I was tricked onto Facebook. That much I will swear to my dying day. One of my closest friends sent me an email link to a new photo album. She has several online photo albums scattered across the Web, and all of them are remarkable. The email I received noted that the new album resided on Facebook. I wasn’t a member, but the email said nothing about joining or setting up a profile, at least no disclaimer that I saw. Perhaps it was buried deep in the legalese. I clicked on the link, and the web page that loaded asked me to verify that I was a real person, asking simply for my name, my birth date and I believe a school name. I should have been more suspicious, but these days so many websites ask me to verify something to prove I’m not some web-bot out to spam the site.
At that moment I clicked submit, Facebook created a personal page for me and then proceeded to contact . . . Every. Person. I. Had. Ever. Met. I’m not entirely sure how the system was able to immediately pair me up with friends and colleagues. Needless to say, within thirty minutes, my email inbox had been spammed with notes from my friends mocking me for finally entering the 21st century.
I will be the first to say I’ve become a convert. Many years ago, my early working experience turned me against talking on the phone. I have very little patience for it and would be quite happy without one. Instead, I lived on the web with IRCC chat rooms (remember those?), with long, crafted emails, with personal websites. Then came academia—who knew that an email inbox could become so quickly flooded with so many painful requests from colleagues and students? I soon lost all interest in writing friends, which is somewhat of a problem when I live in rural Florida and everyone else is scattered across the United States and as far away as Australia.
Now, once a day, usually in the mornings, and depending on my mood, once at night before going to bed, I can type out some pithy Twitter like comment about my status, read everyone else’s, and sometimes read or post short notes. The secret, and perhaps Facebook’s success, is that it is endearingly shallow. Keeping up with friends is now quick and painless. Communication in any form other than notes either posted to one’s profile or sent through Facebook’s internal email system must stay less than 250 characters. In fact, the set-up for the website is much like I’ve always said I’d like to have for high school reunions. I was never very close to my high school compatriots – in fact, my high school experience is very much like the metaphorical one portrayed in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But, I wouldn’t mind a simple online catalogue that tells me who popped out how many kids, who managed to escape Burke County, Georgia, and who managed to grow oldest fastest? Thankfully, I actually like the people I’ve re-connected with on Facebook, so my interests aren’t nearly so callous.
Within the first week, I discovered the first ethical quandary of Facebook etiquette—how to respond to friend requests, especially to people you barely new twenty years ago. The answer—befriend everyone but focus on the few who are close to you. That said, I’ve actually become better acquainted with a few of those same people I barely knew. Who would have guessed? The second ethical quandary—how to handle students? Yes, Facebook, despite its reputation as being “Mom’s website” when compared to the hipper MySpace, has still a very young demographic. Based on advice from other colleagues, I instituted a sharp rule: befriend no student until he or she graduates.
The formalist in me, though, has become deeply fascinated by the patterns I’ve seen on Facebook. Like email, viral messages are rampant—short games people play, either by confessing a specified number of secrets, by manipulating one’s name, or by compiling lists of various interests like food, drinks or music. This semi-narcissism, semi-voyeurism, semi-exhibitionism is very difficult to resist; I’ve seen friends actually complain vociferously about filling out these “surveys” even as they continue to post them. I bring this up not to tease these friends but simply to show how nearly impossible it is to not participate in these viral games.
Another viral pattern involves fan pages and groups—essentially an internal message board within Facebook that operates through subscriptions. One member of a circle will join a group; in doing so, Facebook alerts all of his or her friends. As they see the announcement, they may join, which in turn alerts all of their friends. And so topics from as broad as The Simpsons and Family Guy to as narrow as "Hanging out at the Krystle’s on Vineland Avenue in Macon, Georgia, in the 1980s" will pass through the circles of friends and accumulate fans.
A third pattern takes shape around the applications, which act as a combination game / electronic postcard system. Some of these applications are created by Facebook users such as my current favorite, the Shite Gifts for Academics, with such gifts as 80 freshman composition papers, boring faculty meeting or “that guy.” Another popular one, for me, offers Southern memorabilia such as NASCAR, grits and collards. The third application, however, gave me pause: Kidnap! In this little application, friends snag each other to cities around the world. To escape, one answers trivia questions about each locale. But what is so interesting about this little game? It’s sponsored by the Travel Channel and designed by Context Optional, a Facebook application development firm. That’s right, one can actually make enough money developing Facebook applications to warrant a firm.
Then I saw Facebook as the capitalist, marketing behemoth that it is. Along the right side of the webpage spans advertisements, each one customized to the user’s preferences as judged by our viral group and fan selections, along with whatever profile information we get tricked into revealing. Advertisers actually have a fair amount of leeway when it comes to capturing eyeballs. Facebook offers advertisers advice on how to develop their ads and target the correct audience. By setting a “Daily Budget,” advertisers can limit the amount of money per day they are charged; once the limit is reached, that ad falls out of rotation. Advertisers can choose to be charged for clicks, where customers actually click on the ad and are directed elsewhere (for a minimum charge of a penny per click), or impressions, where customers merely see the ad (for a minimum charge of 15 cents). The minimum daily budget is $5 per ad.
Every note that is written generates revenue. Every “poke,” every game, every Shite Gift, every Kidnap calls forth ads. Every group joined and cultural meme fanned rolls out ads. The very nature of friendship has been cleverly packaged. If, then, friendship becomes a commodity, can we assess value to it? Are those members with a wide circle of friends more “valuable” than those with, say, less than ten? Are those members who interact frequently with the applications and the viral nature of the site more “valuable”? And what is this value? How often do members evaluate (with that word chosen specifically because of its root, value) each other when it comes to status? Are those members with the most friends exhibiting a higher status? What of those members who frequently poke and post? For example, one Facebook member, Bob P., has 129,590,884 kidnaps. Does the status that comes from having many friends and engaging most often with the site go hand in hand with one’s economic, commodity value? Clearly it does for The Travel Channel and Context Optional, but what affect does it have on the everyday Facebook user? If I choose not to participate in the viral nature of Facebook, am I somehow less a friend, and less a person?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Pretty Pictures
This week a book rep handed me a copy of yet another introduction to literature textbook, this time Nicholas Delbanco’s and Alan Cheuse’s Literature: Craft and Voice. Some may recognize Alan Cheuse as the commentator on NPR’s All Things Considered. The book rep mentioned as a selling feature the emphasis on visual images and graphics within the textbook, and indeed that is the first thing I noticed. Every page is brimming with photographs in brilliant colors, text wrapping around graphics or hovering over half-opacity images, quotations from the texts in green flashing in the middle of short stories, and excerpts of interviews by the author lurking in the introductory materials.
In their preface, the editors argue that this text is designed for a “visual age” and “to harness the power of media and use it to help students learn the art of sustained reading.” Students, they note “should engage their senses; they must listen as well as look.” As is standard with almost all literature textbooks, Delbanco and Cheuse package along with their text a DVD of videos, mostly interviews, but I had to admit that their concerted graphic design, a veritable Southern Living textbook, is very striking.
(While I applaud the idea of using higher media to engage students, the cynic in me can’t help but realize that such DVD inclusions more often than not force students to buy new textbooks rather than trade with their roommates and friends or acquire from sources other than the college bookstore.)
At first I agreed with them. I’ve seen firsthand how eagerly students engage with rhetoric readers when the texts are designed with visual elements in mind. John Mauk’s and John Metz’s Inventing Arguments, Andrea Lunsford’s Everything’s an Argument and Robert Lamm’s and Justin Everett’s Dynamic Arguments have been very popular with students, while Laurie Kirsner’s and Stephen Mandell’s Patterns and Laurence Behrens’ and Leonard Rosen’s Writing and Reading across the Curriculum have fallen flat. And even though these textbooks have different composition teaching theories at work, let’s face it, the essays in these readers are generally the same. And if the essays do change, the authors typically don’t. Secondly, not only do students become more engaged when the textbooks pop with graphic design, but I can also use the textbook itself as a form of visual rhetoric, a sort of meta-textbook.
Then I realized how I use overly designed rhetoric textbooks—as a meta-text—and ask students to question the design, to explore how the textbook designers attempt to control and manipulate them as readers. That is a benefit to a rhetoric class. Literature, on the other hand, is a different beast. Delbanco’s and Cheuse’s textbook images don’t just enliven the text, they impose interpretations. For example, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown” includes an image of the Devil card from a Tarot pack. Granted, the devil is certainly an issue in the short story, but what of the Tarot? For Jack London’s “A Wicked Woman,” the text of the story concerning Ned Bashford’s Greek temperament wraps around Michelangelo’s David; one wonders how an Italian image of a nude Israelite compares. Also, the quotations used to highlight the text, always in green, usually in the center of the page, much larger in print and in a separate font, call attention to passages, as if to alert students that these words are more important than any other in the story. In London’s case, those words are “He did not believe in the truth of women…” In Hawthorne’s case, those words are “He looked up to the sky, doubting whether there really was a heaven above him.”
How can I teach students to come to their own conclusions on a text, based on evidence and reasoning, when the text influences them to such a degree?
Later I grew disturbed by the entire nature of the textbook. Do students really need flashy graphics for a literature textbook? Isn’t imagination enough, and for an introduction to literature, shouldn’t we also be introducing imagination to new readers? The graphic for Franz Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” includes a large beetle, but shouldn’t students decide for themselves if Kafka’s bug refers to a beetle or a cockroach? Doesn’t an image of a gun embedded in Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” give away the ending? Where is the “internal movie” that invariably trumps the Hollywood version when the graphic artists impose their own vision?
And have we really become such a nation of dullards that flash is needed? Of classrooms filled with Alice sniffing, “and what is the use of a book . . . without pictures or conversations?”
Delbanco’s and Cheuse’s project brings to mind another debate, one for which I haven’t found my footing yet. Should we be turning academic studies into a television and magazine culture under the guise of “engaging,” or should we place students in an environment that is somewhat disorienting and unfamiliar under the guise of “challenging”? At the moment, I find the Lewis Carroll quotation from Alice in Wonderland very telling; it shows that for many, many years now there has been a dividing line between those illustrated tales for children, the “picture book” and the pure text of adulthood. That today’s students are more engaged with illustrated texts is no new thing and is not a fresh effect of the Internet and MTV. When should we ask people to put away childish things and become an adult? When they are 10, or 23?
In their preface, the editors argue that this text is designed for a “visual age” and “to harness the power of media and use it to help students learn the art of sustained reading.” Students, they note “should engage their senses; they must listen as well as look.” As is standard with almost all literature textbooks, Delbanco and Cheuse package along with their text a DVD of videos, mostly interviews, but I had to admit that their concerted graphic design, a veritable Southern Living textbook, is very striking.
(While I applaud the idea of using higher media to engage students, the cynic in me can’t help but realize that such DVD inclusions more often than not force students to buy new textbooks rather than trade with their roommates and friends or acquire from sources other than the college bookstore.)
At first I agreed with them. I’ve seen firsthand how eagerly students engage with rhetoric readers when the texts are designed with visual elements in mind. John Mauk’s and John Metz’s Inventing Arguments, Andrea Lunsford’s Everything’s an Argument and Robert Lamm’s and Justin Everett’s Dynamic Arguments have been very popular with students, while Laurie Kirsner’s and Stephen Mandell’s Patterns and Laurence Behrens’ and Leonard Rosen’s Writing and Reading across the Curriculum have fallen flat. And even though these textbooks have different composition teaching theories at work, let’s face it, the essays in these readers are generally the same. And if the essays do change, the authors typically don’t. Secondly, not only do students become more engaged when the textbooks pop with graphic design, but I can also use the textbook itself as a form of visual rhetoric, a sort of meta-textbook.
Then I realized how I use overly designed rhetoric textbooks—as a meta-text—and ask students to question the design, to explore how the textbook designers attempt to control and manipulate them as readers. That is a benefit to a rhetoric class. Literature, on the other hand, is a different beast. Delbanco’s and Cheuse’s textbook images don’t just enliven the text, they impose interpretations. For example, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown” includes an image of the Devil card from a Tarot pack. Granted, the devil is certainly an issue in the short story, but what of the Tarot? For Jack London’s “A Wicked Woman,” the text of the story concerning Ned Bashford’s Greek temperament wraps around Michelangelo’s David; one wonders how an Italian image of a nude Israelite compares. Also, the quotations used to highlight the text, always in green, usually in the center of the page, much larger in print and in a separate font, call attention to passages, as if to alert students that these words are more important than any other in the story. In London’s case, those words are “He did not believe in the truth of women…” In Hawthorne’s case, those words are “He looked up to the sky, doubting whether there really was a heaven above him.”
How can I teach students to come to their own conclusions on a text, based on evidence and reasoning, when the text influences them to such a degree?
Later I grew disturbed by the entire nature of the textbook. Do students really need flashy graphics for a literature textbook? Isn’t imagination enough, and for an introduction to literature, shouldn’t we also be introducing imagination to new readers? The graphic for Franz Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” includes a large beetle, but shouldn’t students decide for themselves if Kafka’s bug refers to a beetle or a cockroach? Doesn’t an image of a gun embedded in Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” give away the ending? Where is the “internal movie” that invariably trumps the Hollywood version when the graphic artists impose their own vision?
And have we really become such a nation of dullards that flash is needed? Of classrooms filled with Alice sniffing, “and what is the use of a book . . . without pictures or conversations?”
Delbanco’s and Cheuse’s project brings to mind another debate, one for which I haven’t found my footing yet. Should we be turning academic studies into a television and magazine culture under the guise of “engaging,” or should we place students in an environment that is somewhat disorienting and unfamiliar under the guise of “challenging”? At the moment, I find the Lewis Carroll quotation from Alice in Wonderland very telling; it shows that for many, many years now there has been a dividing line between those illustrated tales for children, the “picture book” and the pure text of adulthood. That today’s students are more engaged with illustrated texts is no new thing and is not a fresh effect of the Internet and MTV. When should we ask people to put away childish things and become an adult? When they are 10, or 23?
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