The Facebook Grinch


A slightly different version of this post was broadcast on the WAMC public radio program 51% The Women’s Perspective.

It was an unusually wearing December 24th. My husband and I had driven more than four hours from our home in upstate New York to rural Vermont to visit my mother and stepfather. My 90-year-old mother, in her 15th year with Alzheimer’s, seemed barely present.

The next few days would require many more hours of driving as we made the family rounds. But for now we sprawled in a large room in a funky World War I-era hotel. Arrayed between us were wine, bread, and the finest cheeses the local general store could muster. And there was Bill on his side of the bed, gazing lovingly at his smartphone–into the eyes of Facebook.

At random intervals he’d pipe up with updates: His friend Karyn sent us holiday wishes. His sister in Santa Clarita was cooking Christmas dinner. Some heartwarming bit of news had caught his attention. One item stood out. In an elementary school, students only got participation credit for activities if their phones were stored–face down–on a special shelf.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Bill said.

l couldn’t resist. “Do you think you should get participation credit for Christmas Eve?” I asked him.

“Oh but I thought…we were just hanging out,” he said. He sounded flustered and dismayed. I knew he didn’t mean to neglect me. He thought we could sit together, I with my tablet, he with his smartphone. We would munch cheese while trading holiday greetings and news tidbits from Facebook and the Web. That was his idea for making the best of this subdued evening. But it wasn’t mine.

Am I weird for not liking Facebook? I know a billion people disagree with me. But most of it is updates from people I barely know telling me things I frankly don’t care much about. Then there’s the constant barrage of requests, like a friend who never stops asking for favors. “Like this page!” “Vote for this contestant!” “Sign this petition!” “Try out this game!” I visit Facebook because I must, to keep up with our family, make contact with my many writer friends, and promote my own work. I never go there for pleasure.

Bill is the opposite. He used to spend the hour before lights out reading Facebook posts on his laptop by our bed. Things changed after I got him an Android phone for his birthday. Now he can check Facebook wherever he is, whenever he likes, and he does, three or four times a day. In between, he wanders the Internet looking for interesting stories and factoids. When he finds them he posts them to Facebook.

So when psychologists in Norway created the first-ever “Facebook Addiction Scale” to measure people’s overuse of Facebook, you might think I’d be nodding in agreement. But I’m not. I think they missed an important point.

Bill uses Facebook more than I do because he reaches out more than I do, all the time, to everyone. He spent hours driving on tiny roads from pub to pub in central Ireland, looking for relatives he’d never met. He detoured again and again to the same little music store in New Jersey, hoping to catch a long-lost friend who taught guitar there.

Facebook makes all this so much easier. My mother was born in the Philippines. Her father came from Belgium and my aunts, uncles, and cousins are scattered everywhere. One created a Facebook group for all of us, and now I know I have family members from Toronto to Dubai.

So to say that people are addicted to Facebook is to say we’re addicted to interacting with other human beings. Of course we are. We’ve lived in tribes since the beginning of the species. Keeping in contact is literally in our DNA.

I may not have much patience for Facebook, but I still want news about the people I care about. Without Bill’s constant monitoring, I would not have known that one dear friend was spending a week in Paris, or that another’s beloved pug dog had abruptly died. We live in the country, far from most of our friends and family members. Without Bill and Facebook, I’d be much more isolated.

So on Christmas Eve, I told him to go ahead and stay on Facebook. I was melancholy and tired and there was little he could do to cheer me up. But he could be my conduit to the connected world. He could send greetings from both of us, while I curled up on my side of the bed with a book.

A couple of weeks later, I attended a journalists’ fellowship in Arizona. There was spotty cell phone coverage and brief breaks between sessions. I wanted to contact Bill during the day, but what to do? Texting him wasn’t ideal—sometimes he heard his phone, sometimes not. Then I had a flash of inspiration: I sent him a message via Facebook instead.

He answered me right away.

Like this blog? Sign up here and you’ll never miss a new post. Next time: We visit abandoned buildings in what used to be Bill’s thriving home town.

Image: Birger King

4 thoughts on “The Facebook Grinch

  1. I like the way you put it…. It’s impossible to intentionally lose contact now that we have social networks and Skype, and that humans are bound to oppress the symptoms and never actually cure the problems.
    I love your writing. I have been following you on You have wisdom. I just wish I could be as wise as you’re in the future.
    P.S. I specially like your “Password is dead” article. Very farsighted and intriguing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s