It all started with
institutionalized education. Well, really, it began with an
entrepreneurial Harvard student trying to connect the world. Mark
Zuckerberg and his social media successors aside, my initiation into
a world of Facebook-obsessed adolescents was highly unpleasant.
Despite the fact that making friends with real live people was taxing
enough for my timid freshman self, the true struggle existed on the
Internet. I often think about how glad I am that I escaped.
I'm not writing
this to preach an anti-social media doctrine. I'm writing this
because social media is a defining characteristic of modern life, and
that scares me more than I dare to say. I used to spend hours
cultivating meaningless and superficial friendships with people on
Facebook who wouldn't wave to me in the hallways. Why should they
wave? I would ask myself. We
don't really know each other anyway.
I said this as a way to convince myself of something that I still
can't identify. At the time I barely believed it, but in retrospect
it was an accurate statement. I recently learned that what I thought
was an acquaintance's last name was not her surname at all. Little
(although that seems kind of large to me) nuances like that made me
realize just how phony it all is. And since most people's lives exist
primarily on their computers and phones, I really do mean all of it.
A
month or so ago, I attended
a fashion conference in New York City.
One of the first panels was about the immense power of social media:
Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, Tumblr, and so on. The
panelists raved for half an hour about how Tweeting is therapeutic
and how they can't live without their iPhones. They ceaselessly
touted the advantageous effects of being immersed in online culture.
They assured us that a brand's Twitter interactions are nearly as
important as their products themselves. As I typed out notes on what
these people told me, I couldn't help but feel like I was writing
down lies. I refused to believe that my future relies on how well I
can condense my thoughts into one hundred forty characters. When it
was time for questions, I raised my hand and asked, “If I am a
fashion blogger and I don't want to get involved in social media, but
I attend fashion shows and events, can I still be successful in the
industry?” Everyone in the room—and those watching the event
being live-streamed on their computers—stared at me. There was a
slight pause as hundreds of eyes looked at me in disbelief. Joe Zee,
the creative director of
Elle
magazine, drew the microphone up to his lips and said something along
the lines of, “I guess my question to you is, why
don't
you want to get involved? This is your ticket.” I feebly attempted
to explain my standpoint on the issue, but with editors and bloggers
and the like surrounding me at all angles, I couldn't bring myself to
tell them how fake it all seems without seriously offending every
single person there. I believe that that was the moment at which the
conflict become clear to me: to participate, or to not?
I
deleted my Facebook account in the middle of this past summer. I had
been on vacation with my family in California, and we had left the
day after my state-regulated exams were over. I was hanging out in
Hollywood, and all I could think about was what was going on back
home, and what was so-and-so doing, and gosh, they look like they're
having fun, I haven't spoken to my friends in days. It was torturous.
I mentioned one day to my mother and sister that I was considering
deactivating my account, and both of their immediate reactions were
“no.” They asked me why in the world would I do that? This was my
mother telling me
this. That kind of threw me off. Aren't moms supposed to want their
children off of Facebook? I guess that only applies to the mothers
that don't have accounts themselves. I tried to tell them that it was
depressing me, that I got nothing positive out of obsessively
watching over other peoples' lives, that I had already wasted so much
precious time doing absolutely nothing, the latter of which is easily
one of my biggest fears. I had driven myself mad and become instantly
miserable because such-and-such person hadn't responded to my wall
post, or hadn't liked my comment. Just take a moment to think about
how ridiculous this all sounds. Mere decades ago, if someone didn't
pick up the phone, it was most likely because they weren't home, not
because they hated you and were trying to ignore you. Now, if
somebody doesn't “like” someone's “wall post,” they go
berserk. Whatever all of this was, I wanted out, and I needed to
extricate myself immediately. As soon as I got back from my trip, I
sent a private message out to the friends I wanted to stay in touch
with (the list consisted of ten or twelve people at the most) telling
them that I was deleting my Facebook and if they needed or wanted to
reach me, here was my email address. I clicked the “deactivate”
button, and it was all over. I was free.
I
spent the rest of the summer nearly completely out of touch with the
outside world, save for those people that I had called or sent text
messages to and the people that were in a room with me. Since
blogging is often (at least for me) a one-sided conversation, I don't
count it as a social media platform; therefore, I was basically
isolated from everything social for two months. If deleting my
account taught me anything, it was how to weed out my real friends
from the fake ones. People that I thought were close companions
didn't remember my birthday because Facebook didn't remind them when
it was. Nobody but my aunt called me to wish me a happy birthday that
day. To be fair, most of my friends were at camp and weren't allowed
to have phones with them, but all of those insincere wall posts I had
gotten in past years from people I sort of knew were no longer a part
of the picture. At the time, I was convinced that I had simply
dropped off the face of the earth. To everybody else, I was gone, and
they hadn't ever cared enough to notice now. I was even slightly
content with going on living like that, maybe forever, only spending
time with people I wanted to, or sometimes seeing nobody at all. It
was a tranquil lifestyle, except for those frequent moments when I
would wonder what my friends were doing and if they remembered that I
existed. Sometimes I cared, but most often I didn't. I was done
trying so hard to make everyone notice me. Fading into the background
was so much easier.
When
I returned to school in the fall, I didn't dread the actual start of
school and what the academic year would bring: I dreaded seeing
everyone that I knew once again. I knew that I would have to combat
against everyone's, “Why did you delete your Facebook?”
questions, even though I knew I could never tell them the truth.
There was no way I was going to inform them that it was their fault,
in a way. That would seem far too condescending. I still feel
uncomfortable telling people that I don't have a Facebook account
despite the fact that I'm extremely proud of it. I broke out of the
mold, and I am happier because of it. The sick, twisted part of our
society is that I feel bad when telling people that, essentially, I
am different from them. This pressure to be like everybody else, in
spite of how much everyone propagates the concept of individuality,
is so overwhelming that separating oneself from others in any way is
absurdly isolating.
Recall
the anecdote I told at the beginning of this article about the
fashion conference. When a famous magazine editor challenged my views
on social media in front of hundreds of people, there was no way I
was going to argue with him about it. It wasn't because he was the
ever-fabulous Joe Zee. It was because I was literally the only person
in the entire room that had that perspective on the topic, and
pursuing a conversation about something that is much more personal
than it seems on the surface in front of a crowd of strangers did not
seem appealing. It still doesn't. What scared me was that they didn't
get it, not one bit. No one there could wrap their minds around the
prospect of doing away with hashtags and Twitter handles, with
reblogging and Pinning, with “likes” and wall posts.
Call
me old-fashioned, because maybe I am. But it frightens and
disappoints me that my laptop accepts Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr
as words, while it does not recognize an Old English word (certes).
My intention with this article was not, as I mentioned previously, to
berate you all for having Facebook or Twitter accounts. It was to
make people aware of the toll this new culture has on us as humans.
Perhaps it is because I am a strong believer in the power of
language, physical interaction, and out-dated methods of
communication, but I worry every day that we are ruining ourselves.
The world has become so open and lawless that there's nowhere to hide
anymore. Life is becoming exceedingly more like Project
Runway: one day you're in, and
the next day, you're out. I've made the conscious decision to live on
the “outside,” but what does that mean for my career as a member
of the fashion industry, or any industry, for that matter? My hunch
is that it does not portend good things.
The
real struggle is whether we participate or not. If we choose to get
involved, we run the risk of becoming dependent on our online
interactions, a thought that I can barely comprehend. If we choose to
stay away from social media, we run the equally terrifying risk of
becoming outcasts. Both of these possibilities' likelihood and
intensity increases daily, so the time to decide is now. Are you in,
or are you out?
