How I Discovered Myself on YouTube

by Kory Lingenfelter

Growing up in rural Indiana, my life was vastly different from my current one as a student in New York City. The tallest building in my town was the church I would pass every single day on the way to school. There were more cows in the pasture across from my high school than there were students in my graduating class; the most diversity my school boasted was the fact that we could choose either spicy or regular chicken patties for lunch. For a long time, it was hard to admit and accept that I could be anything other than the stereotypical straight white guy with a heavily-forced country accent. The only grasp I could attain on people who lived authentically in the outside world was through YouTube. My first piece of technology was gifted to me on Christmas in the fourth grade. It was the iPad Mini. I was astounded at how big the world was and what I could do with the internet. On YouTube, I watched people gaming, vlogging, cooking, singing, laughing, crying, and almost anything else.
I had been given access to YouTube before. I was spared the boredom of sitting for hours at my dad’s office, scrolling through gaming videos and constantly being asked if I was winning by my dad’s clueless colleagues. This iPad was the first piece of technology that I had all to myself. I could watch whatever I wanted and not have someone constantly looking over my shoulder to ask me a stupid question about what I was watching or have to agree on a video that both I and my twin brother wanted to watch. At this point in my life, I knew that something was different about me. I knew I wanted to be close with girls, but I wasn’t really romantically interested in them. I had a couple of “girlfriends” in elementary school, but they were more like my closest friends who happened to be girls. I didn’t know what this meant; I didn’t know if there was even a word for it. On the bus and on the playground, people would ask me questions about why I acted the way I did or would come up with the dreaded, “Why do you talk like a girl?”
It was around this time in about 2015 when “coming out” videos became a popular thing on YouTube. In these videos, guys or girls would sit vulnerably in front of the camera and talk about how they realized they were gay. A popular YouTuber named Connor Franta made one of the first coming out videos I watched. I remember clicking on it thinking it would just be another one of the funny daily videos he was known for making. I was almost shocked when he sat down in front of the camera and began to cry. He spoke about how he was attracted to people of the same sex and how long it took him to accept this. What he said made me think of the word: gay. Growing up in rural Indiana, this word was only used on the news or when a high school student thought he was being funny insulting one of his friends. This creator’s video sparked a trend on YouTube where creators would sit down in front of the camera to come out to their adoring fans. The word “authentic” was ever-present in each video—YouTubers used the word to apologize for not embodying it, some as a reason for their coming out. There were endless amounts of videos. I would see them in my recommended video section almost every single day. YouTube gave me access to an entire community I had never even considered that I could be a part of.
As I watched the countless videos these creators made and explored their accounts, I noticed some things about the people I was watching. I dove deep into their daily lives, which they happily posted online. I watched their vlogs, watched them play video games, and watched them interact with each other and the world around them. I took note of their style, their humor, their mannerisms. Everything that I saw in these people I could also see in myself. The one thing I wasn’t seeing in myself was the same level of authenticity. Even after I had seen these videos and felt the way that I had felt about them, I continued to keep myself from accepting it. I would act shocked whenever someone would ask me about my sexuality. “Why would you think that?” I would say, almost angry that someone would dare create this perception of me in their mind before I could even form my own perception of myself. I was angry most of the time—I opted to hurt other people’s feelings before they got the chance to hurt mine. It was a very bad time in my life, not because of how I treated myself, but because of how I treated others. I was scared of what it could mean if these people were right about me. I may not have known much about the community and its members before my discovery, but I knew very well that the word “gay” was paired with the words “bad,” “stupid,” or “disappointing”—three things that I did not want to be.
When I listened to the news and heard the word, it went right over my head. I figured that the news only covered far-off places and topics that my young Hoosier mind hadn’t considered. But sitting in my bedroom at my grandparent’s house—watching these creators be authentic and true to themselves, knowing that millions of people were watching—really helped the concept sink in. I discovered that this word and the community it enveloped made me feel like I had people who were like me, who liked the same music I listened to, who wanted to dress the same way I did, who wanted to live the way I wanted to live. This discovery was because of the one site I originally used to watch videos of stupid kids’ games or funny clips from my favorite shows.
When I got to high school, I started to settle into who I was. I figured out that I didn’t have to fit the stereotype that everyone had for the queer community. I didn’t have to be flamboyant; I could play sports. I didn’t have to dress any type of way. My authenticity is whatever I say it is and nobody can change that. In his article, “What is Authenticity” Theo Van Leeuwen states that authentic talk is “a source of truth, beauty, and sincerity.” This idea is one I believe can be broadened to authenticity as a whole. Authenticity is one’s most true and sincere view of themselves. I hold this view of the person that I am today. Now, I am my most sincere and beautiful self. I wouldn’t change the journey that I’ve taken to reach where I am now—my most authentic version of myself.
In no way am I implying that YouTube can turn someone gay. In fact, I don’t believe that is possible at all. YouTube showed me the side of myself that I was yearning to show and understand. The little boy who just wanted to be understood by his classmates and find friends who would accept him even if he was different was able to build up his confidence by imitating the confidence he saw on the screen of his little iPad mini. The internet changed the trajectory of my life in so many ways. YouTube, however, let me navigate my way through discovering my identity one video at a time.

FALL 2024

This writing is a part of an essay collection titled On Technology and Authenticity.