Who The Hell Keeps Calling Me?
I answer my phone.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end stammers, surprised that I picked up. "Um… Oh. Hello," comes the reply. It's a guy. It's always a guy, and that guy is always a little scared.
"Um… is this… are… Brock Wilbur?" he continues.
"Why indeed, it is!" I slip into an upbeat game-show host character. "Well, you've got me! What do you feel like discussing today, so long as we're both here?"
"I just… I… uh… wanted to talk to you about-" and then the click as he hangs up.
"Aww! C'mon! I had such hope for us!" I continue for my own amusement.
This is my third anonymous phone call of the morning, and by far the most pleasant on account of the lack of screaming and/or profanity. That's why I decide to call his Illinois number back immediately, to see what I can help with, despite our mysterious and sudden disconnection. He doesn't answer, much to my disappointment. I feel like our conversation could have saved video games journalism.
It's been a weird couple of weeks.
On October 25th, while dancing at a wedding, my phone lit up with texts and calls from friends, letting me know I'd been doxxed by Gamergate. A twitter user had posted my home address and telephone number, alongside the home information of video game journalists and even some of their family members and parents. The tweets were all hashtagged with #Gamergate and interspersed their messages with violent threats not only against those listed but against women like Zoe Quinn and Anita Sarkeesian.
Since that initial posting, I've received death threats in the mail and over the phone, had my credit card and several online accounts compromised, and, of course, the phone calls. My private information has been reposted by anonymous accounts every three or four days, because all of my personal information is easily accessible in a Pastebin document that remains active despite being a blatant breach of their terms of service. This document is so thorough it even includes my Google+ information, which is the first reminder I've had in 2014 that I have a Google+ account. The fourth Twitter account to repost my information deliberately posted images of gore-porn between doxxings, so anyone visiting the page would have to endure some unspeakably vile graphics just to report the account. When the fifth Twitter account posted my information, it just felt like the interwebs were trying to be helpful and remind me where I should return to at the end of the night. "Thanks Hateful Siri!"
Then, on Halloween night, there was a false police report made against me; a "prank" called Swatting that would have sent armed officers to break down my door. Luckily, I'd made contact with my local dispatch earlier in the week off the advice of another friend who had been doxxed in recent weeks, and was able to file a preemptive roadblock that would involve them giving me a call before directing units to my home. The same dispatch guy who, a week before, claimed that this was "the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," was now calling me back to say, "Well, you won't believe it." To know anything about me is to know that this is my first and only positive interaction with the police force of any city, which lends some perspective on just how bizzaro my life has become.
After I posted a summary of these events on my Facebook wall to let my family and friends know that there'd be a fair chance that in the weeks to come my social networks might be hijacked, a screenshot of this status became its own Reddit thread within r/KotakuInAction, the moderate message board for Gaters. They asked if anyone could prove Gamergate had involvement with my doxxing, declared me a liar who doxxed myself to promote my latest comedy album, and generally expressed that they had no idea who I was. Why would Gamergate doxx Brock Wilbur?
And that's exactly the point. I've never been paid to write video game journalism in my life. They have no idea who I am because I have nothing to do with video games, beyond being a fan.
So who the fuck keeps calling me?
I'm a stand-up comedian who lives in Los Angeles. In the midst of all this, I released my third album "Nightmare Fuel" and had intended to spend the rest of the fall finishing a novel and heading back out on tour. So how was I even a blip on the Gamergate screen?
I've written professionally about TV and movies and produce two weekly podcasts, but I've spoken openly about Gamergate on none of these platforms. In 2013, I wrote and starred in an indie film called "Your Friends Close" which was about my love for video games and the people who make them, but unless there's been a lot of Gaters on the indie festival circuit, I can't imagine they've seen the finished film. No, I was chosen for doxxing because I had contributed to my friend Brian Shea's game hobbyist website, for which I was never paid, and conducted short interviews with actors and charity groups, back in 2013. Brian and the rest of his volunteer staff are listed alongside me in the Pastebin document, although my name and information is in the order just after Kirk Hamilton's. As Kirk currently holds the position of editor at Kotaku, it makes my non-involved, non-paid career seem a bit more threatening. (I should add I also once reviewed the game "Farming Simulator 2013" because I grew up a farm kid and thought the entire endeavor was a hilarious disaster, but in retrospect I should have revealed my ties to Big Agriculture before penning such a hit piece.)
Now, I have absolutely nothing to say on the subject or motivations of the Gamergate movement, because I'm sure their actions speak clearly enough. I also find it disingenuous when outsiders speak to what is going on within a culture, and I truly consider myself an outsider, especially now. What makes my situation worthy of your attention is the fact this situation occurred at all, and manages to consistently get worse, even though no one claims to understand how or why.
Luckily, I'm afforded a level of detachment here because I have no "victim card" to play, no politics to push, and no real fear to express. I'm oddly "privileged" in this situation, as years of stand-up comedy have prepared me to deal with anonymous rage and drunken vitriol, often face to face, and sometimes fist to fist. I've also had the pleasure of dealing with my own personal stalker whose work in destabilizing my sense of safety was so professional that these non-specific "Kill Yourself" messages I'm receiving now seem laughable by comparison. Unlike friends of mine who have fled their homes or abandoned their careers due to this wave of harassment, I've been inoculated enough to step back and examine the situation for what it means.
What is obvious to me, based on the situation I find myself in and the feedback I've received from all corners of the Internet, is that the angriest voices of a movement have built something they no longer control. There is a system — a mechanization — for hatred that now exists, and has become self-sustaining. The calls I get are from different voices in different area codes, the letters come in different handwritings, the emails have different IPs, and perhaps the meaning behind the messages are varied in their politics. But it is not slowing down, which is insane, because admittedly none of these people even know who I am. They are part of a machine, speaking in a coded language they hope corresponds to an ideology, but not one of them would do it if they couldn't do it anonymously, and I'd imagine most of them wouldn't bother if they Googled who I was before mailing a letter to my home.
It is the pinnacle of irrationality to wake up each day hated by so many, and to be shown through their hate that they know literally nothing about you.
You'd be surprised what it does to you. When this happened to people I knew, it left me sick with worry. When it happened to me… well, I don't think anyone has pitied a mob before? If a human being has become so lost that this is how they choose to interact with the world, I feel bad because, honestly, how grotesquely have we failed each other?
There is another call and I won't answer this one, because it's too late to invite the Internet into my home tonight, although the Nevada area code is a first. There's an ad running for a game on TV, and I bristle because my excitement to hop online and play will be dead by the time it gets released.
I had to tell my mom and dad what Gamergate was once this all started, especially after my friend's parents were also doxxed. My mother asked, "Did you get in trouble standing up for women again?"
"Oddly, no. I don't think so," I said. "I'd feel nobler about the whole thing if this had anything to do with my actions. I just slipped behind the curtain by accident. I don't think they meant for me to see this side of things."
"Oh," she sighed. "Why don't they just take away all the 'Halo's until boys learn how to play nice?"
I laughed until I thought I would die. I could see #TakeAwayTheHalos and how overwhelmingly successful that campaign would be, even as I watch the "Halo" ad on TV and think about how excited I was for it just a few weeks back. There's a ding from my phone as Nevada left me a voicemail, and I writhe a bit as that same excitement is sucked from me. I made a movie about how important video games are as an art form, and it hadn't occurred until this fall that maybe some people don't want them to be art. Maybe some people don't want that at all.
I (have to) believe that there are a lot of people online tonight engaging in heated discussions with the best of intentions and dedicating themselves to improving a culture that has meant so much to me for so very long. I (have to) believe these are human beings who would want to be treated with decency, respect, and the kind of understanding that allows us to evolve into something better.
So who the fuck keeps calling me?
Brock Wilbur is a stand-up comedian from Salina, Kansas who now lives in Los Angeles. He writes for Pajiba and hosts the Brock Party podcast available on iTunes.
