During a brief recess in an honours course at Eastern Michigan University last fall, a teaching assistant approached the class three female professors. “I think you need to see this,” she said, tapping the icon of a furry yak on her iPhone. The app opened, and the assistant began scrolling through the feed. While the professors had been lecturing about post-apocalyptic culture, some of the 230 or so freshmen in the auditorium had been having a separate conversation about them on a social media site called Yik Yak. There were dozens of posts, most demeaning, many using crude, sexually explicit language and imagery.
After class, one of the professors, Margaret Crouch, sent off a flurry of emails with screenshots of some of the worst messages attached to various university officials, urging them to take some sort of action. “I have been defamed, my reputation besmirched. I have been sexually harassed and verbally abused,” she wrote to her union representative. “I am about ready to hire a lawyer.”
In the end, nothing much came of Crouch’s efforts, for a simple reason: Yik Yak is anonymous. There was no way for the school to know who was responsible for the posts.
Eastern Michigan is one of a number of universities whose campuses have been roiled by offensive yaks. Since the app was introduced a little more than a year ago, it has been used to issue threats of mass violence on more than a dozen college campuses, including the University of North Carolina, Michigan State University and Penn State. Racist, homophobic and misogynist yaks have generated controversy at many more, among them Clemson, Emory, Colgate and the University of Texas. At Kenyon College, a yakker proposed a gang rape at the school’s womens centre.
In much the same way that Facebook swept through the dorm rooms of America’s college students a decade ago, Yik Yak is now taking their smartphones by storm. Its enormous popularity on campuses has made it the most frequently downloaded anonymous social app in Apple’s App Store, easily surpassing competitors like Whisper and Secret. At times, it has been one of the stores 10 most downloaded apps.
Like Facebook or Twitter, Yik Yak is a social media network, only without user profiles. It does not sort messages according to friends or followers but by geographic location or, in many cases, by university. Only posts within a 1.5-mile radius appear, making Yik Yak well suited to college campuses. Think of it as a virtual community bulletin board or maybe a virtual bathroom wall at the student union. It has become the go-to social feed for college students across the country to commiserate about finals, to find a party or to crack a joke about a rival school.
Much of the chatter is harmless. Some of it is not.
“Yik Yak is the Wild West of anonymous social apps,” said Danielle Keats Citron, a law professor at University of Maryland and the author of Hate Crimes in Cyberspace. “It is being increasingly used by young people in a really intimidating and destructive way.” Colleges are largely powerless to deal with the havoc Yik Yak is wreaking. The apps privacy policy prevents schools from identifying users without a subpoena, court order or search warrant, or an emergency request from a law-enforcement official with a compelling claim of imminent harm. Schools can block access to Yik Yak on their Wi-Fi networks, but banning a popular social media network is controversial in its own right, arguably tantamount to curtailing freedom of speech. And as a practical matter, it doesnt work anyway. Students can still use the app on their phones with their cell service.
Yik Yak was created in late 2013 by Tyler Droll and Brooks Buffington, fraternity brothers, both 24, who had recently graduated from Furman University in South Carolina. Droll majored in information technology and Buffington in accounting. With Yik Yak, they say, they hoped to create a more democratic social media network, one where users didn’t need a large number of followers or friends to have their posts read widely. “We thought, Why can’t we level the playing field and connect everyone?” said Droll, who withdrew from medical school a week before classes started to focus on the app.
“When we made this app, we really made it for the disenfranchised,” Buffington added.
