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I can’t recall the moment when addiction sunk its roots deep inside my skull. The moment when I couldn’t look away, when I had lost all control. It started out as a curiosity, a dainty voice inside demanding more. A few more clicks. Just one more scroll. One final ‘Tasty’ video. Things would gradually swirl out of control… my search page flooded with images and videos and wormholes of sugary suggestions. I’d be dragging my thumb through the feed during a work break, only to realize that 20 minutes had passed and I was alone in the teacher’s lounge with nothing but the sound of the ticking clock.
Once again I’d been hypnotized by rainbow buttercream, impeccable piping, and edible gold leaves on spinning turntables. It came to a head one night when my partner arrived home to find my unconscious body draped across the bed, the dark room alight with DIY marshmallow videos playing in a loop on my phone. I had to admit I had a problem, though I didn’t quite believe it was that bad.
To prove to myself that I didn’t have an issue with time spent on social media, I queued up Netflix’s latest documentary, “The Social Dilemma.” The documentary, which aired in September 2020 and was directed by Jeff Orlowski, interviews a handful of Silicon Valley leaders who once had their fingers deep within the operations behind our glowing screens. Mostly white dudes. A few women. All of them suspicious about the psychological tactics implemented to get us users using.
Throughout the 94 minutes we see into the hollowed out stares of guilt and shame and bad acting as tech masters reveal their nefarious insights. Don’t let your kids have too much screen time. Don’t click on the recommended videos (but, damn those suggested-for-you macaroon videos are good). Don’t Google personal questions. Don’t go on social media before (or while) you go to the bathroom each morning. I found myself glancing sideways at my phone, which sat affectionately by my side, a yellow Labrador. Was I possessive over it… or was it possessive over me? I suddenly felt the need to unlock the screen and sooth my anxiety with a 30 second cookie decorating clip.
I hid the phone under my couch cushion and stared back at the documentary, nodding my head in nervous recognition.
When I was in high school, Xanga and then Myspace were the social platforms used to connect with friends after school. None of us had smartphones yet — save for the few pretend rich kids at our school — so we weren’t as distracted by the other world living on the invisible web. If anyone wanted to post pictures of our drunken teenage parties… they’d have to bring their dad’s digital camera, keep it safe all night, upload the photos to the family computer the next morning, and then post. Don’t get me wrong, it was the age of online-bullying. It was a new kind of bullying that our parents, our counselors, and our teachers didn’t understand at all. It existed.
Yet, these days I can’t help but feel as if I’ve logged back in only to find that everything has changed dramatically.
Today, kids have entire Instagram accounts created from the moment a splotchy black and white image was handed over at an ultrasound appointment. Their parents’ accounts portray graphic memories of finally learning how to ‘poop on the pot’ and embarrassingly cute videos of mishaps along the way. I watch my students fighting with all their might to resist the urge to unzip their backpacks and check on the phones that are tucked along the ledge of their notebooks. It’s torture for them. How can we expect students to ignore the tantalizing messages popping up on their screen, as we too wonder if anyone has commented on the political flyer we posted moments before class?
Now, adolescents not only face the pressure of social acceptance by their peers IRL, but also confront stress to cultivate original, influencer-worthy accounts online. Thank God I don’t have kids rang through my mind as the unrealistic fictional family in the documentary struggled to maintain “normal” teenage lives.
Recently a friend of mine went through a breakup with her partner of four years. He'd cheated on her and then moved out of their apartment while she was on vacation. She’d blocked him on Instagram, but the temptation to check his photos lingered. She acknowledged that she couldn’t stop looking at the account of the girl he’d cheated with. “I know I’m just hurting my own feelings by doing it,” she said. “But it’s like a compulsion.” And so many of us have been in that position — knowing we should block these accounts and rebuild our routines… but simply unable to give up the self-torment.
At one point in the documentary, former VP of Growth at Facebook, Chamath Palihapitiya, admits, “we want to psychologically figure out how to manipulate you as fast as possible and then give you back that dopamine hit.” How can we move on from past relationships when the webs of our connections draw us in like bees to a picnic? How can we start over when Facebook suggests adding your ex’s estranged uncle as a friend the second you start feeling like you’re ready to date again?
Lately social media has been a used as a tool in spreading awareness for Human Rights issues and political movements. Without these platforms, we might never have watched in horror as George Floyd uttered his final words, “I can’t breathe.” Words that reignited the Black Lives Matter movement across the globe. Without social media, Breonna Taylor’s name might have never reached our lips, as we cried for her death in vain and begged for justice. We shared petitions and email templates addressed to politicians. We organized peaceful protests. We spread content to educate. We stopped posting about ourselves for a while to listen and learn. We closed our eyes and our computer screens when we read that the police, who entered Breonna’s house in the night and fired fatal bullets into her body, were acquitted of all charges.
‘Fake news’ is a phrase that was popularized by Donald Trump during his presidential campaign in 2016. It was the first time I felt that social media had crept over to ‘the dark side’ of the force. I read in dismay as my family and friends tore each other to shreds and reveled in the tattered pieces of ‘winning a debate.’ My adrenaline spiked as I browsed comments from high school acquaintances, moments after school shooting tragedies, vehemently defending their right to carry a gun despite statistics. I debated unfriending their differing profiles in an attempt to keep my blood sugar from rising, but I also craved the ability to ‘monitor’ what they were posting. To sift through the endless amounts of conspiracy theory posts, littered with images most likely created by a troll somewhere in their mother’s dark basement.
I anticipated similar online atrocities for the 2020 election, although if you would have told me they’d be aggravated by a worldwide pandemic, a vast denial of science, and mass incidents of humans being murdered by police… I might not have believed it. It seems that Democrats and Republicans are more divided than ever — or at least the parties now have updated tools for fighting against each other. Former engineer at Facebook, Justin Rosenstien, states in the documentary, “The platforms make it possible to spread manipulative narratives with phenomenal ease.” There must be something psychological happening deep within when we read articles with misleading titles about killing babies and sex scandals and tax evasion. The platforms unify and divide us, depending on which side of the screen we’re sitting on.
In my classroom I strive to teach students how to annotate texts, to pull out the author’s opinion, and then create their own judgement. It’s grueling work that often incites teenage groans and cries of complaint (a sign that the assignment is sufficiently difficult). But, I get it. We are constantly being flooded with information and we desire trust over time. We want to trust that the sources being shared by our families and friends are reliable — viewpoints that help shape our own perspectives of the changing world. There’s simply not enough time to work… to watch satisfying content of brownie batter cascading into tin pans… to check the sources of an article my great aunt posted on Facebook… to comment on my sister-in-law’s new photo of my nephew in a fox outfit… to soothe the anger that arises when an old friend’s Instagram story tells people not to feel bad about skipping their right to vote this election.
So, how do we move on after the documentary’s credits roll and we’re left in a raw, woke state? For many of us, deleting our social media platforms is not a viable or desirable action. My family and friends live on the other side of the world, these platforms enable me to stay connected to them. To be ‘present’ in their lives even though I haven’t been home in over a year. I’ve turned off notifications. I’ve tried setting time limits and avoided the apps until after 6 p.m. (That lasted one day and my subconscious accidentally opened Instagram each time I closed out of my email). I’ve investigated fake articles and then sent DMs to friends, kindly prompting them to consider the source. I’ve asked my students how they manage their social media use during a new world, a place where most of their schooling is happening in the online universe.
Education.
It’s always the solution. It is never too late to enlighten ourselves.
Education is not one-sided nor hateful debates on a Facebook wall. It’s not posting a black and white selfie, nor is it shaming the ones who did. It’s not screenshotting a racist post, but failing to call out its author. It’s not deleting the profiles of those with differing political viewpoints (unless they’re actually racist trolls who are harassing you). It’s slow change. It’s open mindedness and unwavering patience. It’s asking questions. It’s humility. It’s sitting alone with yourself, tuning out the noise and distractions from the screens, and taking a hard look at what you actually think, feel, and know. It’s doing the work — work that might just be better than a click on emotionally charged, recommended videos.