The Unbearable Lightness of Connection: Face to Face with Facebook

In an effort to remind us that we are writers, as well as readers and teachers, my department head, Paul, asked English Department members to write something, no more than a page in length, that speaks to our role as teachers. Plagued for weeks by the paralysis of integrity--please God, let me write something halfway decent!--I finally came up with the essay below, slightly edited for public consumption. Reading over it, I'm reminded that I've never been particularly good at just answering the question directly.

A few weeks back, I joined Facebook, the ubiquitous social networking site, as an experiment. “So what’s the big deal?” I wondered. Why do students--and full-grown adults--spend hours tricking out spaces and festooning the Ether with their glamorous profiles? Why fritter away time “poking” people, playing Twirl, or taking quizzes to discover what kind of Asian you are or whether you’re smarter than Paris Hilton (and what does it say about you if you need to take a quiz to find out)? Why send virtual snowmen, ZipPacs, morel mushrooms, or good karma to 1,001 buddies? Why broadcast banal, quotidian details to the world? And with just a few extra mouse clicks, how ‘bout saving endangered animals, the rainforest, or greening your vino while you’re at it? Logging on, I am blizzarded by people’s photographic flurries of selves, kids, and significant others, baby announcements, romantic fallout, spontaneous declarations, sexual orientations, political affiliations, and house renovations. Thanks to Facebook, I know that Sheryl enjoys “So You Think You Can Dance” and Truffaut; that Candace kissed Barack Obama; that Liz is “astounded by this modern world of friendship; will she be able to get back to work?” (Liz: ain’t gonna happen, ‘cause Anita’s your guide into the abyss!), and that some Hogwarts ‘88ers still toast with “Oh, L’Amour” champagne flutes (as opposed to my own prom memorabilia, which’d been unceremoniously crated and deep-sixed at the Tank, après-graduation). Then there’s Wild West photo tagging--wasn’t there a “Do Not Resuscitate” sign on my bespectacled, gangly seventh grade self? Not to mention that rather torrid discussion on the ’88 class page about the “hotest” (ay, ay, ay: so much for a quality Hogwarts English education!) Hogwarts faculty member. Who could forget Mrs. Rouser, my freshman Algebra teacher and Fiero-speedster: she of the high-teased hair, black leather miniskirt, and electric blue mascara--gotta love the 80s!--and the day she staggered on her hot-pink, 4-inch stilettos while chalking variable equations and plummeted onto the tiled Bingham floor, like an ungainly exotic bird? Indeed, we are slaves to fashion, nostalgia, and our evolving public identities.

Early on in my experiment, my cousin Ralph commented, “If you haven't already gotten the intricacies of Facebook, you'll soon find you can learn a lot by not doing much at all.” He certainly got that right. And as my illustrious colleague, Jack, confided, there’s a certain voyeuristic pleasure in uncovering what students are really up to. Web 2.0 espionage, here we come! For many, Facebook also provides a notorious haven from homework, a den of scurrilous gossip, and a refuge from responsibility, though there’s genuine pleasure in reestablishing contact with long-lost amici. In my Inbox: messages from a ballet sister I’ve not laid eyes on for 20 years, a classmate turned high-profile lawyer/occasional Cambridge coffeehouse chanteuse, and an activist friend who’s officiating same-sex marriages with his recently-minted divinity degree. Friends: souvenirs of a life.

But arguably, the true attraction of Facebook is that you can literally construct and reconstruct your ideal self: the face you show the world. The site allows you to write your identity; weigh your worth, gauging popularity by friends and virtual tchotchkes acquired; and shamelessly brag in a socially-legitimate way-- like a post-modern holiday letter--and get comments besides! And by posting playlists, photo albums, booklists, causes, links, and sundry artifacts of your persona, you establish a fossil record that asserts your being. Yes, I exist. Yes, I matter. Yes, my thoughts have significance.

On a superficial level, Facebook provides community and connectedness—instantaneously, I’m apprised of my colleagues’, friends’, and students’ comings and goings. And sure, it’s beautiful to find unexpected well-wishes scrawled on my Wall and see loved ones waving at me from distant shores, from Escazu to Stockholm, Maine to Manhattan. That virtual sushi’s not half-bad, either. But ironically, Facebook leaves me hungry for the genuine, the real, the substantial: Eliza’s lush bouquet of spicy homegrown basil; a leisurely lunch with good company and conversation; the coos of Ligaya’s baby; the taste of Everett’s freshly-baked pumpkin bread, still warm from the oven; Charla’s daughter squishing strawberry guavas with Ella on Wa`ahila Ridge Trail: a second generation of friends; Richard and Martine arguing the merits of utilitarianism; Shyrl considering the art of absence, en français, no less; Kai’s illuminating smile; and the resonant strains of Dvorak as Hunter bends over his cello. Truly, it is not through digital means, but by living and savoring the here and now, and yes, by teaching and learning, that we affirm our irreplaceable, measureless, unseverable bond.