Cheer and Loathing in the Comments Section

Why did two vulnerable essays draw two very different discussions?

My morning hangout—Duncan BC’s A&W. Free refills and free comments.

When I finalized my essay with the CBC First Person editor, we both exchanged thank-yous and pressed send. Then she added this warning:

“Just don’t read the comments section. It’s not worth it.”

I read the comments section.

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People Are Kind. People Are Horrible.

I’m no stranger to feedback. Working in media for 25 years has made me bulletproof against angry viewers, poor reviews, and crackpot callers. Still, I wasn’t prepared for how two recent—and very personal—pieces published nationally, could elicit such opposing opinions online.

The first was a CBC column about a long-distance dad bonding with his daughters over Taylor Swift’s movie from different cites. The other essay was a contemplation on my alcoholism in the face of #DryJanuary for The Globe & Mail.

And…the people have spoken.

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CBC: Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

I watched the Taylor Swift Eras Tour by myself in Duncan, the same time as my daughters did—500 km away in Kelowna

CBC kept its comments section open for 24 hours after my ‘Long-Distance Dad’ piece went live. And after the tap was turned off, I learned a lot from just one day’s feedback.

CBC can be synonymous with flaming tax dollars for that certain guy who believes his truck gets more expensive thanks to public broadcasting. So I shouldn’t have been surprised that my essay about sharing my teenager’s pop music passions was interpreted as me and The Ceeb giving Taylor Swift ‘free coverage’.

Did you read the same piece, George? Joseph? Please confirm.

Thank you, Ron. Unfortunately, my teenage girls aren’t in their Bob Seger phase quite yet.

When I sought to share a touching moment with my kids, I apparently forgot to paint my marital history.

Marc…do you have a pamphlet for me? Thanks.

Then came financial projections. Regardless of how little being in recovery and freelancing pays (hint: zero)—some thought I just needed to unlock my safe to spread my love:

Can’t talk, Richard. Eating lobsters.

But it wasn’t the many “dad-of-the year” quips that made me laugh. This comment was by far my favourite, and the one I truly agreed with:

No Mr. da Silva, that would be awkward. (Popcorn makes me farty).

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The Globe & Mail: Sugar and Spice

Just a few weeks later, to kick off 2024, The Globe & Mail published my ‘Dry January’ essay on what it means for me to be sober as opposed to dry. It wasn’t written to be a grand public outing of my alcoholism—just a reflection on the cursed way booze had seeped into my ambitions, my journey.

Career, performance, and cultural interests were always magnified by booze. Photo: David Kotsibie

I thought I was in for more comment clobbering (Just Stop! Lush! Get a Job!), but instead, I was overwhelmed by uplifting feedback on the perspective I took inside such a hefty, personal matter.

Hundreds of complete strangers and old colleagues reached out to me privately to share about themselves or struggling loved ones. My laptop became a virtual support meeting for a week. Perhaps the most rewarding gift was the feedback that I’d written about a tired topic with a fresh frame. That was humbling and unexpected.

I risk self-flattery by including some positive voices here. But I want to compare these comments to the tone of the Taylor Swift hullabaloo:

I’m certainly not inferring that positive posts are honourable and negative posts are bogus—especially when it comes to one’s own work. But the comment seesaw I inherited from both pieces does raise some questions:

• Are Globe & Mail readers more polite than the public broadcaster’s audience?

• Does an essay about a ‘disease’ give me a pass from judgemental feedback?

• If ‘Taylor Swift’ is in your title, do you lose half your audience to prejudgement?

• Do comments simply mirror society— with both life’s darlings and dinks?

• And, most enigmatic—did anyone actually read my stuff?

Maybe Taylor Swift sung the question better: Why you gotta be so mean?

My takeaway from all this is to be more conscious of my own comments moving forward—toward another’s vulnerable work, or any posted work, which is a vulnerable act in itself. I won’t edit my feelings, but I will start asking myself what is my feedback adding?

I’ve been guilty in the past of butting heads online with my partner’s American family over politics; I’ve gotten into digital fistfights over a stupid record review; and yes, I’ve been that guy to correct another’s their from there to they’re. What has it gotten anyone?

And maybe as one last positive resort when swimming online, I will listen to my editor this time:

“Just don’t read the comments section. It’s not worth it.”