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ser-funded video channels seem like an exciting premise: direct support of your favorite YouTube star. But it’s an intense relationship, and one that complicates the dynamic between commentator and news consumer: you’re not subscribing for vetted journalism; what you get are hot takes. David Craig, a clinical associate professor of communication at the University of Southern California’s Annenberg School, told me that watching commentary YouTube can distort viewers’ perception of information: “You could argue that on YouTube, it’s less about what’s being said and more how it’s being said.” Loyalties develop, and opinions harden. For YouTubers who fund their videos through Patreon, there’s an added incentive to keep viewers happy—and they might feel inclined to target their coverage to fans’ tastes. The echo chamber includes other media, too: YouTubers also function as influencers, carrying their followings to Instagram and Twitter, where they promote themselves and engage with audience members. Critical distance is impossible—and intentionally unwelcome. “I think the appeal of commentary YouTube is being able to find a personality you like, maybe someone you would want to be friends with, and then be able to listen to them geek out about stuff you find interesting and can learn from,” Ferguson told me. The stars of commentary YouTube are part role model, part journalist, part friend—they help you keep up with the news in a way that’s easily understandable and fun. Void of that old-fashioned newspapery pretext of objectivity, commentary YouTube caters to a young audience whose members, well acquainted with the spoils of the internet, are seeking human connection. Their favorite videos can become their primary means of engagement with the news. “I’m definitely drawn to the personality of the YouTubers I watch, in addition to their content,” Yasemin Losee, a twenty-two-year-old graduate student and avid viewer of channels like “Ready to Glare” and “ContraPoints,” told me. “I look for creators who share similar morals to mine or who I could engage with on an intellectual level—and it also doesn’t hurt if we even have the same aesthetic.” cjr
CJR
MU TUAL AID
Back to the Community By Darryl Holliday
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HIS SPRING, AS THE coronavirus ravaged the United States, mutual aid groups proliferated. In Chicago, where I live, I watched businesses close and people suddenly lose their jobs. I saw “essential workers,” mostly Black and brown folks from the city’s South and West Sides, taking the bus to fulfill their duties at the peak of the pandemic. I saw our county jail become the nation’s largest known source of covid-19 infections, even as up to a fourth of those incarcerated were there on low-level offenses, because they couldn’t afford to pay their bond. At the same time, governments and medical institutions became overwhelmed, and I saw neighbors spring into action to meet the needs of their communities. These self-organized networks distributed masks and medical supplies, delivered groceries and packages, provided child and elder care, and transferred cash. Groups of clergy members, death doulas, therapists, social workers, and healers offered mourning support for those who had lost loved ones. The rise of mutual aid solidarity networks has resulted from untenable economic disparity and social breakdown. That should tell journalists something we badly need to hear: when government and civic institutions fail to provide equal benefits across society, marginalized people will create new systems. The news industry is no exception. Black Lives Matter Chicago, in an August report on police violence committed against
