I have to say my skepticism about this new medium has now disappeared. Without it, one wonders if all this could have happened…Technology has not just made the world more dangerous; it has also enabled freedom to keep one small step in front of tyranny and lies. One thing you can do is use Twitter to fight the regime yourself. Help bring these fascist bastards down at the end of your modem. — Andrew Sullivan
A week ago, a G-20 protestor was arrested for using Twitter as a means to communicate with other activists. His house was searched, his possessions seized and his life turned upside down. It was an unprecedented event—the first Twitter-related arrest in the United States, the “land of the free,” where the State Department only recently denounced similar arrests in other countries.
And now that it’s here, our system is exposed for its hypocrisy.
Though that’s not unprecedented at all.
Much like my conflicting feelings regarding Facebook, I tried Twitter and eventually made the decision to quit and delete my account. I found that, even more than Facebook, Twitter sucked me in and spit me out. I was brain dead and unmotivated. I clicked refresh too many times to count. And, most of all, I spent more time reading what other people were doing (in 140 characters no less), people whom I didn’t even know, and less time doing good for myself, less time being.
Perhaps I was wrong about our reliance on technology—abusing it is easy, taking advantage of it is the challenge. If we can resist the inclination to become apathetic, we can use it. Not in the way Obama used it: not to solicit support or for self-promotion. We can use it to participate, to instigate change and activism.
Ironic—by arresting this man, by charging him with “hindering apprehension or prosecution, criminal use of a communication facility, and possession of instruments of crime,” I am inspired to rethink this form of social networking which I once considered so vapid. If it can expose the truth, then count me in.
Facebook helps you connect and share with the people in your life.
Think about this statement. Are these people, these Facebook friends, really in our lives?
The way to show that you care, in our contemporary society, is now communicated through the Internet. I feel close to someone because they’re my friend on Facebook. I know what’s happening in their life because they posted pictures from a recent trip. I update my status and suddenly feel more connected to my social circle.
But I think it’s really just creating more distance. It gives me the feeling that I’m staying in touch, but I’m not really in touch at all.
I moved away from my closest friends years ago and I’ve largely relied on Facebook to feel less distanced. But it’s not working anymore. Suddenly it all feels so trivial. Suddenly I can acknowledge how much time I spend “connecting and sharing with the people in my life.” But these people aren’t in my life.
Social networking has its perks, but I’m beginning to see it as the demise of true relationships. And it represents a larger trend—the Internet has so much potential. We’re exposed to so much more. Opportunities seem to have multiplied. But what are the results?
Perhaps the Internet has contributed to today’s sense of apathy. Perhaps the Internet has made it easier for people to not march in the streets, physically protesting. Why protest when you can just add your name to an email petition and hit the forward button? Why call your friend on their birthday when you can just send them a Facebook cake?
We can’t rely on social networking as a constitution for friendship. We can’t all sit behind our monitors, clicking away, and fool ourselves into believing we’re truly connected. We must learn to balance the opportunity and convenience of the Internet with real action.
Where do we begin?
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand,
nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. – “Song of Myself,” Walt Whitman
I have this memory of sitting in the dining hall my freshman year of college. I remember noticing how many kids ate cereal at dinner. It felt like an act of rebellion, like an expression of their newfound independence: Our mothers weren’t looking over our shoulders anymore–you could eat whatever you want, whenever you want. I never ate cereal at dinner my freshman year, or any other year of college.
For almost ten years I made a conscious effort to pursue independence. But you can’t consciously pursue independence. You can only achieve it when you’re ready to–it can’t be forced. All my attempts to force it only amounted to small steps forward.
I’ve always seen myself, and everything around me, through someone else’s eyes, typically my parents’. The parental influence is immeasurable–they teach us everything: how to eat, how to drive, how to care for ourselves, how to think about the world, what to study in college, what careers are “acceptable,” how to register to vote and what party to register with…
I was taught that Democrats are Liberal, Progressive, the “right” party.
I was taught that, as a petite girl, I should wear heels to appear “taller,” to appear “leaner.”
I was taught to wear makeup to be “attractive.”
It’s only now that I will wear sandals in public. Now I will go without makeup. Now I reconsider being a registered Democrat. Now I question my voting history. Now I question the supposed American tenets of freedom, equality and justice. Now I question my perspective on everything I ever believed to be real. Now I see through my own eyes.
I feel a little lost in all of this. Inspired, but lost nonetheless. But I accept it, because feeling a little lost makes sense in this context. It’s scary. Not the I-Want-To-Turn-Back Scary, but the I’m-Not-Sure-What-I-Will-Look-Like-Tomorrow Scary. And it’s exciting. Not the I-Want-To-Stay-Out-Til-Four-In-The-Morning Exciting, but the I’m-Seeing-With-My-Eyes-For-The-First-Time Exciting.
There’s no reason you shouldn’t, as a writer, not be aware of the necessity to revise yourself constantly. – John Irving
Shortly before Obama was elected, I watched a documentary on Ralph Nader. It made me think a lot about our government, our society, the entity in which I engage and live. It made me question, momentarily, my “vote for change.” But I stuck to my guns — I wanted to be a part of this historical time. I wanted to look back and remember that I participated, that I voted for the first African American president.
I hoped, along with many others, that Obama would mean what he professed — he would bring change. I had my doubts, but I hoped nevertheless.
If Obama was the progressive individual he appeared to be during the election, things would already be headed in a more progressive direction. We’d see change now.
When I read that a 24 year-old soldier, who has already spent 13 months in Iraq, refused to show up for his deployment paperwork and was thrown in jail for 30 days, it’s solidified for me — change has not come.
What happened to our “vote for change?”
This country has taken what amounts to a negligible step forward — we’ve “made history” by electing an African American. But this doesn’t mean we’ve put racism behind us. What does this step mean in the face of all the other steps we’re not taking?
I voted out of fear, and I think that many of us did. I didn’t want another conservative, greedy man in the Oval Office, so I voted for the other guy. And I was thankful “the other guy” wooed so many of us. But that’s exactly what he was doing — wooing.
I don’t think a vote made out of fear is a real, true, “American vote.” I think it’s a scam. If I were to vote again, today, I wouldn’t vote for Obama, and that scares me, too — if I’m not voting for Obama, who do I vote for? If I vote for Nader, or another third-party candidate, then it feels like I’m giving the McCain’s of the world a better chance. It’s terrifying. And if it all boils down to fear, then I begin to doubt the fairness, the freedom of this democracy.
Some people, both in and outside of this country, still admire America and what it stands for. But I am reluctant to be a “proud American.” Our country has done so much wrong. Does my participation, my vote, inherently mean that I support it? Does it mean that I support the invasion and continued occupation of Iraq? Does it mean I support invading Afghanistan?
If we’re only given two choices for the “most powerful man in the world,” for the President of the United States, then I’m not so sure I want to vote anymore. But I’ve been taught that is “un-American.” I’ve been taught that is refusing my right, refusing to take advantage of the representative system I live in.
I don’t know what my vote means anymore. I don’t know if it has any real value. And, if this is the case, our democracy is a farce.
I guess it’s pretty common for people to be getting married or engaged, left and right, in their mid-to-late twenties. I guess it makes sense.
Still, I find myself surprised, almost shocked, when I hear about another one “biting the dust.”
And so, this past week, between time with my dog, I began to notice the role of “the ring.”
It started with our dinner out, which included two friends who have recently made the big commitment and got engaged. The minute they sat down at the table, it was all about the ring. People wanted to see it, people wanted to hear about it. And then I found myself noticing it. Not my style, but pretty understandable — a typical, large diamond.
The theme seemed to continue, as I noticed other married couples and their rings. He’s got the simple, thin, gold band. She’s got the elaborate set of diamonds wrapping around her finger.
Just recently, another friend posted pictures of her newly gifted engagement ring on Facebook — a picture of the ring on her finger, a picture of the ring in its box, a picture of the ring on a small pillow.
And then there is the “counterculture” couple. The one whose wedding I attended only months ago. We met them for lunch and their fingers were ring-less. I am not surprised. I get it. I admire it.
I’ve never felt the desire to get married. Mostly, this makes sense considering the experience I had with my parents’ divorce. But it goes deeper than that. The ceremony, the institution of marriage, has never appealed to me. I never saw myself in a white dress, walking down the aisle. I never thought about how he might propose, or where I would want to spend my honeymoon. And I still don’t, even now, even after finding someone who I can imagine spending the rest of my life with.
Yet, the ring. The ring is the only thing that makes any sense to me. Not necessarily the diamond, or the band of diamonds, but the symbolic presence of it, the romantic significance of it. It’s something that I get, something that I have imagined. We all interpret it so differently.
