I was watching a particularly interesting 60 Minutes special last Sunday when I
realized the all-encompassing power of the web, while, ironically, trying to
fix my computer to get back on to it. I learned that facial recognition
software, at least according to the documentary, had advanced so much in the
last decade that business only needed a clear view of one’s face for about
three seconds to know where they lived, what kind of beverages, restaurants,
foods, or even what movies someone “liked,” on Facebook—all for “market
research.” From the same information, any determined individual could decipher anyone’s
IP and by extension, their location. My digital world suddenly changing from a
land of utopian commerce to one of Orwellian scope and nature, I began to
question my online identity—my columns, comments, and social media accounts—and
whether or not my profiles were defining me, and not the other way around.
I believe that social media is
progressively making us less human and more of a number on a screen—a photo, a
name, and rarely, if ever, anything more. I’m a purist. I want human
interaction rather than mere connection that comes with websites like Facebook,
Twitter, or Instagram. As an INTJ/ENTJ, however, I stumble in conversation. I’m
awkward. I shrink under pressure. I
find the sterile confines of the web and its endless possibilities
intoxicating. Social media gives people like me an opportunity to superscore my
Q rating and be what I want to be,
not what I necessarily am. That being said, I find my Facebook page to be a
fair reflection of my actual existence. On my wall, I posture myself as an
intellectual, something I strive to be in my real life, and, despite my
talkative nature, I rarely post unless I need to. My family always has an
opinion on my statuses, or lack thereof. They seem surprised that I don’t post
more frequently than I actually do, again due to my strong opinions on certain
topics. To them, my profile appears a tad strange, though they seem to think I
am perpetually happy due to the fact that I am smiling in all of my pictures
from my recent trip through Europe, which certainly isn’t true. However, what I
post isn’t necessarily what defines me.
I think one could learn as much about a
person from what websites they use as what they actually post on them. I use
Facebook because it lends itself to a clean, user-friendly experience, which
might be the reason I haven’t jumped to Twitter just yet. I prefer a simple,
no-frills design, which is why I like the Drudge Report, ESPN, and Grantland.
Each site lays out its information efficiently—there’s no wasted space—and
doesn’t toy around with gimmicks, a type of existence I hope to someday
embody—informative, to the point, and accessible. I refuse to use Windows 8 or
a Windows phone because both represent the opposite. They’re clunky,
inefficient, and misleading. On a more personal level, I want my friends to
have the same traits as my websites—another way my digital persona, or rather,
the opinions within, reflect my real self. Nobody needs to feign wealth or relevancy
by wearing a sweater in August, even if it is from Vineyard Vines, something
which I have actually seen happens this year. It’s just not sensible, nor
simple, and a seemingly intentional attempt to be more “special” than one
really is. Anyone can be “relevant” with designer clothes or, in the case of a
website, a slick design, but only the greats get by on their content. Simplicity,
after all, is the ultimate sophistication.
Evan Ratliff’s attempt to vanish showed
the impact technology has had on the world, but also indicated a shift in
digital habits. People originally saw computers as tools and social media as
something best left to the youth. Now, however, the digital world has singlehandedly
brought lolcats, bitcoins, and “trolling” into real life. More and more
frequently I see people using their electronic devices to compensate for a lack
of human interaction. Over the summer, I walked through the Royal Holloway,
University of London to only find all the “interaction areas” filled with
college students who were staring into their phones rather than using the space
as it was intended to be—Sherry Turkle’s “Flight from Conversation” is
officially an international movement. Up until the 20th century,
people would remove their hats upon meeting someone. In today’s world, they
would remove their headphones. As I’m typing, my brother is playing the MMO
game Minecraft to work with his
friends on a building project rather than doing his homework or actually
talking with said friends.
My digital persona is as much a part of my
life as my life is part of my digital persona. I made friends online. I also
made more than a few enemies. The Internet’s expansion is inevitable, as is the
death of traditional privacy. It seems both the digital and physical worlds are
finally beginning to eclipse, and each of us has the privilege (?) of watching it happen in real time. But as we
all watch, we should occasionally take time to realize where we are all going,
and look up from our devices to avoid the pitfalls not shown on the screen.
