How the Harvard grad tried (but failed) to be internet celebrity

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“You see Stephen, you have to play to your strengths on Chinese social media.” Her eyes ran over me, evaluating my vaguely Jewish, almost pre-pubescent frame. “Perhaps you should post fewer photos.”

From the outside, Lara Sun looks like a normal 20-something Chinese girl. If you meet her, you’d think she’s smart, funny, and has a crushingly accurate view of your (dismal) modeling career. She’s someone you’d like to be friends with. But what you wouldn’t realize is that thousands of people feel exactly the same way.

Lara and her twin sister Sara are veritable internet celebrities (网红) in China. Combined, they have nearly a million followers on Weibo (China’s Twitter). We met as co-hosts for Harvard’s Chinese New Year gala where I was the token foreigner who spoke Mandarin. Interested in the prospects of fame, glory, and someone besides my mom commenting on my online posts, I reached out to Lara to know: Could I become an internet celebrity in China?

China and social media

Social media in China is a really big deal. By some estimates, there are 600 million social media users in the country. Huge names elsewhere (Facebook, Google, and Twitter) are blocked. As a result, China-specific platforms have developed, messaging and social media app WeChat and Weibo among them.

Social media also plays a larger role in the lives of Chinese citizens than those in the US. A survey by McKinsey & Company recently found that more than 91 percent of Chinese internet users used social media in the past six months (compared to 61 percent in the US). Because of a distrust in centralized communication, social media also has a larger influence on purchases in China than anywhere else in the world. Social media celebrities not only have fame in China, they also wield remarkable power over others’ behavior.

Why I wanted to be a Chinese celebrity

I had a few motivations. For one, it would be a weird adventure. I wanted to find out what happens in the dark armpit of Chinese social media. I also wanted to be that armpit. Second, I thought it would be fun to explore the life of internet fame. What is it like to have people know about you without you knowing anything about them? Finally, I was in my senior spring of college. I was bored. I needed a project, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Lara had already begun downloading Weibo on my phone. “So, what do you want your handle to be?” she asked. I hesitated, “Stephen?”

She crinkled her forehead, as if finally realizing that my only marketable talents were my skin color and that I go to Harvard.

“Let’s call you, ‘哈佛一哥Stephen,’” she replied. Roughly translated, it meant “some guy named Stephen who went to Harvard.” With a new title and a fully developed Weibo account, I was ready for stardom. I just needed to create my first post. Luckily, Lara stepped in again.

You see, Lara has two natural advantages: She is witty and is roughly three to seven points more attractive than me on a scale of 10. She helped me construct a first post with a quick joke and a picture of the two of us. After she posted it, she went back to her Weibo account and simply liked the post.

And so the floodgates opened. Within minutes, my follower count went from 10 to 300. By the end of the week, I had nearly 700 followers.

What I learned almost immediately was the power of influencers in China. Though social media is a distributed system, influence still seems to collect among a small percentage of the population. When a few of those people notice you, the implications are enormous.

For the next few weeks, I rode off of that high, submitting normal posts with a few pictures and attempting-to-be-funny taglines. However, it wasn’t until I worked with another social media starling that I learned about a mo 39 37985 39 14940 0 0 2835 0 0:00:13 0:00:05 0:00:08 2943re interesting phenomena in Chinese social media: the rise of “live broadcasters.”

Understanding live broadcasts in China and Taiwan

In China and Taiwan, one of the biggest social media phenomena has been the rise of zhibo or “live” showings. These are essentially live broadcasts in which one or two people sit in front of a camera and talk, dance, sing, or otherwise look attractive to an audience in real time. People can make comments, like the posts, or send money in the form of virtual gifts.

Live broadcasts exist in the US but are not nearly as popular as they are in China and Taiwan. In the mainland, over half of all social media users (more than 344 million) have used one of China’s live-streaming apps. Particularly famous anchors can make hundreds of thousands of dollars each month, mostly from gifts given by fans.

A few weeks after Lara introduced me to Weibo, a friend from Taiwan reached out about a new opportunity: co-hosting a live broadcast talk show for a large Taiwanese media platform.

My friend was Alice Yang, and she was a social media heavyweight in her own right. Though she has since shut down her social media presence, she ran a Facebook fan page with over 10,000 likes and thousands of active readers at the time.

It’s important to note here that social media in China and Taiwan are two very separate entities. Though both groups use Mandarin as their primary language, the way they use social media is very different.

Taiwan is easier to understand. Facebook is a dominant presence in the island, with more than 80 percent of all internet users registered there. The next most popular apps are Line, Instagram, Twitter, and then WeChat. I primarily used Facebook to reach new fans in Taiwan.

Mainland China, on the other hand, is a completely different monster. The government blocked popular platforms, so WeChat and Weibo developed. As Weibo is more like Twitter (a one-to-many platform), it was the focus of my Chinese social media adventure.

So, at the beginning, I chose to split my efforts. I’d spend a portion of my time on Facebook with a Taiwanese audience and another portion on Weibo for a mainland Chinese audience.

My first live broadcast

Alice and I met at 7 am, and I knew she meant business almost immediately. For one, she had a tripod for her cellphone. She also had a glint in her eye that told me she was both excited and that she would kill me if I messed up.

At 7:30 am, we wrote a quick description of our talk and hit a big “live” button. Then, we waited.

For the first few seconds, the number of people watching our live broadcast stayed at an unintimidating zero. Then, it slowly began to grow. First, there were 50 people watching. Then 100. Soon, there were nearly a thousand people watching Alice and I live from around the world.

At first, it felt a bit strange. In theory, we were talking to a thousand people, yet it still felt like we were sitting in a dining hall chatting alone. However, as the conversation went on, I could understand the appeal for both fans and broadcasters.

What’s remarkable about live broadcasts is the interactivity between fans and announcers. As more people joined the broadcast, they’d send questions and make comments about what we’d said. By the end, Alice and I were probably spending more than half of our time directly answering these questions and comments, as opposed to following a set script.

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I didn’t expect this, but I loved it. I actually felt like I connected with some of the viewers, something I don’t think I’d have felt through another medium.

After about an hour, Alice and I said goodbye and signed off. We’d chatted about our lives, listened to the concerns of Taiwanese students, and talked about some of our favorite study habits. I didn’t expect this, but I loved it. I actually felt like I connected with some of the viewers, something I don’t think I’d have felt through another medium.

Over the next few months, I did dozens of live broadcasts with Alice and another friend, Emily Song. In large part, this was because I really enjoyed chatting with fans directly. But another side benefit was improving my Chinese.

Unfortunately, live broadcasts have become a touchy subject in mainland China. In February, the central party began a crackdown on live accounts, particularly of individuals overseas. The crackdown resulted in Sina Weibo changing their live broadcasting policies to make it impossible for foreigners to broadcast.

After my account was blocked for a few weeks, I knew I needed to try a different outlet. So, I moved to the second hottest form of media in China: video.

Creating videos for a Chinese audience

A few foreigners in China have become internet-famous often by doing videos that go like this: “Hi guys, I’m Clarence Johnson and I speak Chinese. In today’s episode, we’ll talk about America’s favorite food: the Turducken!”

As I watched more of these videos, I realized that my lack of any marketable skill—except that I spoke Chinese and English—could actually pay off. It was time for me to create my own video.

I returned to my social media guru, Lara. Since we’d last spoken, she had written an essay, gone out to hotpot with her roommate, and posted a video of her smiling which was viewed by 2 million people. For this video to succeed, I knew I needed her guidance. But could I convince her to help out? Against all hope, I sent her a WeChat message.

Me: Hey, Lara would you like to film a video with me?

Lara (8 seconds later): Yeah, sure. I’m free any day this week.

Me (hyperventilating): Really? Oh, uh…yeah. Cool. I’m actually really busy right now.

Perfect. I didn’t fall for the trap of appearing too interested. After a few more texts, we met up to film my first online video.

I’ve always been told to write about what I know. So, I initially expected we would make a video about a lonely white guy trying to appease his fragile self-esteem by creating an unrealistic internet version of his life in another hemisphere. However, Lara thought of an exciting reframing: What if we filmed a video called “How to become an internet celebrity?”

Lara, my roommate Greg, and I met up around noon that following Saturday to begin filming. Lara, having unrealistic expectations about my preparation, asked me, “So, what will the video be about?”

I paused, flummoxed. I proceeded carefully. “What do you think it’s about?”

We brainstormed for a few minutes and then finally came up with a basic outline. I was to be an unwitting man interested in the glory of internet stardom. She was to be my shifu, a master guiding me through the steps. The result was artistic genius.

After a few hours of filming and editing, the video was ready. I posted it on Weibo and waited. The reaction was positive (OK, anything with Lara is received positively). Little by little, my followership grew from 700 into the thousands.

My experience with super fans

People often bash social media, saying that it develops fake or superficial relationships. And though this can be true in some situations, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the people I’ve met through this quest.

The most important group was the people I’d collaborated with throughout the year—Lara, Alice, and Emily became some of my closest friends in college.

The second group was the people I became friends with purely virtually. For the most part, these were young students asking about study tricks. How can I learn English faster? How did you decide what to study? And (of course), do you know how I can reach Lara Sun? Most of these questions were one-offs. However, the most interesting phenomena was an entirely different beast: the “super fan.”

It was a few weeks after my video with Lara. I had just finished a project for school. Then, my phone beeped. I opened it and took a breath. “Holy crap. Someone just made me into a meme.”

To be fair, it could have been worse. I could have been photoshopped with a Trump hat or a much less adorable sun floating above my head. If this had happened once, I would have blown it off. Perhaps that’s just what people do on Chinese social media? But it kept on happening. Soon, I had more memes than I knew what to do with.

These super fans were most apparent when I would do live broadcasts. During my first live broadcast, no one knew who I was (and vice versa). But over time, people would reference things my co-hosts and I had said in previous shows. Over a year later, there were still some people who messaged me to ask for when we’d live broadcast again.

I was pleasantly surprised by all of the fans that I had. In fact, I assumed all of China was this friendly to foreigners.

That was until my live broadcasting account got blocked.

My run-ins with the government and Sina

A few weeks after the meme incident, I wanted to do another live broadcast. So, I called Emily and asked if she’d be willing to do it with me. We met up that day around Harvard Yard.

I reached for my phone, clicked the live broadcast screen, and began to hit live. The second clock began to click up 1, 2, 3, and then suddenly it stopped. A pop-up appeared in the middle of the screen like this:

Translation: You currently are not allowed to create live content.

I didn’t quite understand what happened. Luckily, Emily was there so we simply used her phone and Weibo account to film the live broadcast.

But over the following weeks, my account continued to have problems. So, I began to get suspicious. I reached out to a few Chinese friends and strangely, none of them seemed to have problems with their Weibo accounts. Could it be something about my particular account?

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I was furious. I felt excluded for doing nothing except being foreign. Why did it matter that I wasn’t Chinese?

I began to ask people directly. Soon, the answer became clear. It was because I was a foreigner. Sina, the company that owned Weibo, was attempting to get rid of all foreigners from the live-streaming part of the platform.

As I mentioned earlier, the Chinese government had passed new regulations banning foreigners from using live-streaming platforms. My account had passed unnoticed for the first few months, but once it reached a critical following, Sina noticed and shut it down. I could still send photos, videos, and texts, but my ability to connect directly to fans via live videos was gone.

I was furious. I felt excluded for doing nothing except being foreign. Why did it matter that I wasn’t Chinese?

For the following three weeks, I spent dozens of hours trying to find loopholes in the system. I set up new accounts, streamed from different apps, and used a VPN that said I was in Beijing. I once called up the customer helpline at Sina and tried to impersonate the thickest Beijing accent I could muster. The call center employee told me, “Sir, it is very clear to me that you are not Chinese.”

How I lost to Sina and the Chinese government

I like to think that there’s a specific Chinese official—let’s call him Todd—whose sole job is stopping me from live broadcasting. Todd is desperately trying to crush my social media dreams, and I’m desperately trying to prevent the government from blocking my account. It was an incredible effort.

After a few more phone calls, one sympathetic employee finally unlocked my account. However, a few months later, my arch-nemesis Todd caught wind that I was filming live videos again.

Currently, my account is on the losing side of this battle. Since Todd’s second blocking of my account, I have yet to figure out a way around the system. The only way I’ve live broadcasted since has been through the accounts of my Chinese friends.

Over the past few months, I’ve decreased my use of Chinese social media gradually. At one point, I was posting every day, creating at least one video a week and trying to live broadcast three to four times a month. Now, in contrast, I might post once a week and do a live video once every couple of months with a friend.

Part of this is because of my frustration with the Chinese government, but a bigger reason is a book by psychology professor Mitch Prinstein called Popular. It made me question: Am I seeking internet celebrity for the right reasons? What was it that I wanted? Was it fame? Glory? The desire to have a meme collection comparable to Grumpy Cat? I realized that my goals were almost entirely around status—I wanted people to think that I lived an interesting life and that I was someone to admire. On the other hand, becoming social media-famous in China had almost nothing to do with being a nicer or better version of myself.

Did I become a social media celebrity in China?

Not really.

I decided I needed to slow down my social media quest. I’d made it a goal to reach a certain number of fans before the end of the summer, so it was hard to abandon it partway. However, by the end of reading Prinstein’s book, I knew I needed to reframe how I used social media in China and in the US.

Almost six months after that decision, I still use Chinese social media occasionally. I still have a few friends that I keep in contact with, and I will still occasionally post a few pictures of myself back at home. However, my framing is different. Almost a year after declaring I wanted to become a Chinese celebrity, I’ve tried to keep the parts I like (practicing Chinese, meeting real people, learning about pop culture in China) and get rid of the parts that I don’t like (obsessing about the number of fans, likes, and comments).

So, did I become a Chinese internet celebrity? Probably not. But I did learn a lot about China, myself, and the wild world of social media fame. So, I consider it a success.

While you can follow me on Weibo or my Taiwan-facing Facebook page, what I’d appreciate more is a message or a comment saying what you thought was interesting, what you learned, and what you disagree with in my story.

Todd, if you are reading this, send me a message with your office address. I will find you and challenge you to an epic sword-wielding duel that we can broadcast live to a Chinese audience.

Unfortunately, we’ll have to use your Weibo account. Mine is still blocked.

Source: Tech in Asia

https://www.techinasia.com/talk/failed-chinese-internet-celebrity

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