Green-Eyed Face(book)

By Deborah Stokol

I remember when it was new. When no one had heard of it. When no one was “on it.” When some classmate told me to join this cool new site just for college students and to “friend” him too. For some reason, we figured, keeping something “webby” at the college-level somehow made it less sketchy than were Myspace or the erstwhile Friendster. Faulty logic. Because, of course, college kids have never been creepy. Anyone heard of a rufie?

Frankly, I thought the whole thing, including the name, seemed kind of silly, but I joined on a lark. It was 2004, and we were amongst this new generation of soon-to-become social networking site junkies who signed up initially apathetic before quickly morphing into feverish, gibbering addicts.

Now, we’ve returned to that initial state of apathy. What’s more, many of us find it loathsome—a drain on our time and a recipe for insecurity and needless self-comparison.

I have begun to fear logging on to Facebook because of the way it makes me feel.

It’s not just that (legitimate) fear of invasion of privacy or of facing the mindless din friends make by posting how gleeful they are to “have done laundry!” or that they “have a headache “ Nor is it of reading the bad grammar, the inanity, the relentless over-sharing or the cryptic, self-pitying updates like “And what was the point? Why did I make this decision? So many changes, and now I’m wallowing in a pit of despair.”

It’s much more than that. The site’s constant reminder of others’ activities makes its users hyper-aware of insecurities that might otherwise remain latent.

Facebook is the home of self-aggrandizement and the shameless plug. Yet those uncertain of their professional standing, and those feeling they have not reached that chimera–“potential”–will cave to the near-primal envy evinced by such status updates as “[x] got her dream job!!!!!!! She’s soooo excited!!!!!”—especially if that “dream job” happens to be your dream job too.

Where we once relied on hearsay or more direct, if slower, means of communication, we may now voyeuristically view our peers’ progress at all times.

Those logging on view a page full of friends’ status updates as soon as they enter the site. So we can never escape our contacts’ accomplishments–or what we perceive as such.

Similarly, only with difficulty can those most affected rise above those angry reactions or the resentful feelings that that should have been them or that somehow, they veered off course.

I can’t count the number of texts friends have sent me running along the lines of “Omg*, Facebook just left me so depressed. Everyone’s married, happy and has adorable babies.”

It’s easy to feel like a “failure” if all you can see is that delicate, prismatic view people choose to present of their lives. And it’s easier still to fall into a trap—that of thinking their lives better, fuller, infinitely more exciting and more complete than is yours.

It got so bad for a close friend that she asked me to be the keeper of the keys. She gave me her password, and I had to change it to a new one she didn’t know. She requested I intervene that she not log onto what she termed an insidious site and feel the despondence that washes over the one who has weighed herself against others and found herself wanting.

I can be certain of my post-Facebook bad mood because if I compare myself to others and find myself somehow better off—literally or existentially—then I feel ashamed of my uncharitable thought processes and see myself as unkind.

If, on the other hand, I find myself worse off, the immediate dejection will set in.

Of course, there is a solution for the users who wish neither to deactivate their accounts nor to purge contacts.

I, and folks I know, have taken to “hiding” “friends.” This means you can prevent those contacts you’re not really sure you should have accepted or even really know or who—most relevantly—provoke that painful self-comparison and displeased reaction, but whom you don’t want to “de-friend” (a pointless insult, in my eyes), from showing up on that front page you see each time you enter Facebook.

The process is quick, painless and discreet. The hidees will never know. I’m sure friends have hidden me, but thankfully, I can’t be sure.

Unfortunately, it has come to this. It’s sad, really, that a site meant to foster human contact can encourage such jealousies and feelings of low self-worth.

But if it aims to mimic real life, it succeeds in including the gamut of multi-emotion-eliciting situations. And after all, it is the enemy we know. Until there’s something new.

*Omg has become the shortened vernacular for “Oh my God.”

Losing them, of course, does not negate the fact that the things they represent occurred. That would be too heartbreaking. But while everyone’s always talking about good memories versus bad ones, or vivid ones rather than the hazy, I think there’s another set as well.

There are those at which we can look, view them as if they’re movies we’ve conjured (that we must watch alone–because, alas, even a memory recounted cannot perfectly match the one another has kept in his or her brain), perhaps thinking it seems such things transpired in another life or in that of a stranger.

I think these are the most common.

But memories adopt another form. Once in awhile, if we’re lucky (lucky, of course, only if the memory is a good one), memories can take the shape of the present, allowing us to step into their realm, reliving again the things within. And when that happens, when chance has awarded us the ability to experience a happy moment again rather than watching it as if through that glass darkly, it is a second life–and a gift indeed.

The Odyssey (Homer)
Ulysses (Alfred Lord Tennyson)
Ulysses (James Joyce)
Cold Mountain (Charles Frazier)

…and perhaps, at the end, the fantasy-like quest with a Wagner-like and Scandinavian spin: The Lord of the Rings (J.R.R. Tolkein). With or without it, I think it’s a win-win.

She wore a little yellow button as a pendant and was one of about 10 folks smoking on a Hipster-house balcony in Echo Park. Her army jacket bore a tiny white button pin with “I love Helvetica” written on its face.

Every guest seemed to approach the night, his or her dress, life with a sense of converse-clad irony that when lumped together in army-like form produced the status quo that defied that original social commentary. They all seemed to shop at Urban Outfitters–a store selling an iconoclastic lifestyle that can’t be so iconoclastic if it’s expensive and mainstream.

I was miserable. I don’t mind being “the observer” at social gatherings, or at least I usually don’t. Of course, I’d much prefer not to be, or to brave that situation facing the possibility of sharing my insights with another of my camp–stranger or no.

But, alas, I was alone–existentially. I felt like the only person in a crowded room getting a big joke. And not only were the guests not getting the joke, they didn’t seem to know there was one.

Ms. Stokol, March 18 2010

• As told to me by a Professor: The only way to know what good writing is is by reading; the only way to write well is to keep writing.

• An essay is at once like a geometric proof, a moebius strip and a set of bookends.

• On the virtue of Outlines: Make them, and use them. They will help you. An essay is the written form of an “argument.” That is why long-dead and unnamed folks dubbed the meat of your essay the “argument.” You’re arguing a position, trying to prove your point. The point you seek to prove is your claim. You claim something that needs backing up—otherwise what would be interesting or controversial about the fact that you stated it? The point you wish to prove, your claim, usually contains a few elements. Those are the few elements you need methodically to prove—one element per paragraph and one paragraph at a time. In order for your essay or argument to be logical and to flow smoothly, write an outline of what you wish to say (see outline below). Once you do this, the writing process will become IMMEASURABLY EASIER. All you will need to do at that point is flesh it out. Your structure is incredibly important. Even if you write the most scintillating, stirring and poetic of prose, an essay that lacks structure will be weak —meandering aimlessly with no sense of direction or purpose. So let outline, outline, outline become a mantra…

• What a five paragraph essay looks like (later, the structure you use will likely change, and you will add paragraphs or even have many tiny paragraphs per big idea or even place your claim/thesis at the end of your introductory paragraph, rather than in the beginning. But for now, this is what it looks like):

Intro Paragraph:            Main claim: x=1,2,3

Background

Body Par. 1      :             Secondary claim: x=1

Clarification: 1 means…

Context: x has just…

Evidence: “Blah…”

Explanation: Analyze the evidence and the context to show x=1

[Restatement of claim and showing you proved your claim: Because 1 means, and x is all of those things, x=1.]

Transition: Though x=1, it also = 2…

Body Par. 2      :             Secondary claim: x=2

Clarification: 2 means…

Context: x has just…

Evidence: “Blah 2…”

Explanation: Analyze the evidence and the context to show x=2

[Restatement of claim and showing you proved your claim: Because 2 means, and x is all of those things, x=2.]

Transition: And while x=2, it also = 3…

Body Par. 3:                        Secondary claim: x=3

Clarification: 3 means…

Context: x has just…

Evidence: “Blah 3…”

Explanation: Analyze the evidence and the context to show x=3

[Restatement of claim and showing you proved your claim: Because 3 means, and x is all of those things, x=3.]

Conclusion:            Topic sentence regarding x’s exploits…

Because x=1

Because x=2

Because x=3

x=1, 2, 3 (Thus, you’ve proved your main claim, and your ending echoes your beginning, your beginning your ending.)

• Each body paragraph is its own mini essay, complete with its own

claim/thesis/topic sentence (people use different names (or “nomenclature”) for the same concept, so I included some different ones

clarification/definition

context/set-up

evidence (as a big chunk or as a series of words peppering the sentences)

explanation/analysis and concluding sentence that shows how you proved your claim.

• Regarding essay-bound Clarifications: We ask you to include them in the beginning of your essays (right after you use that specific term in your claim) not out of some sick or sadistic urge to prescribe formulaic exercises that torture young minds, but to help you establish parameters in which to stay. If you have a specific definition with which to work, you will remain focused on that definition and will set about proving just that. Adding a clarification does not simply benefit the now-focused writer, it benefits the reader as well, who now understands what you, the writer, mean by a certain term. If I claim “The Cyclops is a barbarian,” I need to define barbarian—1) because it’s a loaded word, 2) that the reader comprehend my statement and 3) that he/she have the necessary information to determine whether I will have proven that claim by the end of my essay.

• Be formal in your essays; that does not mean tapping into huffiness is necessary–or even recommended–or that writing like you speak is not a good thing, but most essays should avoid colloquial language that is too casual or flippant [flippant: the show of an inappropriate lack of contextual gravity].

• Tense use should be consistent. These essays usually use the present tense, but if you end up writing in the past tense, use it throughout the work.

• Passive voice is not necessarily incorrect; it’s just tacky and boring. Why say The butter-drenched onions were sautéed by the sprightly young cook when you could just as easily write The sprightly young cook sautéed the butter-drenched onions?

• Who/Whom: Who takes the place of he, she and they. Whom replaces him, her and them. If it makes it easier, just remember that if there’s an “m” at the end of the word (with the exception of “her,” but that’s the female of version of him and them, anyway), whom belongs in its stead.

• When writing about a person, use who rather than that. E.g. A felicitous, but grief-stricken, swordsman, Inigo was the man who doggedly sought the six-fingered man.

• Direct (often short) present tense-using sentences > Sentences in the present progressive: I.e. Why write Odysseus is zealously beheading the nefarious diviner when you can write Odysseus zealously beheads the nefarious diviner?

• Subjunctive/Conditional: Ah yes, arguably the most beautiful, and hopeful, of linguistic tenses—while also the most butchered by speakers and writers alike. Think Fiddler on the Roof or Gwen Stefani (or both , or neither–whatever works): “If I were a rich man, I would have all the money in the world…”

• Just a quick reminder on conjunctions/FANBOYS (for, and, nor, but, or, yet, so): just because there’s an “and” or another conjunction after a sentence/independent clause does not mean there needs to be a comma before it. The comma only belongs there if it precedes another sentence/independent clause (e.g. She had a hot chocolate, and she felt better. Rather than She had a chocolate and felt better.)

• If you use “so” as your conjunction of choice, you may not need an “and” before it. (He felt grouchy, and so he took a nap becomes He felt grouchy, so he took a nap.)

• Should you wish to take a break from the whole comma before conjunction as two independent clause-divider business, you know you can use a semi-colon (e.g. She had a hot chocolate; that made her feel better).

• Shying away from the use of Prepositions at the end of sentences: I know whom you are referring to becomes I know to whom you refer [you are referring to him or her, so whom is correct here]. (Oh yes, sounds deliciously pretentious, doesn’t it? Well, it’s correct.)

• Learning idioms is wonderful; using clichés is not. Embrace idioms. Seek them out! Find out from where they sprang. The only way to really get to know a language is through its idiomatic phrases (e.g. it’s raining cats and dogs [believe me, the history behind that one is quite random and interesting], time flies when you’re having fun or the grass is always greener on the other side, etc.). But unless you’re using them with an obvious touch of irony, their earnest placement in essays will come off as cliché.

• Back up your work; back up your computer. Put your essays on flash drives. Email them to yourself. (This is as much a reminder to myself as it is to you.)

• ***Read your work aloud! You will catch errors, clunky phrases, awkward construction and will often be able to chop long sentences into two or even three. If it doesn’t make sense to you, it probably won’t make sense to a reader either. Reading pieces out loud can be so helpful; it will catch weaknesses and can strengthen even strong work.

• For other writing questions, defer to William Strunk and E.B. White’s The Elements of Style (yes, that E.B. White. If his name sounds familiar, it’s because he’s the delightful man who brought you Charlotte’s Web, The Trumpet of the Swan and Stuart Little.)

I hope this helps!

On the whole, I think I’m grateful. I know I’m amused. But mostly, I’m pleased to encounter a piece that bitingly manages to balance the gently controversial with the insightful and fun.

Daniel B. Smith’s “The Very Grouchy Daddy”’s indignant thesis, that Eric Carle’s works, most famously, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, are somnolent, formulaic and cloyingly torturous books that only wear thinner with repeated exposure, is as refreshing as it is—in the children’s book-reading-world—heretic.

While it may at first be difficult to discern what is funnier, Smith’s snark-laced asides, or the fact that Carle so offends him, the piece makes keen observations in a form clever and ultimately persuasive.

Smith’s success lies in his ability to argue a provocative point in a way dryly (and hilariously) malicious (“Each [book] proceeds along the same monotonous line: Animal No. 1 perceives Animal No. 2, who perceives Animal No. 3, and so on and so forth until the sequence ends, more or less arbitrarily”) without succumbing to one of a rant.

Moreover, he wisely acknowledges the artistic merits behind Carle’s vivid illustrations while admitting the creation of a children’s book is no mean feat.

What I appreciated most, then, was how carefully he addressed the “why” behind his vehement reactions to what would seem at least harmless, if not adorable. He explains how in order to be successful, a children’s book need contain the dual-pronged ability to both engage the child and the adult, a nuance he says Carle’s works do not possess.

I must admit that as a child, I found Carle’s books, with their colorful images of insects, delightful, while long finding the collective obsession with Maurice Sendak’s works capricious and overblown. But a post-Smith glance at both authors’ works for the first time in 20 years has sold me on the idea that the first may be charming, but, indeed, bloodless and linear, the second, innovative and intriguing.

So I’m grateful to Smith for showing me a point of view with which I now generally agree in a riotous form that elegantly, if perhaps subconsciously, mimics Sendak’s: that of the leave-taking and the return.

—

4 March, 2010

To my dear 9th graders:

At some point this week, one of you asked why we were reading The Odyssey in the first place. And I made some joke along the lines of “…in three years, you’ll be walking along a leafy college campus, and you’ll step into a coffee shop. You’ll see an [insert attractive individual here] studying classics, perhaps, poring over The Odyssey. And won’t you be happy you read it then?”

And, jokes aside, I have to admit there’s a certain truth to that. What that really addresses, though, is how many people can relate to having read that book. It is everywhere; I am not kidding. Pretty much every high-schooler—around the world—reads it at some point within those four years. It will come up in conversation. It will be a point on which you can bond with others—perhaps simply disparaging what you feel is the boring or confusing nature of the text or perhaps remembering that it was pretty cool after all.

Or you’ll notice it crops up in so many other places. I can’t even begin to name the number of cultural references The Odyssey’s yielded these past 2,500+ years. You’ll watch a movie, and there’ll be a siren scene. Or somebody will talk about how much of an “odyssey” these past years have been. Or you’ll read Tennyson’s Ulysses or James Joyce’s Ulysses or, having enjoyed The Big Lebowski or Fargo, you’ll rent O Brother, Where Art Thou? and pick up on reference after reference after reference.

It’s about more than simply trivia, though. There are reasons folks have been fascinated by Homer’s long and lively tale of escape, adventure and the attempt—and eventual ability—to return home, for this long. On a fundamental level, The Odyssey shows us how this monolithic passage of time still hasn’t done much to change human nature. We still have close friends and make silly mistakes. We’re still grouchy and petty and glory-seeking and superstitious and vain. We’re still restless and brave and sometimes cowardly. When we’re away too long, we still desperately wish to come home and see those we know will give us unconditional love. We still crave contact with the world around us; we still want respect. And, most importantly, we still wish to see those for whom we care, who know us best and who we know will wish us well.

Moreover, there’s a beauty in the language of the book that is elegant, but, I think, poignant and still…relevant. Maybe it seems strange to analyze a text that was not written in English, but 1. This is one impressive translation, and 2. It’s still quite possible to pick up on the pristine and evocative poetry. It may not build bridges or heal those who are sick, but it adds to life just a bit more of that beauty. So it will have an effect; you may not feel it now or in five years. But in some way, whether it’s because you simply won’t be left out from that very large group of people who have enjoyed (or at least read) The Odyssey, or because it will touch you in a way unexpected, it will have an effect.

I realize this may sound random and grand. But I’ve been thinking about that question. Until now, it had been a long time since I had read The Odyssey, yet it never fully left me. It still turns up all over the place; people still make some reference to a long journey or to feeling like Penelope or Telemakhos or to wondering where their Ithaka might be. In the end, it’s just a story that explores humanity—with its emotion, social structures (civilized or otherwise), fallibility and loyalty (to a belief system, to other beings, to one’s own sense of self)—with the obstacles it faces and the redemption it seeks.

I hope this helps,

Ms. Stokol

I use the two-week disposable kind, and I order three months’ worth at a time. That’s the smallest bulk-amount the company will let you buy, and even though I’m pretty sure my prescription won’t change (though, what with all this computer stareage, it’s impossible to tell what can happen from one month to another, so why be hasty?), I choose that set because I like to play a little game with myself.

The rules are simple. In fact, they merely consist of reaching for that last right eye/left eye packet and considering “what has transpired since I first ordered these boxes? What have I done, what have I thought, what have I seen or am I happy?” These clear cutlet-like blobs give me a gut-check. They force me to wonder whether I’ve been productive, whether I’ve made the right choices–or those with which I can live. They require a brief time-out in which I must plan for the things I wish to have happened by the next time I’m reaching for those packets, a new three month period gone by.

The six month game would yield too much pressure; don’t even mention a year. Three months, though. A lot can happen in three months, but I can forgive myself if the steps have been small, and the pace has been slow. So I keep it at three months, and I think “that’s enough.”

Leaning over the sink, index finger poised as if pointing, last lens positioned on its tip, I enact a sort of dim-visioned diary entry. And each time, I hope the next set will find me ever further, new images lodged gleefully in memory, always at peace.

I bought this beautiful cloisonne owl in an antique shop in Montreal. Pretty cool place–the city and the store. I saw the owl and thought “how awesome. it’s black and red on one side, yellow and white on the other.”

My friend pointed out how pretty the black side was, how seemingly mysterious. And following her instinct, if not mine, I turned the thing on its black side and kept it there for well over one year and a half.

Every time I thought to change the sides, a voice in my head would tell me stop–as the exhibited side said daring success, excitement, piquancy…rrromance.

And in that year and a half, I had found all those things. So much so, I glutted myself on passion and existence and seemed unable to take more lest I burst.

So with the new year, the new decade, I came to a rapid decision. On a whim, I turned the owl ’round, watching the yellow grace my room for the first time. I breathed a sigh of relief or anticipation–perhaps even of fear (would this mean I had lost all that fun, the passion, the romance?) before realizing that that was silly. I had been the one to assign such ideals onto an object in the first place.

But an unsettling fog overtook me, and I found myself looking on the owl with new eyes. Ah, I said, it’s a new year, a new decade. Of course the yellow must now show. I must be on to different–greater?–things. Let them come. (May they be good.)

And why feel sorry for them? From the bottom of her heart she did feel sorry. It hurt her to consider the implications, a life spent that way, childhood, the day-to-day. Life’s tiring enough without that. But maybe she shouldn’t feel sorry. Maybe they were happy. Maybe they were better off than she was. They had each other, and movies are made about that search.

So here they were, chatting away as they sat next to her on the two seats that make up 2/3 of a three-seater aisle on a flight from L.A. to N.Y.

Closest to the aisle, she should have been the one to feel more connected to humanity. But here they were, carrying on as if they were the only two people left in the world. The absorption of love. Or shared situation. There was no way to tell.

They held their conversation in complete silence, their only movements those of their fingers, nimbly drawing butterfly wings or the silhouettes of sonatas on the other’s palm.

And here they were, the couple, each deaf, blind and mute, and they were traveling together, no companion in ’sight’ but those mentioned. They could have been discussing anything: philosophy, pornography, the bible or juice. To her, even lofty ideals were simply fingers on palms. In wonder, she turned, realized she was the third wheel. Their chatter continued in an animated manner. They had no way to communicate with their aisle mate. She, no way to communicate with them.

Who knew a tickle could mean a word? A gesture, when nuzzled on a hand, gently traced as if in flirtation, could indicate something as trivial as “where’s the sky mall?” (no matter, it’s not written in braille), something as grave as “while we fly through the clouds, it occurs to me, yet again, that I do not know whether there’s a God.”

She would have thought them isolated. And here she was, left out. So why feel sorry? No, no, it’s just she could not imagine what that would be like.