Wikicurious in the Bronx | Pub Talk at the Churchill Tavern
Plus a bonus chapter of "The Editors" set at the New York Public Library
I’m visiting New York this weekend and would love to meet face-to-face with local readers while I’m there. The event will be Sunday, September 22 from 12-2 PM Eastern Time at the Churchill Tavern. We’ve reserved a cozy space upstairs, right by the fireplace in the main room. It’s the perfect spot to relax, ask me questions about the book, get your copy signed, or even pick one up if you don’t have it yet (subject to availability). The Churchill is known for its Sunday Roast, so you can enjoy that too while we hang out. Drinks will be available (grab a pint if you’re in the mood) and just a heads-up, all checks will be separate. Let me know if you’re coming to the Churchill Tavern on Sunday through the event page.
The day before the Pub Talk, I’ll be attending an event called Wikicurious: Editing to the Beat at Lehman College in the Bronx hosted by Wikimedia NYC, Equis, The Celia Cruz Foundation, and the International Museum of Salsa. It’s a fun and interactive event where attendees will learn more about editing Wikipedia, listen to a live salsa band, and try editing Wikipedia themselves. If you’re in the New York City area, you should consider signing up.
This real-life event has me thinking about a scene in my novel, The Editors, in the chapter titled “The Edit War.” In it, freelance journalist Morgan Wentworth is attending an event for new contributors hosted by Deja Nouveau, a librarian that Morgan met at the Global Infopendium User Conference. The scene takes place in December 2019.
As a bonus for Source Notes subscribers, I’m sharing the full chapter below. I fully expect the Wikicurious event to be far less contentious than the novel’s scene, but it will be interesting to keep an eye out for any parallels.
-Stephen
The Edit War
Morgan came to the end of the concrete stairs, arriving at the dank and sour-smelling subbasement. A lone figure hunched at one of the study tables, his skin mottled and his beard unkempt. He had brought all of his possessions—a duffel bag, a mattress pad—with him into the public library and kept them near his boots while he thumbed through sticky pages of a tattered magazine.
She was starting to doubt whether she was in the right place when she noticed a poster on the far wall with words in bright red Sharpie: Open Community Event—Developing Infopendium’s Coverage of Minority Perspectives.
Location verified.
When she pulled open the door to the computer lab, she encountered half a dozen people sitting before a row of boxy monitors, old PCs with sleeping screens like dark windows. The clock nailed to the wall was a drab and charmless timepiece, its casing gathering a fine layer of dust. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered, begging for replacement. Clearly, the NYPL’s annual budget had left this room untouched.
Deja toiled away at the front of the room, her fingers fumbling with a tangled mess of cables as she tried to mirror her laptop screen to the projector display.
The mini audience waited at the row of computer desks in awkward silence. Morgan took a seat beside one of the participants, an Asian woman wearing a blue medical mask over her mouth. But why? Was she a doctor or a nurse? A germophobe?
While she waited, Morgan withdrew her notebook, uncapped her gel pen, and tried to think of how to frame this scene for a journalistic article. She scribbled down a partial sentence—A scant number of people gathered in an ugly room of the local library.
When she read it back, she rolled her eyes. It didn’t take a master’s in journalism to recognize a dull introduction.
But I’ve got to sell it anyway, she told herself. Her bank account was nearly empty. Rent, electric, gas, internet—everything had doubled since Grace moved out. Grace, who thought she was irrational. When Morgan had politely denied the opportunity to apply for the social media role at Jimmy’s, Grace seemed confused, as if she didn’t think that Morgan could logically say no to it. “Really? Are you sure?”
Morgan’s eyes traveled around the dreary room. There had to be a story here, despite all indications to the contrary. Ever since her late-night linger in the diner, she steered herself to keep reporting on this space. But what was it exactly? Information conflicts? Knowledge disputes? Something like that.
Not the most glamorous of beats, she thought. Then again, maybe it was actually a good omen that she was down here in the smelly basement. Hadn’t Dad found some of his most gut-wrenching stories by investigating people underground? Not in the basement of the New York Public Library, obviously, but deep in tunnels in the Middle East, or down in bomb shelters in Eastern Europe.
The sound of a resonant voice brought her back stateside. “Welcome, fellow humans!” Deja stood at the front of the room, looking out across seven pairs of eyes from behind her silver-rimmed glasses. “This is one of my favorite events of the year. I can’t wait to get your minds thinking about internet power structures!”
Deja pointed to a tall stack of books that stood atop a rickety utility cart with dented metal edges. “As a librarian, I’m still fond of traditional information offerings. I check out and bring home several with me every evening. But digital resources are increasingly more impactful and accessible than physical books.” She paused, and Morgan sensed where she was headed. “What do you do nowadays if you want to find out about something? Do you go straight to the library for a book?”
Deja’s gaze probed the small audience as she waited for an answer.
“You search for it!” called out a man with a heavy accent. His black forehead reflected the gleam of the fluorescent bulbs.
“Exactly. You search online,” Deja said with a small smile. “And most of the time the Infopendium entry is near the top of the results. The info from the platform filters to each online device. It’s really incredible—the site is free, gets updated constantly, and it’s accessible to billions of people around the world. So what’s the problem?”
The audience was still. The problem is that haters use the site to trash-talk your father, Morgan thought, but decided not to share her issue with the group.
“No takers? Okay, let’s test it out with something local.” Deja clicked away at her laptop, calling up the Infopendium page for “The Bronx.” She scrolled down to show how the article was packed with text and photos, with over 12,000 words and 200 citations. It was clear that this particular page was well-researched and broad in coverage.
“So,” Deja said, looking up to gauge the reaction from the group. “We seem to agree that the 'pendium page for the Bronx is pretty good, right?”
Morgan scanned the room and saw nods of approval from her peers.
“On many topics, the Infopendium page provides a very good summary.” Deja’s eyes lingered for a beat on the man with the thick accent. “Tobe and I had a chance to talk before class—would you mind telling us all where you were born?”
“Nigeria.”
“And what town?”
“I’m originally from New Nyanya,” said Tobe. “It’s like a suburb of Abuja. The capital city.”
Deja quickly summoned the Infopendium page about the place and displayed it via the projector.
As Morgan read the words on-screen, she felt a wriggle of uneasiness: while the Bronx had been documented in detail, this entry was a mere two sentences.
New Nyanya
New Nyanya is a town in Nasarawa State. It is considered part of the Abuja metropolitan area.
Tobe rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t feel fair. New Nyanya isn’t small—it’s hundreds of thousands of people! It deserves a bigger page.”
“This is a stub,” Deja said, pointing to the screen. “It’s too short to provide in-depth coverage of the subject. It’s not locally useful to a reader in Nigeria. And why do stubs exist? Because of information inequality. Or systemic bias, as it’s sometimes called.”
For a moment, her eyes glazed over. “I found the same thing when I first started work on the articles about Haiti,” she said. “There were a few lines about the earthquakes and the poverty, but nothing about Haitian Creole or Haitian literature. Barely anything about the famous slave rebellion. So much of the narrative was being left out! It was an entire section of the internet that had yet to be decolonized.”
She shifted her gaze upward, as if searching for an answer on street level. “I’m convinced there’s a way to fix this problem—a way to make a difference, so long as we can show resourcefulness and grit. But first we must recognize that the majority of web pages, blog entries, and legacy encyclopedia articles reflect one point of view: white cisgender men from Western countries.”
With a sly grin, she reconnected with the group. “The kind of guys who couldn’t locate New Nyanya on a map.”
Tobe and a few others laughed while Morgan took down a quick note. Who’s recording knowledge now vs. the past.
Deja walked back to her laptop at the front and center of the room. Her alto voice flowed through the dusty air. “Culture is a collective project. Everyone should be able to take part—not only white Western males. This open platform can help us realize this dream. Since anyone can edit it, it should give voice to those of us who have been denied entry into premier sources for too long. But first we need to teach each other how to use the tools.” She took a deep breath and smiled out at the expectant faces in the room. “Let’s start with the basics.”
For a solid fifteen minutes, Deja spoke to her captive audience, beginning with the nuances of registering a username and the tradeoffs between revealing one’s identity as opposed to reserving anonymity. She walked them through finding credible sources, the importance of “sourcing” every sentence that was added to an article, and the goal of writing from a neutral point of view.
She’s a natural teacher, Morgan thought as she watched Deja work her magic. Sure, Deja had faltered somewhat back at the Infopendium conference, but that was mostly due to the heckling she got onstage, which no one could have predicted. But here, she was comfortably within her element—confident and passionate at the same time.
When she had finished with her lesson, Deja invited them to try drafting an Infopendium article themselves. “The internet reflects long-lasting structures of power and privilege,” she said. “So let’s take this chance to add knowledge about people who have historically been left out. To fill in the gaps.”
Morgan turned to the Asian woman who was wearing the mask over her mouth and nose. “I’m a reporter covering this event,” she said, pointing to her press badge. “Would you mind if I looked over your shoulder?”
The woman gave a curt nod and introduced herself as Phuong.
Morgan gestured to her face. “Can I ask why you’re wearing it? Are you feeling alright?”
Phuong glanced around. Then her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “My family back in Vietnam told me about it. A virus. It could mean nothing, but it’s worth being careful. I heard so much about SARS when I was a kid, and we had to cover our faces then—so now my family is deciding to wear masks again, just in case.”
“Ah, I see,” Morgan said. A virus? It was the first she’d heard of it. This story must be getting more press on the other side of the world.
Phuong moved around her mouse to wake up the monitor. “Tonight I make a page for Lady Triệu,” she said. “My daughter loves her.”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, my English is so-so.” Phuong held up her phone, pulling up a YouTube video. A series of shiny images cascaded across the screen, the sequence telling the tale of Lady Triệu—a valiant warrior whose courage had been known to rally entire armies. In most of the pics, she was depicted sitting atop a majestic elephant and brandishing her giant sword. The robotic English voiceover declared that Lady Triệu was “the greatest hero that Vietnam has ever seen.”
It sounds like neo-nationalism, Morgan thought.
“Since the video came out, my daughter and her friends have been obsessed with her,” Phuong said, pocketing her phone and returning her attention to the computer.
For the next several minutes, Phuong searched the internet, looking for reliable written material about Lady Triệu, while Morgan suggested a few search terms to try out. Together they found numerous self-published sources—social media posts, podcasts, videos, indie blogs—essentially a slew of self-made “content.” But the real journalism, the newspapers and published books that were acceptable to Infopendium, those were either nonexistent or only available for purchase. And neither of us are in a spot to shell out cash, Morgan guessed.
Around them, the room filled with the staccato rhythm of fingers tapping keys. Everyone except for Phuong was already off to the races.
“Gentle reminder to be bold,” Deja said, peering out over the monitors. “Remember you can always start small and work your way up.”
Although she hadn’t much to work with, determination etched itself into Phuong’s face. She clicked Create Article and started typing. Her process was both very slow and very cautious, as if she were hiking a mountain ridge during a heavy fog. Phuong labored over each sentence, struggling against the weight of language as she tried to paraphrase the source text.
When, nearly an hour later, Phuong clicked Publish, Morgan couldn’t help but be impressed by this stranger’s persistence. Together they reviewed the version that had just gone live.
Lady Triệu
Lady Triệu was a Vietnamese warrior and fighter in the 3rd century when Chinese people tried to control Vietnam.¹ She fought with her army of four thousand and won some battles, but eventually she lost.² She remains an important symbol of courage and inspiration for Vietnamese people.
References
1. ^ "The Ballad of Lady Triệu," VmExpress.
2. ^ "Fierce and Fearless: Why Lady Triệu Is Suddenly All Over Your Social Feed," Viet Vibes.
After posting her new entry, Phuong turned to Morgan. “My daughter and her friends will be so excited to see that Lady Triệu now has a page. They’ll love that it’s in English, too!” From the lilt in her voice, Morgan could tell that Phuong was smiling beneath her mask. “My daughter knows I’m no good at computers. She will be shocked I made this.”
Phuong’s eyes returned to the screen and then went wide. She recoiled from the display as if physically struck. Her pitch plummeted. “Oh no, what is this?”
The warning that appeared atop Phuong’s freshly published page glowed bright red. Morgan leaned forward to read the crimson text.
User Telos has marked this article on "Lady Triệu" for Speedy Deletion based on the following rationale:
The article is a stub that is not of suitable quality for the encyclopedia.
The tone is overly enthusiastic in its description of the subject matter. See AIM FOR NEUTRALITY.
The information in this article is not supported by reliable sources with an established reputation for being credible. See WE NEED BETTER SOURCES.
At the sight of Telos, Morgan flashed back to the conference. The same username made the biting comment about how Infopendium editors had “killed” old print encyclopedias. He’d popped up again in the Misinfo Patrol meeting, complaining to Alex about starting a few minutes late. Neither interaction had seemed friendly.
Phuong’s forehead crinkled. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”
Invoking an old reflex from her school days, Morgan raised her hand to report the problem to the teacher.
Deja arrived in a moment. Her eyes scanned the screen and she mumbled something that sounded like a curse. “Mind if I drive?” she asked Phuong, and they quickly switched places.
Morgan looked over her shoulder as Deja changed usernames and started typing. She hoped Deja could do something to fix the problem. Other than her dad’s, Morgan had never been so invested in an Infopendium page. This one was too young to die. And Phuong was too eager to see it live.
08:18 DejaNu
● Chat @Telos: Respectfully, I think your nomination for deletion is too hasty. As you may know, I am at an NYPL event where I am introducing new contributors to Infopendium. To your point about the quality of sources, remember that so much of the world’s knowledge is oral, embodied, and unpublished. Regrettably, it is very unlikely that people from historically marginalized countries—in this case, a former European colony—will have been covered by “prestigious” Western papers like the Manhattan Times. To your point about the page’s brevity, I agree that it’s a stub in its current state, but please give our group just half an hour more to KEEP DEVELOPING. Or feel free to supplement the content yourself! From what I remember, you also have an interest in writing about historical warriors. If it helps, I always try to remind myself and my students that white men’s knowledge from the Global North is not necessarily “neutral,” while knowledge from marginalized communities is not necessarily “pushing a point of view.” In any case, I must stress that it would be incredibly disappointing for these new editors to have their work promptly deleted without being given any opportunity to improve.
Deja’s index finger lingered over the mouse while she deliberated on her wording.
Morgan felt a bit of nerves on her behalf. Nerves and excitement. If it bleeds, it leads. “Publish,” she whispered.
Deja clicked it. “Let’s just see how he responds,” she said, before peeling off to check on the others.
When Deja left, Phuong and Morgan continued scouring the internet for traditional, print sources about Lady Thuy. They’d only been at it for a few minutes, though, when the next message popped up. “He’s back!” Phuong cried, jabbing her finger at the screen.
08:23 Telos
● Chat @DejaNu: Respectfully, the self-confidence of your newbies is not my concern. It is obvious you believe this encyclopedia is a place to do as you please, that you snub your nose at those like me who dare impose some order. But I won’t permit you to dissuade me.If you were wise, you’d be more circumspect about my work. The particular veteran you alluded to had copious reliable sources from what is celebrated as the golden age of American newspapers.
By contrast, your “open-minded” event is spawning trivial and dubious entries—mere shanty houses instead of sturdy structures. It troubles me to think what will happen once your “recruits” have given up, leaving behind so much detritus on the site. That’s why this clutter must be purged immediately, before a precedent is set for cheapened principles.
One final point: Belittling me as a bigot hardly wins me to your cause. In fact, it only further reinforces my natural skepticism about the nature of your “community organizing.” Your impudence offends me, @DejaNu. Just because “Buddyboy” gave you an award does not grant you any more power than I—someone who has dedicated himself to this project for nearly twenty years and is the most prolific editor by far. You may hurl insults my way all you wish, but I will certainly not be swayed by your false teachings. My purpose is to prevent such subpar content from being published here, and I will do that for so long as I am able.
When she had finished reading the diatribe, Morgan felt sandblasted by its bitterness. She flipped back to the first page of her notebook and found the note she’d taken from the conference. Telos? A few weeks had passed, and still she wasn’t any closer to answering the question. Who is Telos? A man, presumably; she’d noticed this time how he used male pronouns. But why was he so hostile?
This time it was Phuong who raised her hand.
Deja appeared quickly, hovering over their shoulders. Her face registered first surprise, then anger.
Then, from the corner of her eye, Morgan noticed Tobe raise his hand. Deja must have seen it, too, and moved instantly to join him.
Morgan leapt up and followed, the fight tingling in her veins. If it bleeds, it leads, indeed.
On Tobe’s screen, he had the Infopendium page for New Nyanya, which he’d expanded significantly. It now contained all sorts of updated demographic information and a description of the local economy—all from reputable-looking sources like the Nigerian Tribune and the Lagos Daily News. What had originally been a tiny stub was now much closer to a full-fledged encyclopedia page. Well done, Tobe, Morgan thought.
Yet there it was: emblazoned right at the top, like a branding seared into its forehead.
User Telos has marked this article on "New Nyanya" for Speedy Deletion based on the following rationale:
The article is not of suitable quality for the encyclopedia.
The article contains text that is written like an advertisement. Promotional language is strictly forbidden. See AIM FOR NEUTRALITY.
The productive atmosphere had drained from the computer lab. Morgan looked around to see the red badge of deletion on every screen. Typing had stopped; there was just the whirring hum of the fluorescent lights and a faint mechanical tick. Morgan glanced at the clock—they had mere minutes left before the event was due to end.
Tobe fidgeted in his seat. “Will . . . will my page just . . . disappear?”
Deja took a deep breath before answering. “When you try to expand knowledge, you may encounter some resistance. Yes, your pages have been flagged for deletion, but remain calm—they won’t be gone immediately. Other editors will weigh in on whether or not to keep your page. If it is decided to delete your articles, do not despair; you can always make another attempt.”
Despite the upbeat tone, her eyes betrayed that she was tired. The fight must be exhausting, Morgan thought.
“It’s a continual cycle—build up, break down, and try again,” Deja said, straightening taller. “Setbacks are just part of the game.”
Morgan jumped in place as a voice outside the door started shouting. “Closing time! Pack up your things! Closing time!” It reminded Morgan of how teachers used to call out Pencils down after a standardized test. Ready or not, they were finished.
Deja directed them to leave per the announcement, reminding everybody that the closest exit was up on level one. “Happy holidays, to those who celebrate. And remember, you can keep editing yourself at home!”
Phuong made her way out, nodding goodbye to Morgan. Like the others, Phuong slumped her shoulders as she left. Rather than leave with them, Morgan lingered. Maybe her press badge could give her an excuse to stay a little longer. She went up and stood near Deja’s podium. “Was what happened tonight typical?”
“What do you mean?”
“The way Telos acted. Was that common?”
Deja sighed as she unplugged the HDMI cord from her laptop. “Telos and some of the others are always tough on new articles. They view themselves as wardens of the project. But ever since Gerald gave me the award, Telos has been . . . well, basically he’s stalking my every move.” She settled herself on a library stool. “It’s fine; I can handle it. I just worry about the effect on the new editors.”
Morgan nodded. It was strange: even though she hadn’t known or thought much about any of these topics before the event, the mass delete from Telos made her angry, too.
Stay objective, whispered her father’s voice. Hadn’t she learned way back in Ethics of Journalism that she wasn’t supposed to get too close with the subjects of her reporting? That too much closeness compromised one’s neutral point of view? But close or not, the hurt she’d seen on Phuong’s and Tobe’s faces really stung.
Deja struck her forehead with her palm. “I meant to ask—did you get much useful material tonight? Our movement’s always looking for more press. Could you cover this for your next story?”
Morgan tried to put it honestly. “I want to. I mean, it’s so interesting.” But even as the words came out, she could foresee a slew of newspapers shutting down her pitch. They would say the story was too small, too niche. That the subject matter was “insufficiently newsworthy.” And the thing was, she really needed an editor to buy it. Her mother was right; she couldn’t last forever without cash flow.
“I’m just not sure how to make this”—Morgan gestured to the empty computer lab—“into something I could sell. That’s the challenge, I mean.”
Deja bit her lip. “Right. Well, I’ll leave that part to you, obviously. It’s your profession.”
Morgan felt a lump forming in her throat. She’s right, of course, she told herself. Quit complaining. Be a professional.
Pushing herself up off the stool, Deja began walking around to power down the last PCs. Meanwhile, Morgan’s eyes caught on the sizable stack of books Deja had piled on the utility cart. These were the same Deja had referred to in her talk—the ones that she was planning to bring home tonight.
Curious, Morgan skimmed the titles: Artists of the Harlem Renaissance, A Women’s “Herstory” of the United States, Hidden Changemakers: Lesser-Known Activists of the Civil Rights Movement, The New Encyclopedia of Indigenous Peoples . . .
“Is this an ordinary-sized stack for you?” Morgan asked.
Deja circled the room, looking for any leftover belongings. “It’s about standard, I’d say. The thing is, I’m always needing more print sources to use for making ’pendium pages. You’d be surprised how much traditional book knowledge exists that hasn’t yet been digitized.”
Morgan couldn’t help but laugh.
“What?”
“It’s just—well, you have highly consistent interests.”
Deja started laughing, too, a deep belly laugh that seemed to warm the whole room. “I know, I know. I’m an odd duck. But this project is . . . it’s like my thing.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
As Morgan peered around at the old computers and bleak gray walls, she thought about how much she wanted to write this story. It seemed so clear that Deja’s work deserved some recognition. But how to sell it? What was the angle?
She was still struggling when Dad’s voice popped into her mind. If the news isn’t breaking, break out the profile.
The Editors is now available on Amazon, Bookshop.org, and wherever books are sold.