clip, which I cannot find now, originally sent to me by Aminatou. Ah, the circle of life.) I also love it when my friends curate TikToks on their Instagram stories: It's a peek into how they have each trained their algorithm.

If you've only interacted with TikTok through popular media coverage, you might not understand that this app is so much better than that skinny white girl dancing stiffly on Jimmy Fallon's show. And yes, ok, sophisticated algorithms may be part of the reason our tenuous democracy is collapsing completely. But let me suggest that if you're burned out on digitally performing your life and reacting to others' digital performances, or if you've ever lamented that the internet is not as weird as it used to be, TikTok might be for you. Consuming it anti-socially is one of the real pleasures of being old on the internet. 

Please keep reading today's newsletter, as there is good stuff below! But if you'll excuse me, I'm going to hit send and head to the PlayPlace.

Arundhati Roy on India’s Covid catastrophe. Watching Ma'Khia Bryant's joyful TikTok videos. On anti-racism, private property, and the Black-owned small business. Does LA's tiny house village actually do anything to solve homelessness? The overlooked anglers of the Los Angeles River. The office, reconsidered. A Tesla factory worker says, "Everything feels like the future but us." The wave of migration at the border is a boon for human smugglers—and the American businesses that handle their money. The fleeting promise of a peaceful Ethiopia. Emerging adulthood is not a new developmental stage, it's an economic reality. "Both of my letters are true. He was a fantastic teacher; he was a sexual predator." Imposter syndrome is an elaborate story concocted to explain the effects of garden-variety sexism and racism. Long-term caregiving is crushing women's finances. There is even a gender gap on the moon. Thomas Page McBee chats with Elliot Page about joy, creativity, and the misinformation embedded in anti-trans legislation. "My hijab has always been my choice." What happened to the word "woke." Don't listen to Joe Rogan. An open letter to parents who use the term "special needs." The case for bold, beautiful hearing aids. Advice for creative paralysis. A tour of Seoul's pop music scene. The end of Kimye. A real-life hunt for Sasquatch. A kitchen-scraps cookbook. Sometimes a scone is more than just a scone. ~~vibes~~

Become a paying member for just $15/year. You underwrite my steady weekly work, help my fellows establish themselves in this industry (scroll down to read the latest piece from one of them!), and keep this newsletter free for those who can't afford to support it financially. If you're already a member, THANK YOU!

A note about last week's newsletter: I wrote that Mother's Day was last Sunday in the U.S. This was wrong, and it's because I had seen such an onslaught of ads and emails, I JUST ASSUMED. Promise I won't make that mistake again. [It's May 9.]

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Nicole J. Georges's new podcast, Relative Fiction, about her discovery that her supposedly dead father is not, in fact, dead. It has a real Rashoman quality. A delightful chat between writers Jonny Sun and Samantha Irby. How it looks when families reunite. Please "Have the Decency to Name What You Destroy." And we've had some great CYG guests lately: The artist and children's book author Kenesha Sneed, cookbook author Julia Turshen, and romance writer Bolu Babalola. 

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This is an excerpt of the first essay in a 12-part series by Nereya Otieno on the experience of immigrating: The ups, the downs, the VAT, the being Black, and the nuances of leaving her home country, the United States. Nereya is one of two inaugural AF WKLY writing fellows, and I'll be excerpting her work in this newsletter once a month. Hers is a different kind of immigration story than I'm used to reading about, and it's compellingly told. I instantly connected with Nereya's writing, and I think you will, too. -Ann

By Nereya Otieno

I decided on the breakup when I realized I was falling in love. Perhaps I was primed for a new beginning because it was late January, that time of year when resolutions are still fresh. But really, I’d been wrestling with the idea for quite some time. I had lived in Copenhagen for two and a half years, and my student visa was up. I knew this day would come. I had to either go back to the States or commit to a new way of life in Denmark. Break up with my old home or end the infatuation with my new one. It was an extremely difficult decision, and I made it easily.
 
I moved to Denmark in 2011 for curiosity and practicality. Living abroad sounded fun, sure, but I was also granted a full tuition waiver for a master’s degree. Naturally, my mama having raised no fool, I went. It wasn’t just the place and the friends and the new way of life I was enamored with — it was also myself. I was solely responsible for navigating this new territory. I was building a life with absolutely nothing grandfathered in (a phrase which, as a Black American, carries much burdensome weight). I was confidently ordering my slices of carrot cake in a new language (gulerodskage, tak), cultivating an organic and alternate sense of humor, rereading American literature from a perspective only gained by distance. I was carefree. I recall responding to an American friend’s inquiry of how is it? with “I’m living the dream and hoping nobody finds out.”

Continue reading this essay here.

You can receive the rest of the essays in this series directly, in your inbox, once a month. Sign up here to make it happen! You can also listen to Anything to Declare? in podcast form, read by Nereya herself. And follow her on Instagram.