Seventy . . . Page 6
If Mark Zuckerberg’s Twitter account was hacked—who are we? Take it for granted your accounts are far from secure. Assume there is zero privacy. Remind yourself that whatever you put out there is going to be accessed.
Today, I follow a few basic dos and don’ts. Rule number one: There is no such thing as a Facebook relationship. I have very few friends on FB. These are all people I know, respect and admire. I do not accept requests from strangers. I don’t hit ‘share’ if there is a negative or insulting post. I generally let the person know I am sharing something. And thank them for posting it. Even when it comes to my children, I seek their permission before posting their pictures. I have been hollered at in the past for displaying unseemly haste. I now know better.
It’s different with old friends—some of whom I have ‘re-met’, albeit virtually, after a gap of forty or more years. It’s lovely to connect as oldies today and share memories. With younger, newer acquaintances, I have a simple reasoning—if they are clever, witty, non-judgemental, creative, we start an FB dialogue. If not, well, it’s a bit harsh, I realize, but after a decent trial run, I unfriend them, no hard feelings. I also do that with nosy people, or those who focus on negativity in their posts. God knows our lives are tough enough, who needs to read nasty comments? Then there are the professional snoops who trawl through accounts looking for media stories. They think nothing of shamelessly lifting personal pictures and posts and making an item out of them for their columns. Not realizing, of course, that if these were meant for public consumption, they’d be in a public space.
I also don’t quite get sending FB greetings to dead people. Or writing deeply personal letters to a spouse, child, grandpa, grandma and cousins on a birthday or a death anniversary. It’s embarrassing and ridiculous. I read cringeworthy posts by intelligent people and wonder why they can’t communicate those sentiments directly to the person. Why should strangers read all that stuff about ‘You are my life . . . you are my breath . . . you are my heartbeat . . . I love you to death, my adorable munchkin’? And worse! Declarations of undying love need to be made face-to-face. Anything that goes public gets instantly devalued. Unless you are a famous movie star/rock star and your PR team generates such stuff for you. For the rest of us struggling with more mundane issues, FB should really be restricted to having a bit of harmless fun, exchanging information and hopefully, learning something from one another—recipes, travel tips, good reads. That’s it.
Twitter is far more lethal. What you commit to in 140 characters is going to follow you to your grave. For me, it’s an occupational hazard. I have an uneasy relationship with Twitter. But I have also made my peace with its destructive aspects. I never read reactions to a tweet. Which automatically means I have zero idea what the trolls are saying. This self-protective strategy works for me. Nothing good comes out of getting into a slanging match with toxic, anonymous creatures spewing hate. Some of my journalist colleagues have gone off Twitter completely when trolls started abusing and targeting their families. I wouldn’t take that route. This is the nature of the beast. This is what trolls do. Often, there is a huge mechanism backing the nasty, humiliating and obscene tweets. The most frustrating thing for trolls to digest is to be systematically ignored. That is the worst snub of all. The minute you get riled up and react, it is a huge victory for the trolls. From there on, it only gets worse. Some high-profile showbiz celebrities have made a second career out of Twitter storms. You need to be brazen and thick-skinned to get into this territory. I have no stomach for it. I just say what I have to say and leave it at that.
I have an uneasy relationship with Twitter. But I have also made my peace with its destructive aspects. I never read reactions to a tweet. Which automatically means I have zero idea what the trolls are saying.
Negotiating this terrain can be pretty strenuous and horribly time-consuming. Those notifications and comments really cut into my workday and distract me. I want to check into rehab just to break this nasty addiction. I want to sign up for a phone-detox programme. But then again, I convince myself it’s a harmless indulgence, like I convince myself a glass or two of white wine on a Friday night is the same. I realize I’m conning myself. But having fun!
I see how differently the younger generation uses social media. I’m not sure it enhances their life, all I know is they are fantastically well informed and well connected. I taunt my youngest daughter constantly about her mobile phone usage. Secretly, I am jealous of all the time she spends with her phone. I want her company. I want eye contact, not a glazed, distracted look. I want to chat and laugh and gossip. But she is preoccupied and absorbed. This is her space. And that space is sacred to her. It doesn’t belong to me. I am the intruder. It’s the same as my wanting to barge into her room when she prefers to be left alone, and demanding her attention when she is not ready to give it. Is it fair? No, it isn’t. If I demand and get time to myself when I need it, I must understand her requirement—which is to be on the phone. It is never switched off. She routinely wakes up in the middle of the night to check it. What is it she wants to know that can’t wait till morning? ‘You won’t understand,’ she sighs before going back to her beloved—the phone.
I have spoken to several parents struggling with the same problem—how to get their children’s undivided attention, even for a brief two minutes. It’s a challenge. But I like challenges. I realize that to wean her away from that nifty gadget, I have to make myself more interesting than my rival. I try to come up with innovative tricks to impress her. I bring up topics are of zero interest to me, but could perhaps interest her. I try to sound young, hip and cool. I talk about fashion trends, Bollywood/Hollywood break-ups, music videos, what’s trending, what’s gone viral, sports stars and their glamorous lives, exotic foods, new restaurants, pop-ups—just about anything I overhear her discussing with friends. Sometimes, I surprise her and myself. She looks up from her phone to ask, ‘How do you know about that?’ I don’t state the obvious—I have a smartphone too!
Curating our lives?
I was amused and then a little annoyed when Facebook decided to remind me of the year gone by. If I wanted to chronicle the year, I would have picked far better pictures and used catchier music. That apart, I felt there was a great deal of deception on social media—and I was a part of it. I played along. I participated in deceiving and being deceived. When I posted pictures of my many travels, my outings, my dinners, my life on various levels, I was indulging in something not terribly high-minded! I was play-acting and projecting too many illusions and half-truths. I was creating a parody of my precious life. Why? Why did I have to ‘share’? Or keep checking my notifications to see how many likes a post had garnered. Why did I look out obsessively for comments? Why did I need the validation in the first place? Did it matter what I said during a seminar? Was . . . I that thrilled when my outfits at some lit fests received compliments? And disappointed when nobody reacted to certain posts? When I scrutinized other people’s FB and Instagram posts, what exactly was I looking for? The vicarious pleasure I had started to feed on was finally getting to me. But I lacked the courage to quit the space. I had become a FB junkie, a pathetic addict, like countless others.
I reviewed my recent posts. They weren’t obviously boastful—wait a minute, they were pretty boastful! Just better camouflaged. I had turned into an unattractive show-off, preening and strutting five times a day (minimum), hungry for responses and waiting for pats on the back from strangers. Well . . . my FB account is meant for people I know. It is not a public account. To be fair, I am now in touch with a group of interesting people—mainly other writers. Plus a few really, really old friends I had completely lost touch with. I tell myself, truthfully, that the real reason I am hooked has to do with a certain loneliness. A specific kind of loneliness. FB fills the need to reach out to like-minded people and connect instantly. Learn from their lives, share articles and music and ideas, without having to meet or converse. It is so damn convenient! All this is possible on my own time.
Strong bonds get established once such communication channels open up. A sense of community keeps me interested. I don’t have to leave home, dress up, smile or create time to interact with ‘friends’. I have noticed how rapidly my original ‘friends’ have established relationships with strangers they’ve met on my page. This is how it works. But has it worked for me? My children tell me FB is strictly for over-the-hill folks with too much time on their hands. I protest vehemently. No, it’s not!
I am not sure whether I want to withdraw from FB or not. How is it done? A surgical strike? Or a more gentle phaseout? Does one write a ‘goodbye’ post? And stick to it? Making a dramatic announcement seems like a cheap way to get off the FB treadmill. I am still figuring out a good exit. Meanwhile, questions about FB’s role in my life remain unanswered. I am telling myself not to despair in advance. Then again, I rationalize: What’s so wrong about showing off from time to time? It’s harmless. It can also be comforting. When I am feeling low, I look for a good image to share. I then write a short text to match the image. Depending on how low I am feeling, I embellish and dress up the story to enhance the image. That’s the fun part. It’s like writing a really short short story. Generally with a happy ending. Let’s call it creative escapism.
I am going to take a crack at posting searingly ‘honest’ stuff soon. Dark and gloomy, ‘The end is near’ posts. I wonder what the response will be. When I was a FB novice, I had absently posted a mildly moody something. Alarm bells clanged! I got personal emails from people who should have known better asking me what had happened. Was I okay? Could they help? Hello? What was going on? I was not allowed a moody post? Clearly not! I was pretty late getting into the FB ‘friend’ zone. Compared to my real-world friends and contemporaries, this was surreal. But once I got the hang of it, I got hooked—like most FB fans do. Cynicism was kept on hold. Yes, we were all liars on FB. So what? These were harmless little lies. Or were they? I started to notice patterns in other people’s posts, and my own, of course. There was a lady, a fine writer, who only posted pictures of children. She didn’t have any of her own. But she had several nephews and nieces. Her own pics were also of her as a toddler. When we met, I gingerly asked her why there were zero adult pics. Her smile vanished and she turned away without answering. Perhaps she liked her childhood a whole lot more than her present life? Maybe she cherished stronger memories of that golden period? Then there were the standard, professional boasters who used FB for shameless self-promotion. I got sick of reading about their hourly triumphs. I was also not interested in friends who spoke exclusively about their pets—and nothing else. There were other ‘intellectuals’ who shared obscure articles from rare sources—never boring, mind you. But so impersonal! If I needed information on bleak environmental issues, or wanted to know the exact status of endangered rainforests, I could seek it on my own! Narcissists posted Photoshopped selfies, non-stop. Groupies couldn’t get enough of flashing celeb connections—the grand parties, receptions and soirées they’d attended, the famous people they’d met. There were all sorts out there—and I was one of them. Also bragging and preening. Had I not been me looking at me on my page, what would I have felt? Well, I would have thought, here’s someone who is playing games. Some of her games are amusing. She is wicked and occasionally witty. She is clever. She shows off without it appearing in-your-face. She travels a lot. Leads an interesting enough life. Looks reasonably attractive ‘for her age’. Is inoffensive towards her FB friends. Likes her dog more than people. Likes herself. Blahhhhhh! Get over yourself already!
Yes, we were all liars on FB. So what? These were harmless little lies. Or were they? I started to notice patterns in other people’s posts, and my own, of course.
With these ‘safe’ perceptions in place, why change a thing? Why, indeed? Yet, the sense of unease persists. I am only contributing to more lies, more illusions. FB does not encourage the use of mirrors. It prefers filters. We all strive to present versions of our true selves, hoping to fool the rest. Since the pantomime is effortless and in most cases harmless, we carry on and on, our free hours consumed by an activity that is essentially hollow and futile. How depressingly middle-aged!
FB does not encourage the use of mirrors. It prefers filters. We all strive to present versions of our true selves, hoping to fool the rest. Since the pantomime is effortless and in most cases harmless, we carry on and on, our free hours consumed by an activity that is essentially hollow and futile.
There are FB users who do share their demons. I had one or two ‘friends’ who terrified me. They confessed to feeling suicidal—even homicidal. And I shuddered at the sort of unfair responsibility being thrust on me—and on other unwary people. What was I expected to do? Call the cops? Call mutual friends? Call the person directly and plead, ‘Don’t do it . . . why do you want to kill yourself . . . or someone else? All our lives are pretty awful. I will help you cope . . . here, hold my hand. You’re going to be fine, okay? Promise me you won’t do anything . . . promise!’ But these ‘friends’ are exceptions. My FB buddies are like me—which is why we are on the same page, as it were. We play pretend. And we try to do so stylishly, using reference points that are far from ‘inclusive’. The idea is to exclude those who don’t ‘get it’ in the first place. Our chats are ‘smart’ and filled with in-jokes—the nudge nudge kind. We lavish praise on one another’s meticulously framed images. We sigh over a poignant poem about loss and remembrance, we coo over baby pictures and share culinary tips. We project a ‘cool’ we may not possess. For anything else would make us look shabby and uninformed. In these constructed poses from our mixed-up, messed-up lives, some good stuff does emerge. We make small and big discoveries that in turn lead us to other wonders. That’s what keeps us hooked. We cease to care where truth ends and fantasy begins. We become our manufactured ‘profile’.
Toddlers and energy fields
Even toddlers today are sensitive to protecting their spaces. They are picky about the people who can invade their little area—the bed, for instance. Adults who think babies don’t really care as long as they have a comfortable place to sleep are wrong. Babies too register reactions when strangers push themselves on to them. I have seen four- and five-year-olds getting pretty upset when people they aren’t fond of those who invade their precious little space
My advice is to leave babies and toddlers alone. Let them choose you. It’s not difficult to figure out when you aren’t wanted. Kids are the most undiplomatic people in the world! You can neither fool them nor win them over all that easily. If you leave them alone and watch their body language, they let it be known—pretty unambiguously at that—whether they are receptive to you or not. I wait for a child to smile at me spontaneously before I initiate any move. Even after that smile, I wait for the next signal—it could be a tiny hand reaching out for a quick touch, or arms extended to say, ‘Come and pick me up!’ When that happens, I grab! Not too tightly or aggressively but enthusiastically and firmly enough for the child to feel secure. One more thing: Please resist the temptation to baby-talk. Most kids get confused and don’t particularly enjoy it. They really prefer direct, adult communication. Try to see the difference. It is a whole lot more respectful as well. Though I was pretty disarmed by a young mother who told me candidly, ‘It’s only now when my daughter is still a toddler that I can speak to her in this ridiculous lingo. Why not enjoy it while it lasts?’
My advice is to leave babies and toddlers alone. Let them choose you. It’s not difficult to figure out when you aren’t wanted. Kids are the most undiplomatic people in the world!
It’s good to remind yourself that even very young children listen attentively when you are talking—to anybody, not just them. It could be a phone conversation with an old friend. While you imagine the child is busy playing and carry on a personal chat, which may refer to familiar people, all the while thinking the kid isn’t really interested, believe me—kids hang on to every word. Years later, a long-forgotten comment is brought up and you don’t kno
w where to hide. Children absorb it all—even if they don’t understand the words or the context, they definitely get the tone. They know when adults are fighting, even if they appear to be playing video games.
Children are very sensitive to nuances and signals. I was shaken recently, when a young adult I was talking to mentioned a conversation he had overheard when he was six or seven years old. It was at a difficult time in his parents’ marriage. There was a wedding in the family, and his mother was busy getting dressed. He was playing in the room when the father walked in and a heated exchange followed. He recalls the exact moment when his mother turned to his father and said calmly, ‘I will be leaving you right after this wedding is over.’ It’s a memory he had blocked off for thirty years. But it was the single most defining moment of his tender life. He fled the room and sought out his grandparents. He didn’t tell them a thing. He simply withdrew, and decided to protect himself emotionally the only way he knew—by creating a safe distance from his warring parents. He figured he was better off with the grandparents—who then became his primary caretakers. So many years later, his eyes well up with the tears he didn’t shed at the time.