I'm tempted to title this "By God, I Hate Facebook"

but I'm not going to

Still shot from the video, “Rewilding a Forest,” which features artist/poet Maria Vildhjärta Westerberg. Feb. 24, 2024.

I needed to know if the YMCA pool in Palm Harbor was open for lap swimming, so I tapped on that BlueEff, intending to just get in, get the updated schedule, and get out in one deft motion like a Mission Impossible break-in-and-out maneuver.

You won’t be shocked to hear that the road to hell IS paved with good intentions. I landed in hell so fast, so immediately, that I was actually disoriented.

I should’ve known better. Three years ago, I started an essay about BlueEff when I was still “active” on it, ostensibly for my playwriting career. Here’s the beginning of it:

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Last night I made the mistake of looking at Facebook before I went to sleep. The events that followed were textbook psychological mind-f***.

An actor posted on the “Playwright’s Zone,” gushing about the nurturing, supportive atmosphere of a certain Play Festival — how it’s all in the service of playwrights and their work, yada yada yada. It was florid enough to get my attention and direct me to the Festival’s website.

Once there, my eye was drawn immediately to a prominently featured name I recognized. Turns out an old acquaintance from my time in New York City is developing one of her plays there. Okay, good for her. I felt a small pang, but nothing I couldn’t breathe past.

But then, the real mistake. “Does she have a Facebook page?” Well of course she does, and as I scrolled through post after post, I could feel my insides twist. “This play being done in Brazil!” “That play being workshopped in LA!” “Another play being developed!” “Published!” “Produced!” “Honored!” On and on and on.

I might as well have been on the rack, with the on/off switch and intensity dial firmly in my own hands. Want some pain? Go to Facebook! It’s on. Want more? Turn up the dial. Look up other playwrights who’ve been at this for 30 years. How about even more? Crank it up to 11. Read their glowing reviews. Feel the gut harden, the lungs shrink. 

Look, I know what Facebook is for. And I can scroll through yards of posts from parents (“My kid just graduated from Stanford! SO PROUD!”), sad distant relatives (“our dear Bubbles departed today, best cat EVER”), or faux humble “friends” (“So GRATEFUL to be in Barbados again!”) and not feel a thing, other than “Good for you,”or “that’s too bad,” in the case of pet expiration. I can heart or thumbs-up or sad face with ease.

Not last night. No, last night I succumbed to the Beast of Jealousy, big time. She opened her cavernous maw and I willingly climbed in without a moment’s hesitation.

“Why her? Why not me?” my petulant small self whined. From the belly of the beast, the answer returned as an equally petulant echo: “Well, if I hadn’t devoted 20 years of my life to raising three kids, that’s where I’d be, too…” “If I hadn’t left NYC…” “If I had gotten an MFA…” “If I didn’t…” If, if, if.

Ugh. What a shit show. Imagining a reality different from the one that’s real is the surest high-speed highway to misery.

And even though I knew that, I stewed in unhappiness as the minutes ticked by, in the dark. I marinated in regret and self-recrimination, beating myself up for all of the choices I had made, choices that I blamed for placing me at the back of the pack, last place, bottom of the heap. 

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Phew. Not a good look, eh? But that ubiquitous I’m not good enough slough is one we’ve all probably slid into, in some permutation, on some social media platform.

Re-reading the angst of a prior me actually gives me hope; I’ve outgrown some of that angst. It also reminds me why, when someone stole my BlueEff account and shut it down, I didn’t restart it right away.

Well, actually, I did try to restart it, but it wouldn’t let me, since BlueEff didn’t believe I was who I said I was.

Enjoy my attempt (verbatim!) to fix my stolen account:

Me, in an email: Here is a picture of my driver’s license to verify my identity.

Facebook’s response: Hi, Thanks for submitting your ID. However, we can't confirm your identity until you provide an ID.

Convinced that an exhumed Franz Kafka had taken over Facebook’s customer service, I loudly griped about the Catch-22 situation until I realized… I didn’t want to be on BlueEff.

Many happy months passed. Gone were the obligatory likes, the creepily accurate targeted adds, the humblebrags. I was free and it felt great.

And then, as we prepared for the sale of our house, I decided to try one more time to set up a new account to sell stuff, and inexplicably, Kafka granted me entry. A few friends discovered me, but I didn’t friend anyone else. I was done with that shit. I used Marketplace like a demon for a few months in NY, then later for a few months in FL to buy stuff.

So recently, when I intended ONLY to check the pool schedule, I was SERIOUS, because I KNOW how the place works. But by god, if it didn’t harpoon me immediately.

The very first thing I saw was the smiling face of Jim, an old NYC acting-class buddy from the late 80s. Super-nice guy, super-nice wife. What harm would there be in just seeing what he posted? Cue the Darth Vader “Imperial March.”

He commented about Trump, ending with an innocuous question:

“I just don’t see the appeal. Thoughts, anyone?”

Of course his friends had thoughts. One stood out:

“He appeals to white supremacists, pro-birthers, trickle-downers, and christian nationalists.” To which my old buddy replied, “I think that is about right.”

I was hooked. Surfing my rising blood pressure, I scrolled down to see more of Jim’s posts, unable to look away. Yep, not just one or two offhand comments, but a steady stream of continuous hatred stretching back years — not just of Trump himself, but of his followers.

Like a rubbernecker on the highway, I finally willed myself to look away. I put the phone down, wondering: why was this hitting me in the solar plexus? It wasn’t because I’m a fan of Trump and need to defend him — I’m not and I don’t.

Was it because I long for the good old days before BlueEff, those days when former classmates remained frozen in time, stuck in my remembered state as the overachieving prom queen, the nerdy introvert, the sleepy stoner? Or in this case, the easygoing aspiring actor with the self-effacing chuckle?

Those were sweet, ignorant times, for sure. It was lovely to not know the political leanings of these now-adult beings. Actually, it was lovely to not know what any of those people were eating for lunch, how much they were drinking, and where they were vacationing.

So yes, nostalgia was part of it.

But what I was feeling was deeper, more serious than that. There was anger, for sure, a retaliatory impulse that arose spontaneously. (I’ll get to that later.)

There was also pain. Jim’s BlueEff account was a veritable fountain of hate, and I was sad to witness my formerly amiable classmate exuding such ire.

And yet, and yet… there was still something underneath that.

What was it?

My cheeks burned with the answer that presented itself. Its source was recognition: I used to think the same way and spout the same hate.

Its source was shame.

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Decades before Covid, I lived in NYC and was surrounded by actor friends just like my former classmate.

We sat in righteous judgment of (ironically) the Bible belt, the good ole boys, the gun owners, the country music listeners. They were the problem, weren’t they, because they just didn’t get it. They weren’t evolved. They didn’t care about the planet, or the arts. They didn’t care about underserved communities. Blah blah blah, you get the idea.

I viewed “the right” as a monolithic block deserving of my scorn.

I had never met an actor that was a Republican until I met Peter, the guy who became my husband. In fact, when I met him, I was convinced that our differing views meant we couldn’t possibly be more than friends. That, and the fact that within minutes of meeting me he blurted out that he was engaged — which was actually not a true statement. (It’s a good story, one that I’ll tell another day.)

So I married a Republican, which softened my heart toward all Republicans. Over time, however, Peter’s politics moved closer to mine. The Bush Dynasty repelled him. He became a NY delegate for McCain, then a Republican for Kerry, and ultimately changed his party affiliation entirely.

In our front yard, we proudly displayed a huge “Obama” plywood sign that our kids had painted in blue and white, and I literally cried tears of joy at his acceptance speech in 2008. All would now be made right with the world.

But all was not made right. Despite his handsome rhetoric and soaring oratory, Obama declined to hold George W. Bush accountable for lying about weapons of mass destruction and allowing torture, mass surveillance, and war profiteering. Obama’s statement, “We need to look forward as opposed to looking backwards,” meant that Guantanamo still kept torturing, the CIA didn’t need to “lawyer up,” and the war in Afghanistan (and “on terror”) just kept on going.

Like countless human beings throughout the history of the world who have earnestly, fervently, yet mistakenly placed their faith in a single leader, I was profoundly disillusioned. But I still held on to the notion that Blue was better than Red. I was still surrounded by Blue friends, living in Blue states, consuming Blue media.

One day, I took a hike with a mom (I’ll call her Amy) from the Waldorf school where I was the Administrator. We chatted as we walked the pine paths, and I remember our friendly discussion veering into a mild disagreement about some aspect of the school. People often laid their disappointments about the place squarely at my feet, so I was not surprised by the turn in our conversation.

I told her that I’d rather not discuss the school during my “off hours” but that I’d be happy to meet with her in my office to continue the conversation, and she understood and apologized, kindly changing the subject.

Looking back, I can see I was primed to view Amy’s concern as somehow less valid. Why? Because Amy was Republican.

I expected to disagree with her, just as my devoutly Republican mother-in-law expected to disagree with all Democrats, often declaiming right in front of me, her Democrat daughter-in-law, “the worst Republican is better than the best Democrat.”

I knew I would never subscribe to the inverse, yet I was still convinced that Democrats were more enlightened, more compassionate, more correct in their thinking.

Sure, I’d go hiking with Amy, but we could never really be friends.

You can probably see where this is going.

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By the time 2020 rolled around, I was fairly agnostic about it all. I had fallen for Bernie’s schtick, then watched in disbelief as he caved to the DNC; I had seen a former reality-show star and megalomaniac become president. I was disgusted with the whole system. My son’s truck sported a bumpersticker that began, “The two party system is a corporate trap…” which pretty much summed it up for me. I wrote a poem inspired by my disgust.

But my belief didn’t matter in a functional way. So what if I believed the system was a corporatocracy? There were no consequences tied to that idea, no engendered actions that impacted my daily life or others’ estimations of me. I still belonged culturally (and practically) to Blue HuMan Group. I could hold that belief and stay on the inside.

And then covid kicked it all to the curb. In a matter of months, I found myself on the opposite side of “correct” — as believed by almost all my friends and acquaintances from every realm: the Waldorf school, the theatre folk, the yoga/wellness community, my extended family. More about those fun times in my earlier essay, Cowardice and Courage.

Bottom line: I was now on the outside. My long-held beliefs about vaccines — which had always been non-mainstream fringe — were now beyond fringe. I was now an unhinged ideologue, even among the many other Waldorf friends and family who had always shared my views about vaccines.

Enter Amy.

In the midst of NYS’s amped-up locked-down response, Amy welcomed me into her kitchen. She poured me a cup of tea and I poured out all the pent-up sadness, anger, and dismay onto her kitchen island. She listened. She empathized. She shared her own story of withstanding slings and arrows for not wearing a mask in her beloved local church.

We became friends. We sent each other articles and shared news of a world gone mad; she taught me about gardening and invited us over for bonfires. Her place felt like an oasis of sanity.

This is not to say that we agreed on everything. We didn’t, and still don’t. But we both saw the suffering of the other, the heart laid bare and tender, and chose to treat those hearts with care.

A few years later, in preparation for my move to FL, Amy came over to help me remove some raised beds in my garden. They were made from round, bottomless stock tanks, and I wanted to take them with me. When she arrived, I paused my energetic shoveling to welcome her and offer her a shovel. She assessed the situation, then cheerfully pointed out that we could actually just lift the metal tanks out and leave the soil, like releasing a cheesecake, rather than shoveling the soil out.

Duh. What would have taken me hours to accomplish was done in less than 10 minutes. I thanked her, and as she was leaving, an unbidden gratitude welled up and washed through me. I found myself stammering, “I’m so sorry, Amy, that when we first met I judged you based on your politics. It was so wrong. Thank you for not judging me in return… I had no idea who you really were, because I couldn’t see beyond the label.”

“Oh gosh,” she said, clearly surprised.

My eyes filled. “I hope you can forgive me.”

“Of course,” she replied, and stretched out her arms for a hug.

After Peter and I gave up on NYS and our house had finally sold, I drove down my driveway for the last time in a frenzied, blubbering heap and turned west, toward her house where we were always welcome, even with our truck spilling over with last-minute bags of trash and potted plants (she welcomed a few of those, too).

If that’s not the definition of a friend, I don’t know what is.

So… what does all of this have to do with Facebook?

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I remember a conversation Amy and I had two years later, again in that sunlit kitchen. She was telling me about why she voted for Trump, and I was telling her about why I was intrigued by RFK, Jr. We were both genuinely curious: Tell me more about that. Really, why? What about this issue? Interesting. Here’s what I think. My blood pressure stayed stable; respect prevailed.

When I saw Jim’s BlueEff posts, all I could think was, That’s Amy you’re talking about. The Amy that brings food to elderly neighbors, the Amy that listens to opposing viewpoints with careful consideration, the Amy that has always been there for my family, the Amy I didn’t think I could be friends with.

In leaping internally to her defense — She’s a lovely human being! How dare you malign all Trump supporters? — I did what BlueEff’s algorithms are programmed to get me to do: pick a side and get pissed off at the people I disagree with. I started composing a scathing response in my head, then stopped, closing my eyes.

Hang on, I thought. This will achieve nothing. The more angry I am, the more time I’ll spend glued to the screen… and then no one but Zuckerberg wins.

What unites us as human beings is always, always greater than what separates us. But the world in which we live right now has perfected the art of division. We are being systematically pushed toward “othering,” which is just a short step to outright hostility. Here’s a quick reminder of what that can look like:

“Mocking anti-vaxxers’ COVID deaths is ghoulish, yes — but may be necessary”

— headline from the Los Angeles Times, Jan. 10, 2022

This is why I always recommend Matt Taibbi’s book, Hate Inc.: Why Today’s Media Makes Us Despise One Another (2019) to those who aren’t aware of being pushed.

From the book’s description:

“…what most people think of as ‘the news’ is, in fact, a twisted wing of the entertainment business… In the Internet age, the press have mastered the art of monetizing anger, paranoia, and distrust.”

Here are the ten aspects of manufactured hate that Taibbi identifies:

1. There are only two ideas

2. The two ideas are in permanent conflict

3. Hate people, not institutions

4. Everything is someone else’s fault

5. Nothing is everyone’s fault

6. Root, don’t think

7. No switching teams

8. The other side is literally Hitler

9. In the fight against Hitler, everything is permitted

10. Feel superior

Have you experienced some of those? I have. All of them, in fact, when I was rah-rah Team Blue. I gave lip-service to “we are all one” but if I’m being honest with myself, I’ll admit: I hated Team Red.

Now I find I’m encountering people who hate Team Blue. I can’t possibly hate Team Blue, even when I vehemently disagree with what they’re promoting, because I used to be Team Blue. I love many, many people on that team, including my old friend Jim, just as I now love many, many people on Team Red.

There’s tremendous freedom in not hating, in not choosing a side. Because if you think of it, no matter what side of any fence you’re on, you’re fenced in.

Facebook and other social media forms serve as giant Vornados, fanning the flames of our simmering resentments and whipping them into full-blown hatred — keeping us firmly on our side of the fence, surrounded by “friends.” They encourage us to stay there by offering up those targeted ads and news stories that reinforce our ossifying opinions.

I’m not going to go down the rabbit hole of why the media seem hell-bent on dividing us — there are many reasons; we all have our suspicions — but it sure is convenient, isn’t it, that so many governments are using the proliferation of “hate speech” as a reason to curtail free speech.

I’m embarrassed to admit that it took my being cast out, to fully understand the pain of outcasts. But I’m actually grateful. Pain is our greatest teacher, and what I’ve learned is still serving me. I question everything, especially anything that seems to be engineered to provoke anger. And that stuff come from both sides of the fence.

Basically, I refuse to allow hate to hijack my heart.

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Which brings me all the way back around, to the title of this essay.

I don’t hate FaceBook, but I do call it BlueEff because it makes me smile, and I avoid it whenever possible. Here is a still of artist/poet Maria Vildhjärta Westerberg displaying her unique version of it:

Maria explains it from 3:45 to 4:53 in this stunning video that

Barbara Sinclair

posted on her lovely Substack, The Quaking Poplar:

My favorite part:

“Well, isn’t facebook something like a half-diary where you write down events? And friends? With pictures? So it’s the same. I just don’t smear the world with it… I own this myself. I didn’t give the rights away of my pictures and my ideas.

And someone asked me once, “Do you have facebook?” … Now I can say, “Yes, I have facebook… I’m on my facebook every day.”

Hate is tempting at times. It can feel justified, righteous. And yes, a blast of hate-induced adrenaline can spur useful action — defending oneself from violence comes to mind — but it’s unsustainable, because hate is ultimately a weakening force, damaging the hater as much as the hated. No empire built on hate can endure; eventually it crumbles, having been slowly eaten away from within.

So rather than fencing myself into hate, I’m choosing to abandon fences altogether.

And rather than hating BlueEff, I’m creating my own, modeled after Maria’s. That way I’ll be able to say, if I so choose, I’m on my facebook every day.

Oh… I’m also picking up a pool schedule today — printed on paper — from the Y.

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As always, keep your light shining bright.

xox
M