The Terrarium
Fogo Island, Newfoundland. Photograph by Douglas Sprott, Flickr “We are the teachers now,” Joshua Swift declares from the stage. Standing next to a poster board announcing that the EARTH IS FLAT, he addresses the hundred people in the room. “We have to reeducate people,” he tells us, “We have to reeducate what America looks like.”
Swift gained fame in the flat earth community by standing on Minneapolis street corners, putting a camera in people’s faces, and asking for two pieces of proof that the Earth is round. He would then upload his respondent’s hesitations to YouTube for his 3,700 subscribers. For this, he earned an invitation to present here, in November 2018 at the Second Annual Flat Earth Conference in Denver, Colorado.
“He’s hardcore, man,” offers Darryle Marble, another flat earth celebrity. “He’s crashing fieldtrips at courthouses. He’s just getting into people’s face.” In one video, Swift provokes a father with his two young sons at a hockey game, “Lie to your kids some more,” he says as the family walks away, “and Santa Claus isn’t real,” he says, following them through the concession stands, yelling, even after security asks him to stop.
“But,” Marble continues. “It’s time for activism. It’s time to get out there.”
Activism is an unstated theme of this conference. Top stars like Marble have fifty thousand YouTube subscribers. Another presenter, Mark Sergeant, has eighty-four thousand, but even with a modest number of subscribers, their videos can easily earn over a million views. This conference means new followers, so most presentations feature YouTube clips alongside an appeal for those in the audience to share them widely.
As a researcher in education, I wanted to understand how communities like this merge their disdain of experts with a genuine desire to learn and teach. The idea of flat earthers putting on a conference—complete with badges, breakout sessions, and PowerPoints—was too interesting to pass up. I booked two nights on my way from New York to a friend’s wedding in California to watch presentations and talk to as many people as possible. If asked, I’d tell the truth of why I’m here, but I wanted to enter conversations as an eager student rather than an outsider, so I began with a limited version: I’m headed to a wedding, passing through, and I want to learn more.
No one asks for more. They’re too eager to help me “wake up.”
The conference is probably two-thirds male and 95 percent white. A majority of attendees are in their thirties, and Swift fits right in. He is a young-looking thirty-seven in ripped jeans and a sweater with an oversized collar that wraps around his neck, clasped with three large, leather buckles. I imagine him in a Brooklyn juice bar, but as a nervous tourist pretending the part. He’s been at this since 2017, which makes him an elder in a community that only began in 2015.
Swift begins his session, titled, “Flat Earth Activism: The Tradition of Factism,” with his origin story. He was first a TV salesperson before becoming an English teacher and
