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Our ‘Digital Selves’ Are No Less Real Our ‘Digital Selves’ Are No Less Real
(about 4 hours later)
Last week, I went to the opera with a few friends. We dressed up, exchanged pleasantries, and toasted with prosecco at intermission. A day later I went to my favorite queer singalong piano bar, Marie’s Crisis, in the West Village, tipping my favorite pianist, the regular Friday bartender. I planned a workout class with a friend who lived in the neighborhood, a brunch and play reading with a group of theatrically minded friends. I said Compline — a traditional Christian nighttime prayer — with friends from church.Last week, I went to the opera with a few friends. We dressed up, exchanged pleasantries, and toasted with prosecco at intermission. A day later I went to my favorite queer singalong piano bar, Marie’s Crisis, in the West Village, tipping my favorite pianist, the regular Friday bartender. I planned a workout class with a friend who lived in the neighborhood, a brunch and play reading with a group of theatrically minded friends. I said Compline — a traditional Christian nighttime prayer — with friends from church.
I did not leave the house.I did not leave the house.
Over the past two weeks, as the first wave of closures of bars and restaurants gave way to Gov. Andrew Cuomo’s full-on stay-at-home order, I’ve watched the contours of my social world move steadily, inexorably, into the digital. Some of this transformation is economic. Using videoconferencing platforms like Zoom or Facebook Messenger, friends and colleagues whose livelihoods have been affected by the spread of coronavirus and its attendant lockdowns, have sought out newly disembodied sources of income: A jazz musician I know is crowdfunding an E.P. on which every instrumentalist will self-record separately; a vintage hairstylist is offering video-conferenced hair and makeup tutorials. Local trainers are offering video-conferenced barre and yoga classes. Those of us who can work remotely do.Over the past two weeks, as the first wave of closures of bars and restaurants gave way to Gov. Andrew Cuomo’s full-on stay-at-home order, I’ve watched the contours of my social world move steadily, inexorably, into the digital. Some of this transformation is economic. Using videoconferencing platforms like Zoom or Facebook Messenger, friends and colleagues whose livelihoods have been affected by the spread of coronavirus and its attendant lockdowns, have sought out newly disembodied sources of income: A jazz musician I know is crowdfunding an E.P. on which every instrumentalist will self-record separately; a vintage hairstylist is offering video-conferenced hair and makeup tutorials. Local trainers are offering video-conferenced barre and yoga classes. Those of us who can work remotely do.
But, no less integrally, our social lives, too, are embracing through necessity the possibilities of digital presence. We live-stream films and operas (the Metropolitan Opera’s nightly free streaming options have become a highlight of my week) over Zoom. We meet for regular cocktail hours and cocktail breaks. We dial into the “happy hour” of our favorite bars — Marie’s Crisis offers its nightly song-request hour via Facebook Live, with Venmo details easily visible for all the staff that would be working that night. We keep in touch with our parish — which is posting videos of prerecorded services, and with friends through the practice becoming known as “Zoom Karaoke.”But, no less integrally, our social lives, too, are embracing through necessity the possibilities of digital presence. We live-stream films and operas (the Metropolitan Opera’s nightly free streaming options have become a highlight of my week) over Zoom. We meet for regular cocktail hours and cocktail breaks. We dial into the “happy hour” of our favorite bars — Marie’s Crisis offers its nightly song-request hour via Facebook Live, with Venmo details easily visible for all the staff that would be working that night. We keep in touch with our parish — which is posting videos of prerecorded services, and with friends through the practice becoming known as “Zoom Karaoke.”
It would be easy to dismiss the rise of “social distance socializing” as a product of pure necessity, a stopgap until we are, hopefully, able to safely congregate in person again. But these online gatherings are the culmination of a much broader cultural shift: the revelation that so much of our lives is already lived online. What we might call our “digital bodies” — our online avatars, the words we write on Twitter or Facebook, the photos we post on Instagram — are not artificial projections of who we are into an artificial space, but rather part and parcel of our identities. Our “digital bodies” are as much part of us as our legs or our fingers.It would be easy to dismiss the rise of “social distance socializing” as a product of pure necessity, a stopgap until we are, hopefully, able to safely congregate in person again. But these online gatherings are the culmination of a much broader cultural shift: the revelation that so much of our lives is already lived online. What we might call our “digital bodies” — our online avatars, the words we write on Twitter or Facebook, the photos we post on Instagram — are not artificial projections of who we are into an artificial space, but rather part and parcel of our identities. Our “digital bodies” are as much part of us as our legs or our fingers.
It has become by now a truism that millennials, “extremely online” as we are, are somehow missing out on “real life” by our obsession with digital spaces, and the disembodied life they engender. We’re having much less sex with other people — even as we’re watching a lot more porn. We outsource everything to the internet from our meal choices to our spiritual life — just look at the rise of meditation apps like Headspace and Calm (valued at $320 million and $1 billion, respectively). More than 72 percent of Americans have at least one social media profile, up from just 5 percent in 2005.It has become by now a truism that millennials, “extremely online” as we are, are somehow missing out on “real life” by our obsession with digital spaces, and the disembodied life they engender. We’re having much less sex with other people — even as we’re watching a lot more porn. We outsource everything to the internet from our meal choices to our spiritual life — just look at the rise of meditation apps like Headspace and Calm (valued at $320 million and $1 billion, respectively). More than 72 percent of Americans have at least one social media profile, up from just 5 percent in 2005.
But the boundary between our “online” and “offline” selves is a blurry one at best. What to make, for example, of the approximately 40 percent of American couples who got together in the past year who met online, then (presumably) developed a relationship off it? Or the people whose very real economic livelihoods are shaped, in part, by the public-facing identities, or “personal brands,” they develop on Instagram or Twitter? What parts of our lives “count” as real, and what parts are consigned to the realm of the artificial?But the boundary between our “online” and “offline” selves is a blurry one at best. What to make, for example, of the approximately 40 percent of American couples who got together in the past year who met online, then (presumably) developed a relationship off it? Or the people whose very real economic livelihoods are shaped, in part, by the public-facing identities, or “personal brands,” they develop on Instagram or Twitter? What parts of our lives “count” as real, and what parts are consigned to the realm of the artificial?
Our “real selves,” this time of social distancing makes clear, aren’t just the lives we live in our physical bodies, in what the cyberpunks used to call “meat-space.” Rather, they are our social selves: both online and off, the lives we live contingent upon, and responsible to, other people. They are the online conversations we have with our friends, the wedding receptions celebrated by Zoom, and — yes — the silence of the self-isolation we choose, willingly, when we remain at home out of care for those whose bodies make them more vulnerable to disease.Our “real selves,” this time of social distancing makes clear, aren’t just the lives we live in our physical bodies, in what the cyberpunks used to call “meat-space.” Rather, they are our social selves: both online and off, the lives we live contingent upon, and responsible to, other people. They are the online conversations we have with our friends, the wedding receptions celebrated by Zoom, and — yes — the silence of the self-isolation we choose, willingly, when we remain at home out of care for those whose bodies make them more vulnerable to disease.
What is fictitious, conversely, is not our “digital body,” nor its digital life, but the notion that — whether online or off — we are autonomous beings, creatures can create and decide our own fates. The quintessentially American obsession with self-determination, whether it’s posting that meticulously Facetuned selfie, or choosing to move our bodies through crowded city spaces, is the real illusion. It’s time that we recognized that what makes us fully human is not just the bodies we inhabit, but our social dependency upon one another.What is fictitious, conversely, is not our “digital body,” nor its digital life, but the notion that — whether online or off — we are autonomous beings, creatures can create and decide our own fates. The quintessentially American obsession with self-determination, whether it’s posting that meticulously Facetuned selfie, or choosing to move our bodies through crowded city spaces, is the real illusion. It’s time that we recognized that what makes us fully human is not just the bodies we inhabit, but our social dependency upon one another.
Over the weekend, with less than a day’s notice, my partner and I eloped — marrying with just a priest and two witnesses, all standing at least six feet apart, in Central Park. In accordance with the Book of Common Prayer, our priest prayed not only for our own union, but “that the bonds of our common humanity” would be transformed by grace. When we celebrated 40 minutes later at home — sharing the news and drinking prosecco via Zoom with friends and relatives from Texas to Tbilisi — those bonds were, however virtual, fully clear.Over the weekend, with less than a day’s notice, my partner and I eloped — marrying with just a priest and two witnesses, all standing at least six feet apart, in Central Park. In accordance with the Book of Common Prayer, our priest prayed not only for our own union, but “that the bonds of our common humanity” would be transformed by grace. When we celebrated 40 minutes later at home — sharing the news and drinking prosecco via Zoom with friends and relatives from Texas to Tbilisi — those bonds were, however virtual, fully clear.
Tara Isabella Burton is a contributing editor at The American Interest and a columnist at Religion News Service. She is at work on her next book “Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World.” Tara Isabella Burton is a contributing editor at The American Interest and a columnist at Religion News Service. She is the author of the forthcoming “Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World.”
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