“There should be a word for when you nearly pass a Facebook friend on the street; then recognize her; then realize you know she and her daughter got a manicure this morning (because you “liked” the photo; so cute!); then realize you haven’t sent her a personal message since you both became friends after you met at a wedding in 2010; then look away and pick up your pace.”
I wrote that on Facebook last week. What’s this called, I asked my other Facebook friends.
I got a broad range of answers: Wallflowering. Facial(book) recognition. Friendenfreude. A Facebookship. And from one honest pal, “It used to be called stalking. :-)”
What is clear is that whatever we are to each other, this woman and I are not friends. But, then again, we’re not not-friends either. I remember when her daughter was born, and when that same daughter did a face plant into a plate of cupcakes on her first birthday. And because I “liked” these pictures and videos, Facebook’s newsfeed algorithms recognized our weird one-way connection and served me more of them, which I continued to like, and like some more. And I want to keep “seeing” her in my newsfeed. Yet talking to her in real life seems completely beside the point. So what exactly is our relationship?
Awkward might be the operative word.
Watching Our Facebook Friends Like They’re on TV
Today, I have 1,819 Facebook friends. There are some I’d like to sit around and watch TV with. But most of them I want to watch like TV. They are programming I flip through on a nearly infinite set of channels. I watch the visual narratives of their lives unfold over multiple seasons, reality shows that go on indefinitely.
A decade ago when I first joined the ‘book, I just wanted to spy on my exes. Then for a while, I attempted to adjust my privacy settings to reflect my perceived level of intimacy with each new friend, so that I led parallel friendships with my virtual avatar, Facebook Jessi. I created a group called “Bio Family” to which I invited people with whom I share a blood tie and their spouses, and I used it to update them on birthday celebrations. I “unfollowed” all of the people whose strident #humblebrags annoyed me (“What the hell does one wear to a private meeting with President Obama?”) and made lists of people I knew only casually who shouldn’t see that picture of me at the beach last summer. But between the ever-changing friendships and the ever-changing privacy settings, I gave up. So did Facebook Jessi.
Now, the people I watch closely aren’t those I love most. After all, the people I love the most I am in constant contact with and don’t need Facebook to connect us. No, the people I watch closely are the most talented Facebook producers–the people who use their posts to tell fabulous stories. There’s the woman I met in high school whose family was always slightly wealthier than mine, and who has grown up to inhabit a gorgeous Brooklyn brownstone and spend summers at the beach with two adorable children who like to finger paint at the picnic table. There’s the work acquaintance from that time I went to TED in 2007 who moved to a village of reindeer herders in Norway. At least I think that’s what happened, based on the amazing photos and videos she posts. When her cat Boo turned up after three months wandering the Arctic tundra last summer, I cheered (and “liked”) the reunification.
Today, I have 1,819 Facebook friends. There are some who I want to sit around and watch TV with. But most of them I want to watch like TV.
I root for these women. I care about them. If life had unfolded differently and I had landed in closer daily proximity to either of them, I’m certain they’d be confidants. As it is, I absorb their posts for the same reasons I watch my favorite tv shows: compelling stories, beautiful people, a sense of escape. And one more addictive element: the promise of connection. I know these people in these circumstances.
But then, what’s the proper etiquette when I run into them? The mountain of detail we know about each other from the virtual realm colors these unplanned IRL interactions with a strange illicit feeling.
What I’m describing is the digital equivalent of looking into your windows on a dark night. You’re the one who left the curtains open. You live on a busy street. But if we happen to make eye contact while I’m watching you serve mac & cheese to the kids, we both feel slightly violated.
There’s a precedent for this uneven distribution of information versus intimacy, and it’s called celebrity. Take, say, Meryl Streep. I may know that she got a manicure with her daughter last week because I read it in the pages of US Weekly, but knowing that would never lead me to approach her on the street and presume we knew each other.
That social norm may have been established for superstars and newsmakers, but the rest of us need context to refashion the nature of our physical relationships as we become more experienced at honing our digital avatars. And that’s the point. I am not friends with the woman I saw on the street; I am friends with her digital avatar.
I draw a thin line between witnessing—a powerful and often reaffirming action—and surveillance, a similarly powerful but extremely threatening action. The distinction is choice: the woman I’ve run into has invited me to look at her pictures. How do I respectfully acknowledge this act of witnessing for all that it is, rather than what it is not (a friendship)?
A Facebook friend of mine, whom I see annually at a retreat, but “see” almost every day, commented on my status update with a suggestion: Why don’t we come up with a gesture to mark these rare moments when we encounter the person behind a Facebook avatar we have a relationship with? A thumbs up, perhaps, or a double blink and a nod. “An honoring of the Facebook circle of witnessing without the impossible and undesirable burden of 600 real world friendships,” she posted, fittingly, on my Facebook wall.
I like this idea because it offers up respect for our Facebookship without demanding more of me than I could ever offer. But I don’t know how you introduce a new social norm. They tend to evolve on their own. So for now, I’ll slink away, feeling awkward.
And if you happen to be the woman I walked past in San Francisco last Tuesday night, I hope you didn’t see me either. Or if you did, I hope you won’t tell me. It’s really the kindest thing to do.
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