By Mrs. Gladys T. Roll

Greetings, dear reader,

Given that I am sharing my essays on social media, it seems fitting to begin this adventure by sharing my thoughts about this peculiar platform.  I am rather new to it, after all.  I joined last year, when my darling grandson Alexander—a bright and cheerful college student—insisted I create a Facebook account to stay better connected with the family.  Frank and I always kept our private affairs—well—private, but saying no to Alex is next to impossible.  And so, I marched boldly (albeit reluctantly) through the looking-glass and into the brave new world of social media.

Yes, I know—social media is hardly new.  But for a pensioner whose life has been devoted to literary giants like Twain, Steinbeck, and Austen, it is a radically different medium.  Gone are the rich smell and dog-eared pages of my beloved paperbacks; instead, I find myself responding to… “vague-book” posts? 

Ah, dear reader, if you have not yet had the pleasure of a 20-year-old relative introducing you to this peculiar term, allow me to explain.  It was one of the first lessons Alex taught me, inspired by a series of confounding late-night posts from one of his cousins.

It began with Cousin Jane posting “Heartbroken 💔”.  A day later came “I just can’t anymore,” and shortly after that she wrote “BIG changes are coming.”  Two days passed and then her profile picture—once a pleasant holiday photo with her husband, Mike—was abruptly replaced with a dramatic image of herself with her lips puckered and her eyes gazing skyward.  I briefly considered calling to ask for her esthetician’s name, but Alex informed me she had simply applied a “filter.”

Next came the barrage of memes.  (For my fellow rubes:  a “meem”—not “mee-mee”—is a picture or phrase widely shared on social media, usually intended to be funny or inspirational.  From what I can tell, they rarely succeed at either.)  

“Don’t live for your presence to be noticed, but for your absence to be felt,” declared one, over an image of a single extinguished candle in front of an open window.  I could not help but roll my eyes at that, wondering if the window had been left open to clear out the fumes from Bob Marley’s dope or the thick haze of passive-aggressiveness.  

Next up?  “Sometimes, you need to burn bridges—not to hurt anyone, but to light the way forward!”  That one struck me as rather militant for someone like Cousin Jane, who wears yoga pants to Thanksgiving dinner. 

And finally, my personal favorite:  “Strong women do not have attitudes—they have standards,” proclaimed none other than Rosie the Riveter!

I was confused enough to call Alex for an explanation.  “That’s vague-booking, Grandma,” he said.  “It’s when people post dramatic, cryptic stuff without giving the full story so others will ask about it.  She’s just trying to get attention.”  Thinking back, I suppose it makes sense… Jane’s mother kept a copy of I’m OK – You’re OK prominently displayed on her coffee table, though I always wondered who she was trying to convince.

Unlike both Jane and her mother, I was taught that a lady does well to keep her personal crises to herself.  In exceptionally trying circumstances, one might confide in the most discreet and trustworthy of friends—quietly, over a cup of tea, never liquor. 

Yet, in the social media era, it seems the fashionable response to heartbreak is to hint at it ambiguously online as a way of inviting comments like, “Are you okay?” and “What’s the matter, hun?” from the masses, while that one girlfriend with the inside scoop knowingly chimes in, “You got this, babe! 💪♥️.”

Of course, the more I observed, the more I realized that vague-booking is just one symptom of a larger trend.  Social media, it seems, is not about connection so much as performance.  What today are called “influencers” were in my day known as snake oil salesmen—smiling into the camera while hawking overpriced skincare or dubious miracle powders. 

These self-proclaimed trendsetters claim to curate lives of luxury, fashion, and glamour, but even a humble Kohl’s shopper like myself can see through the charade.  I would wager next week’s bingo entry fee that these charlatans travel by bus from a Bakersfield studio apartment to spend one night in a San Francisco roach motel—just so they can hold up a $20 cocktail at a rooftop bar and snap a selfie to show the gang at the American Legion back in Ellinwood how far they have come. 

Of course, we have only scratched the surface.  Beneath lies a stormier phenomenon: the comment war.  These battles often erupt on local pages over topics as mundane as street closures or garbage collection.  Someone will post an innocent question—“Is the City still repainting the lines on 4th Avenue near Highway 61?”—and within minutes, the thread descends into chaos.

One commenter accuses the mayor of corruption, another demands that the school district announce A.S.A.P. whether tomorrow will be a snow day, and someone else chastises the original poster for not calling City Hall to find out for himself—rather than wasting the precious time of all these very important people busily scrolling through Facebook. 

Before you know it, the townsfolk are at each other’s throats, and the beleaguered moderators must resort to disabling comments on the post.  It seems, after all, that more speech may not always be the best antidote to offensive speech—though Gerald (my ever-vocal canine companion) would vociferously disagree.

To be fair, I cannot entirely dismiss social media.  It has allowed me to reconnect with relatives I had lost touch with.  My town’s Facebook groups also keep me quite entertained, proving the old saying that no politics are as bitter as when the stakes are small.  Whether or not my therapist (if I had one) or my minister (if he were still alive) would think positively of this kind of schadenfreude on my part is another matter entirely.

No doubt the greatest irony of all is the most obvious one:  a technology designed to bring us closer together often leaves us feeling more disconnected than ever.  So, consider this a call to action, fellow AARPers!  Surely, we can revive the handwritten note and bring the afternoon ice cream social back in vogue.  My cordless (not cellular!) telephone is at the ready.  However, if you are one of those who has done away with their landline, please do not bother asking for my number.  To me, you might as well be Benedict Arnold.

Take care now,

G. T. Roll
Hutchinson, Kansas