Over the course of April, my social media feed has slowly but surely become filled with three types of photos: Washingtonians posting pictures of themselves against blooming cherry blossoms, thesis students complaining about deadlines, and various images of people getting COVID-19 vaccinations.

While the first two seem specific to my identities as a Northern Virginian and second-semester senior, I’m sure no matter who you are or where you’re from, your social media feed has also become increasingly full of pictures of people getting vaccinated. Many social media platforms are actively encouraging their users to take these selfies by creating hashtags, filters, and stickers specifically for sharing your vaccination status. Over a fifth of America’s population has, after all, received at least one dose of an FDA-approved vaccine. 

The sheer ubiquity of these selfies, and my inability up to this point to produce my own since I am still unvaccinated, has been an unnerving and fascinating experience for me. A few weeks ago I started screen-shotting any vaccine selfie that has come across my way on Instagram or Twitter. My goal was to become a low-key archivist, capturing our country in this transitional period out of quarantine. I’ve found that people generally fall into four categories when it comes to their vaccine selfie presence. My goal is to name these groups out loud, consider the intentions and consequences of their posting styles, and even point out the ethical problems of posting vaccination selfies in the first place.

 

1) The No-Big-Deal Posters

The first type of selfie I noticed, by far the most popular and efficient, is the social media post that nonchalantly shares that someone has been vaccinated. These posts don’t try to entertain or illuminate as much as they attempt to share this simple fact to followers, similar to checking “safe” on Facebook during an emergency.

I first started seeing these types of selfies pop up from recent Wesleyan graduates. Elle Dawson ’14 tweeted out “Pfizered” along with a selfie of herself wearing a bright pink floral mask, her arm displaying a red Walgreens Band-Aid. Johnnie Gilmore ’18 posted on his Instagram story “LET’S GOOOO” along with a close-up selfie of him raising his eyebrows and holding up his CDC-approved COVID-19 Vaccination Record Card—a white rectangle that has now become instantly recognizable. Some Wes alums forgo any sort of selfie altogether: Tekla Monson ’18 put a picture of ice water on her Instagram, with the title “post-vax hydration.”

Generally, this is the trend of people posting photos while they’re in vaccination clinics or pharmacies, or directly after. People keep things short and sweet, with captions like “Big day” succinctly communicating information. Occasionally, you’ll get something a little spicier, like reporter Chris Hayes captioning a vaccination photo with the phrase “Yessirrrrrrrrrrr!!!!” or culture critic LaToya Ferguson tweeting, “A bitch just got her Johnson and Johnson shot. It is I. *I* am ‘a bitch.’”

While these posts seem completely neutral, their simplicity carries multiple meanings. After seeing these photos, I am left with tons of questions. Where are these people in the world? How did they obtain access to these vaccinations? Were channels made available to them through the institutions, or were they more proactive about independently seeking out these shots? In the absence of any of this information, my mind is left reeling about what positionalities, connections, or even health conditions they face that are different from mine.

Additionally, with the absence of knowing how people got vaccinated, these photos come off as effortless. This is probably a good thing, since vaccinations will become more common if people adopt them as something normal and not extraordinary. But the no-big-deal quality of these posts still can rub people the wrong way. These selfies can come off as a sort of humblebrag, a modest display of bragging treated as a casual occurrence. Taking a look at the replies these no-big-deal tweets often confirms my suspicions, since I often see unvaccinated people feeling the pressure to congratulate their now safer, vaccinated peers.

 

2) The Community Inciters

The second group of social media posters I noticed were the community inciters. At a time when vaccine hesitancy is rising particularly around historically underrepresented and oppressed groups, these people urge their followers to get vaccinated for the greater good. Community inciters often co-opt the language surrounding digital activism—especially the recent trend of social justice presentations or voting reminders— to place the pressures of national duty and communal responsibility onto viewers.

Community inciters are often people who already use their social media platforms to push the agendas they believe in. Broadway producer Thomas Laub posted an Instagram story that stated “If my needlephobic ass can do it you can too” along with “DM if you need help with appointments!” Beyond Laub’s self-deprecation, he’s encouraging his followers to sacrifice their own comfort or fears for the safety of others. Gun safety activist David Hogg took a more direct approach in sharing resources, putting out an Instagram selfie with the caption: “Got my first shot [smiley emoji] Thanks scientists and healthcare workers! Sign up to get yours [link].” Hogg’s caption encourages people to take direct action by clicking the link to the CDC website. Some community inciters are even more specific about supporting the industries and causes they care about. Jake Brodsky ’21 posted on his Instagram story “movie theaters better get ready for my arrival [purple devil face emoji],” his photo including an election-like sticker saying “#IGotTheShotNYC” and “NYC vaccine for all: safe, free, easy.”

Brodsky is part of a larger wave of people seeking to provide support for specific industries. My feeds have particularly bombarded with industry professionals attempting to re-open Broadway houses or cinema multiplexes. While the entertainment industry has indeed been one sector hardest hit by the pandemic, giving too much attention to those causes obscures the fact that “essential workers” (primarily those in the healthcare and service industry) are the ones putting their lives at risk every single day. These calls to action inevitably center the need to get vaccinated around an individual’s personal life and well-being.

These community urging posts also brush up against a motivating tactic that has been becoming increasingly popular in activism: shame. This tool was rampant throughout the 2020 election: vote-shaming messages implied that if you didn’t vote, you would be cast out as a social pariah by your friends online. Shaming is also a tool that is used, with varying success, by people attempting to police others into following COVID-19 safety guidelines. 

The most extreme example of this is probably the Instagram account @gaysovercovid, which is still calling out gay men (who are mostly white, cisgender, impossibly muscled, and influencers) for hosting massive circuit parties or traveling to Puerto Vallarta in the middle of the pandemic. The account positions itself as a sort of COVID-19 Batman, doling out vigilante justice and accountability. It’s really more of a Scarlet Witch, weaving shame and chaos together, forcing people to abide by its own strict codes and reality. 

I bring up the entertainment industry and shaming not to condemn people using social media to urge people to get vaccinated. Out of anyone in this article, I would probably get behind the intentions of this group the most. But as @gaysovercovid shows us, there’s a danger in creating unfair expectations. Sometimes gentle pushes for activism can quickly become social pressures predicated on shaming.

 

3) The Ironic Referencers

The third group I started identifying was more noticeable, since they drew attention to their own cleverness. I call these people ironic referencers because they know the absurdity of posting about vaccinations on social media, and relish in the strangeness of calling attention to your own safety. Instead of attempting to push some agenda, these posters are happy making fun of themselves and their own presence online. 

I first saw this trend through my friends’ Instagrams. A high school friend Katie Lewis posted, “thanks @dollyparton” after taking the Moderna vaccine, the very COVID-19 shot the country music singer helped fund. My summer camp friend Kellen Appleton decided to parody a spam pop-up add, putting on his Insta story, “dermatologists hate her, learn how this girl got clear skin and a fat ass with one simple vaccine injection.” Both made me chuckle, but I also felt jealousy that they could be so cavalier about something that was still up in the air for myself.

People on Gay Twitter were quick to jump onto this trend by referencing their favorite works of art. Writer and comedian Paul McCallion ’15 tweeted a vaccination selfie with the caption “and just like that………..” conjuring his inner Carrie Bradshaw from “Sex and the City.” Likewise, Comedian Dan Lempert tweeted out “[music emoji] I’m a girl, not yeeet a woman [music emoji] (first vax down)” with a selfie, channeling Britney Spears’s wistful ballad. 

But my favorite joke came from my high school acquaintance Tré Allison, who now has over 3.4 million likes on his TikTok page @trevaynebxtch. In one popular Tiktok, he dances to Fetty Wap’s “RGF Island” with “Rick and Morty” dialogue interspersed. Allison dances with bravado and flexes his arm which has a vaccination band-aid on it, before acting like he’s in pain and ironically dancing through it. The video is captioned “Me pretending not to feel any side effects so my mom will finally get the vaccine.” For me, Tre’s TikTok was the first humor-related social media post that actually got at the inherent strangeness of performing health in front of others; it was a meta-theatrical act that revealed the performance required to function in a Black family. The video is layered, and silly, and visually pleasing, and sneakily sad.

The other ironic jokes that came across my social media feeds can’t seem to compare to that TikTok. Most of the other ones are dependent on you being able to “get” the reference, whether it’s Lisa Kudrow’s “well, I got it!” monologue or Spongebob memes. I’m a fan of Tré’s TikTok because it does what the best comedy does: use laughter to open up a space of discomfort. The majority of ironic references on my social media don’t open up discomfort, instead choosing to make light of a situation that really is life or death for so many in this country. I might get a delightful streak of recognition from these posts, but attention is on people’s artistic sensibilities, not the act of being vaccinated.

 

4) The Proud Influencers

I did not learn willingly about the final group of people I noticed posting vaccine selfies. Twitter’s algorithm occasionally shows posts that are liked by multiple people who I follow; because I follow a lot of gay comedians (as the previous group demonstrates), I inevitably have to scroll past a group of people who I categorically do not follow: influencers. 

Most of the influencers who showed up on my feed could be considered “micro-influencers,” with only around 2,000-10,000 Twitter followers. However, they’ve built up a loyal audience by posting thirst trap after thirst trap of themselves wearing increasingly spare clothing. They’re taking the concept of gay “pride,” and turning it into pride about themselves, and their now immune bodies. I’m not going to deny the body-positive liberation that these photos can unleash. But often in these selfies, the fact that they’re related to getting COVID-19 shots seems absolutely incidental.

The first one I saw came from @GPDrometer, who tweeted “Guess who’s excited to be a public embarrassment this summer” displaying his chest hair and duck-lips pursed to the audience. Next up was a photo by Nick Norcia, donning a captain’s hat, sunglasses, a mustache, and an open Hawaiin shirt, with the caption “vaccinated & ready for a hot girl summer.” Probably the one that drove me to a breaking point was from the now de-activated @swiftiec13, who didn’t even have the vaccine before posting “T-2 hours til first dose of the vax [rocket emoji]” along with a picture of himself smiling to the camera. 

These photos lack the simplicity of no-big-deal posters, the resource-sharing from community inciters, and even the humor of ironic referencers. The point of these photos is that the people in them look good, feel really good. They perform good mental and physical health; they’re aspirational vibes. But with specifically white gay men flaunting their bodies, I struggle to understand what the point of sharing these photos is at all, besides boosting the poster’s ego.  Somehow these influencers pick up the worst parts of Gal Gadot’s cringe-inducing “Imagine” video, and none of her ambition. They brag about their beautiful bodies, and never even try to “transcend” beyond themselves or their personal safety. 

The most effective social media influencers know that whatever they post will always be a big deal. They’ll use their selfies to promote community activism, and add humor to defuse the tensions around their privilege. I’m reminded of Broadway actress Kristin Chenoweth tweeting “2 for 2 [shot emoji, red heart emoji] get vaccinated and you can be sexy too [winking face with tongue out emoji],” along with a photo of herself wearing a “Vaccinated & Sexy” t-shirt. There’s enough of a camp-wink through the whole image to play up the wine-mom absurdity of it all. With Chenowith’s extensive fan-base, I genuinely do believe that a post like this will incite positive change within a community. 

Between Allison and Chenowith, maybe it really does take an actor self-aware enough of their own performance to pull off a successful social media post. But all of the unintended consequences of putting your vaccine selfie online—humblebragging, creating unfair social pressure, trivializing a health crisis, making the photo all about yourself—make me wary of putting anything out there.

On Tuesday, April 13, 2021, the CDC issued a halt of Johnson & Johnson vaccines, due to six women who had gotten blood clots as a result of the shot. Since I signed up through the University to receive the J&J vaccine at the end of April, I anxiety-spiraled at the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to receive a vaccine. Even though within two days the University had secured Pfizer vaccines for all Wesleyan students, the instability of getting vaccinated has stayed with me.

At this point in the year, whether or not you’re able to get vaccinated is dependent on things entirely out of your control: what neighborhood you’re in, how old you are, what institutions you are a part of, if you have a car. It can seem entirely random, and incredibly frustrating. Watching other people get vaccines when I haven’t been able to has made me feel alternately furious, ashamed, jealous, and longing.

I would hope that people who post vaccines selfies might take into consideration the mixture of emotions that people might have when seeing them online. All of the groups I identified in this article have the capacity to have positive effects on their followers. No-big-deal posters normalize vaccinations as an ordinary part of life; community inciters encourage people to think outside of themselves; ironic referencers give viewers some relief from the never-ending slog of the pandemic; proud influencers cultivate self-positivity. But as I’ve outlined, all of these approaches have potential pitfalls, where good intentions can have ugly consequences. No matter how you frame it, your vaccine selfie might make someone uncomfortable. Maybe that’s just an inevitable effect of existing on social media.

When I finally get my Pfizer vaccine next week, I will take a selfie. I’ll send it to my family group-chat, and check in with my closest friends to let them know that I am safe. But because it’s such a fraught time in the country, I’ll wait a little while before posting anything to social media. At least for myself, the potential harm one selfie could cause isn’t worth the potential good it might bring.