I first discovered flash mobs when I was twelve. As I descended into a rabbit hole of ASMR slime videos and day-in-the-lives, I paused on a groundbreaking clip: around 200 women and girls wearing vests over pastel blouses on top of flannels dancing passionately to “I Believe” by Yolanda Adams in the middle of a crowded shopping mall.
There was a lot of enthusiastic shimmying, some syncopated arm waving and a sprinkle of walking-like-an-Egyptian. I was charmed by the dorky humanness of it all, how effective it was in making every shopper stop what they were doing and gather around to watch. To my dismay, I discovered that the life-altering video I had just seen was from 2011, and that flash mobs hadn’t been trending for a decade.
With the rise of social media “cringe culture” and the death of third places, we simply aren’t motivated to organize spontaneous dance numbers that unite strangers in shock and delight. Instead, we sit alone at home, scrolling through single-person TikTok content, eating dry tortilla chips and developing parasocial relationships with celebrities (not saying I would do any of this). Our world is lonelier than ever. Flash mobs are the perfect chance to engage in the unapologetic, out-in-the-open whimsy necessary to harness the power of communal joy and lift us out of our digital slump.
Flash mobs originated as a social experiment, before social media platforms took over our lives. Writer and cultural critic Bill Wasik wanted to test strangers’ willingness to gather in public for a prescribed purpose, so he started the MOB project in 2003. In Wasik’s words, the project was a “demonstration of social networks,” showcasing “how you can use fun and a sense of being a secret agent on a mission to get people together in large numbers.” Wasik would designate flash mob organizers to send out mass emails or text messages with the date, time and location of occurrence. These messages would then be forwarded countless times across platforms until a sizable mob took shape.
Wasik’s project was also, most strikingly, a form of resistance to early social media-induced isolation. As Facebook became increasingly popular, Wasik grew disillusioned with the fact that the “friendships” people made online were purely transactional and built to end. He decided that the best way to counter this loneliness trend was to orchestrate large gatherings for the sake of performance art. “[Flash mobs] remind us that we are still people who have bodies and still people who have the ability to create change in the physical world.”
The best part of a flash mob is its surprise factor. Participants begin as unassuming passersby — they push shopping carts, dig through their purses, type on their phones — then, boom! Someone busts a move. Someone else follows. Next thing you know, a hundred people are doing the Funky Chicken. Because they happen in casual and public spaces, and because there is never a formal stage, flash mobs are a refreshingly down-to-earth art form. The dancers move freely amongst the crowd as if to say, “Hey, I was just one of you! A stranger navigating the world. And now I’m rolling my wrists and shaking my hips to ‘Wobble’ by V.I.C!”
By 2008, flash mobs were a cultural phenomenon — people began using them to bring hope to those struggling with loss or illness, build school spirit and raise awareness about social issues. My personal favorite kind, the marriage proposal, epitomizes everything good and pure about the art form. It is so moving (and a little bit awkward) to watch people profess their eternal love for their partners through extravagant dance numbers, with “Marry You” by Bruno Mars providing foolproof reinforcement. In a cringe-allergic society, where public affection is perceived as crude or unattractive, it’s invigorating to see such wholesome declarations of love on full display.
Flash mobs were ultimately killed by the very force they were born to fight: social media. Although factors such as crime (when criminals turned flashmobs into “flash robs”) and inauthentic corporate sponsorships also helped usher in the decline of flash mobs around 2012, the true blame lies with the isolationist box that is your iPhone. As digital platforms grew increasingly curated, people traded zest and whimsy for unbothered, nonchalant self-projections. It has become easier and easier to declare anything that seems genuinely human — take imperfect dancing, for example — as “cringe.”
We all dance alone in our rooms, and most of us suck, but we don’t share these flawed joyful moments on social media. Instead, we offer the world highly curated images of our lives. We want our followers to believe that we are flawless, nearly superhuman. When we dance on TikTok, we rerecord the same routine a million times until we get it just right. There is no sense of spontaneity, no earnestness, no carefree fun. So of course it’s easy to see a group of people in multicolored clothes dancing gleefully and imperfectly, and dismiss them as uncool. In a digital age, flash mobs force us to face our discomfort with our own image and find self-acceptance in the cringe.
None of this is to say that I am an expert in displays of unbridled public happiness. I am a relentlessly cynical person. I think the world is mostly bad, people are corrupt and the planet would be better off without humans. America’s rapid descent into fascism depresses me, and I, like so many others, have no idea what to do about it. But here I am, campaigning for flash mobs, because what the heck! They may not have the power to topple authoritarian regimes, but there is a unifying quality to dancing in public spaces, especially when the dancing is raw and jubilant and imperfect.
I call upon you to embrace the cringe. Picture this: It’s finals week. You are stressed out of your mind, so you open Instagram for a passive doom scroll. Then, out of the blue, a crowd of performers materializes on Marston Quad, executing a series of joyful and uncoordinated dance moves. You feel the urge to recoil, but you resist. Cecil the Sagehen holds out his feathered hand and invites you to join in on the festivities. You oblige, and suddenly, you are hitting the windmill without a care in the universe. There is no ulterior motive to this movement, no image you’re trying to project. You are simply existing in a vibrant community, and that is enough.
Zara Seldon PO ’29 is going to organize the next big flash mob, and you’re invited.
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