Social media is having a crisis of identity. In the 15 months since a change of ownership rocked the foundation of Twitter—now confusingly rebranded X—competitors have scrambled to rekindle the allure and influence of the platform that first reshaped, then defined, and eventually dominated the online social universe of the 2010s. Almost all have failed, and the reason is simple: None of them are Twitter.

“I’ve told myself several times that I would get off Twitter, but 15 years later, and I’m still on the app,” says Kary Jackson, who joined the platform in 2009 after a friend created an account for him. “I was sitting in one of my marketing classes in undergrad, and I got this BBM [BlackBerry Messenger message] from my best friend. Not knowing who or what Twitter was, I logged in. My very first tweet was ‘How do you use this?’”

Like most users, Jackson quickly adapted to its rhythms, and found camaraderie among like-minded Black users, many of whom were forging what would soon be known as Black Twitter, the platform’s creative and cultural engine. What originally fascinated Jackson about the service—live-tweeting, bonding over shared experiences, and the audacious honesty of its users, several of whom were experimenting with new codes of expression—is also what has kept him on the platform as continued changes, from an increase in ads to the delegitimization of news, have soured its utility under the ownership of Elon Musk. “As insufferable as Twitter has become, it’s still very important,” he says. “When major events happen, whether it’s dealing with our nation, or even pop culture, Twitter is always my go-to source for real-time updates.”

Jackson isn’t alone. The reported brain drain of users has seemed to have minimal consequence on the boulevard of Black Twitter, where first-wave users share a sense of ownership over the platform. “I’m not letting no white man run me off this app. We built this shit, brick by brick,” user @fabfreshandfly tweeted recently.

“X’s user base and monthly visits have declined somewhat since the takeover, but the magnitude of those declines has been moderate,” says Deen Freelon, a professor of communication at the University of Pennsylvania who specializes in computational social science. “Some evidence suggests that the declines are mostly due to fewer new users joining the platform as opposed to longtime users abandoning it. X still seems to have quite a vibrant Black community, and I can’t say I’ve noticed fundamental shifts in its collective behavior.”

Fundamental shifts—no. What has occurred, instead, is a renewed emphasis on creating spaces of mundane connection within the platform’s increasingly disordered ecosystem. “We are still here, thriving through the apocalypse by supporting each other and laughing at nonsense,” user @PaperWhispers tweeted last week.

Alterations to the algorithm and a laissez-faire approach to moderation have lent X an air of sustained mayhem. Black Twitter, though, is unbothered. Many users have doubled down on nourishing spaces of enjoyment amid the lawlessness happening across the timeline. “I still look forward to live-tweeting my weekly shows, live-tweeting award ceremonies, and engaging with my mutuals,” says Jackson, who lives in Houston and works in human resources. More recently, he’s noticed that there are moments when Black Twitter feels reminiscent of simpler times. “Black Twitter is gatekeeping harder than ever, which I love. There’s a certain sector that does not allow Black Twitter to be infiltrated. I absolutely love when outsiders get whacked over the head, and everyone else just follows suit. We really are like a family.”

What this moment recalls is a pre-Ferguson version of Black Twitter, before the digital body was called upon to mobilize beginning in 2012. The repeated killings of Black youth—Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Freddie Gray, and so many others—instilled an impassioned responsibility in users to activate their platforms in a new way. If free-flowing comedy, borderless conversation, everyday observations, and an anything-goes attitude defined Black Twitter’s first era, then its second, largely centered around the Black Lives Matter movement, was all about growing up and holding America accountable for how it continued to fail its Black citizens.

“We can talk about the ways that the algorithm has degraded and changed for engagement, but from a Black Twitter user’s perspective, I’m not getting a lot of the quality conversations I used to. But I am still getting indications of Black life,” says Andre Brock, an academic at Georgia Tech and author of Distributed Blackness: African American Cybercultures. What Black Twitter has been “good at” is still going on—he cites the celebratory tweets for first-time Academy Award nominees Colman Domingo, Danielle Brooks, and Sterling Brown—but, Brock says, there has also been a pivot in the tone of exchange across Black Twitter and the style of conversations that are being prioritized.

“What I am seeing, on a smaller scale, like pre-Ferguson Black Twitter, is how it has become more of a group chat. You’re hearing more, ‘Fam I don’t know if I’m gonna make it today,’ or ‘Is anybody else tired or is it just me?’ It’s more about mundane Black life,” he says. “Ferguson and then Trump got us in the mode that Twitter should always be a space where political activation can happen, but even as that was going on, folk were still doing the things we’re seeing today.”

Recently, an appearance by comedian Katt Williams on the sports and culture podcast Club Shay Shay—wherein he hilariously aired out industry secrets in a three-hour interview—caused an outpouring of reaction across Black Twitter. “He is a sentient Black folk tale,” @Slangdini tweeted in response. Discourse around TikTok couple Ms. Netta and Charles, or the leaked audio recording of former Marvel star Jonathan Majors saying he needed his girlfriend to “be more like a Coretta Scott King,” have also caused seismic uproar on the timeline, recalling, albeit fleetingly, a golden era for Black Twitter.

There are certain events that would have been big on Twitter of Old or Twitter of New, “and those have continued to bring folk back to the platform for a little while, because there is no other place where it is going to happen like that,” Brock says. “It’s not a return to where we were in 2012, it’s just that those conversations have now been resurfaced as the things that kept us here. We were always focused on collectivity and care, even as those other parts of the world were going on.”

In spite of what X has evolved into, many Black users have refused to abandon the platform, continuing to form bonds and show up for one another. “Black people have always managed to find each other online,” Freelon says. Brock agrees. “Even when they are tired of looking at us, we are still gonna be here being Black as fuck, cracking jokes and talking about the things we care about, and nobody’s gonna notice because it’s just us.”