Technology proposes itself as the architect of our intimacies.
― Sherry Turkle, Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other

Recently, I was working with a former colleague who asked if I’d ever read Sherry Turkle’s essay, “Growing Up Tethered.” I hadn’t, but my interest was piqued, so I read it. Turkle, the Abby Rockefeller Mauzé Professor of the Social Studies of Science and Technology at MIT, has written much about the effects of technology on how we relate to one another. I can’t say that I was surprised by the discoveries and claims she makes in this essay. But I was troubled by them, particularly by the notion that technology purports to be the architect of our intimacies.

We’ve all seen, and undoubtedly lamented, the types of scenes that frequently unfold at restaurants and family dinners, in classrooms and waiting rooms: people glued to their devices, fingers and thumbing pecking, eyes riveted to screens, heads bent attentively. Eerily quiet except for the rapid tapping on keys, these scenes are peopled by those who may be communicating with distant others or with those sitting right next to them. They may be using their devices to close a gap of miles or inches. Either way, they’re using these devices as conduits. And are these technological conduits building intimacy? Turkle and others continue to weigh in on this.

The APA Dictionary of Psychology defines intimacy as:

an interpersonal state of extreme emotional closeness such that each party’s personal space can be entered by any of the other parties without causing discomfort to that person. Intimacy characterizes close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationships and requires the parties to have a detailed knowledge or deep understanding of each other.

Most of us would agree that intimacy involves a detailed knowledge and deep understanding of another. To have an intimate conversation requires time, proximity, full attention, and intense desire to really know someone. Whether in friendship, parenthood, or marriage, this type of intimacy characterizes the relationships that most of us seek and treasure. Is it reasonable to suggest that technology can play a legitimate role in fostering intimacy?

In her book, Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age, Turkle cites what she calls the Goldilocks Effect:

We can’t get enough of each other if we can have each other at a digital distance—not too close, not too far, just right. But human relationships are rich, messy, and demanding. When we clean them up with technology, we move from conversation to the efficiency of mere connection. I fear we forget the difference.

If just right means establishing the correct digital distance and cleaning ourselves up with the technological tools at hand, what does this say about intimacy? Like Turkle, I fear that it reveals much. It reveals that if we’re reliant on technology to build intimacy into our lives, we’re building our emotional foundations on the sinking sand of mere connection. And it reveals that we increasingly rely more on these technologies than on face-to-face conversations and relationships.

Turkle argues that these technologies facilitate connections in sips, for gathering discrete bits of information. She goes on to explain, however, that they neither have the power nor means to faciliate genuine understanding and intimacy. I confess that an I love you (followed by an exclamation point and a heart emoji) is always a weak substitute for looking deeply into another’s eyes and speaking these words with clear intent. Understandably, most of us use our cell phones and computers to send words of love and encouragement to loved ones who live too far away to frequently visit. We rely upon social media to see pictures of our families and friends, our former classmates and their families, etc. And we’re grateful for the technologies that make these connections possible. But to confuse these connections with intimacy is quite another thing.

For me, Turkle’s most troubling claim is that as we lose the ability to converse intimately with others, she fears that we also lose the ability to converse authentically with ourselves. And as we lose the ability to converse with ourselves, she argues that we also lose our capacity to self-reflect. I’ve thought a lot about this recently. I can painfully recall how many times I was frustrated by my students’ inability and unwillingness to be self-reflective. This frustration only grew throughout my 40-year teaching career. More than anything, I dreaded teaching the narrative essay, for increasingly students responded with comments and questions like these: I don’t have anything to write. What do you mean “write about a time or incident that mattered to me”? And what do you mean by “mattered”? Do I just write about what I did last summer? No matter how many examples I provided, how much I modeled reflective thinking, most of my students still looked at me with expectant faces–as if I could do more, as if I could just think reflectively for them.

In her essay “Growing Up Tethered,” Turkle also writes about how technology may be seriously delaying the rite of passage from adolescent to adult. If you can’t be self-reflective, if you’re tethered to your phone, if you’re reliant on how others see and respond to you digitally, if you’ve never experienced genuine solitude, how can you mature into a self-reflective, independent adult capable of intimate relationships? And worse yet, will you even want to?

I agree with Turkle when she writes that [o]ur networked life allows us to hide from each other, even as we are tethered to each other. What an incredible paradox: the desire to be hidden and yet to be connected. It’s no wonder that this tension manifests itself in the types of depression, anxiety, and loneliness that we read about and experience now. A year of Covid-induced Zoom schooling, working, and communicating has only exacerbated a problem that had already grown deep roots in our society.

To a certain extent, we’ll always rely on technology. That barn door is open and won’t likely be closed. Still, I’m grateful for and encouraged by frank discussions about how technology is affecting our relationships, positively and negatively. And because, like Turkle, I’m convinced there are no cheap substitutes for intimacy, I’m hoping that we continue an honest investigation into the notion that technology can be the architect of our intimacies.

I do the splits perfectly in PE. I lose half a pound in two days. I get the spinach and pig-meat frittata from the lo-carb section for lunch. And no-one else knows. I mentally construct a MyFace status, polishing the memories carefully until they shine. The need to record my life is as fundamental as my need to breathe. Without MyFace, I’m floating. I have nothing to anchor me down, to prove I exist.
― Louise O’Neill, Only Ever Yours

I remember the secret (who were we kidding?) notes we passed through the rows of our elementary classrooms, notes carefully folded into shapes so small that even 10-year old hands could palm them. On these notes were written the all-important words: Do you like me? Check yes or no. With baited breath, we waited until our intended opened the note, checked one of the boxes, and sent it back through the same rows of classmates who ferried it surely along its return route. Before social media, we had notebook paper, gracious and practiced peer accomplices, and the occasional teachers who had more important things to attend to than student notes.

To be liked may, indeed, be a sanctuary. That is, while we feel liked, our moods improve and our dopamine levels increase. Today, for better or worse, being liked is a primary contributor to social media’s success. According to the Addiction Center, neuroscientists have compared social media interaction to a syringe of dopamine being injected straight into the system. Like other addictions–drugs, alcohol, gambling–social media offers the same physical and pyschological “high”:

. . .when an individual gets a notification, such as a like or mention, the brain receives a rush of dopamine and sends it along reward pathways, causing the individual to feel pleasure. Social media provides an endless amount of immediate rewards in the form of attention from others for relatively minimal effort. The brain rewires itself through this positive reinforcement, making people desire likes, retweets, and emoticon reactions. [The Addiction Center]

To bask in the warmth and excitement of a dopamine rush can be a wonderful thing. It goes without saying, however, that a dopamine rush is like any other rush: an immediate, but fleeting, pleasure. And when it goes? When you don’t receive as many likes as you did the day–or hour–before? When you find your social media following slipping away? Or, worst of all, when you discover that you’re receiving as many or more dislikes–perhaps even hate–than likes?

Recently, I’ve begun thinking more about this whole notion of being liked through social media. Over the weekend, my granddaughter and I watched several episodes of a new Hulu series, The D’Amelio Show. The show profiles TikTok sensations, Charli and Dixie D’Amelio, who, according to Adrian Horton of The Guardian, are two of the most recognizable faces among Gen Z, superstars on the most culturally influential social media platform in the country right now. Horton reports that 17-year-old Charli currently has 123.6 million viewers on the social app, TikTok. At age 66, it’s not suprising that I’ve never heard of Charli or Dixie D’Amelio, though I admit to being current enough to recognize the wildly popular app called TikTok. As a grandma, I thought it wise to watch The D’Amelio Show with my granddaughter, to see what all the fuss is about.

In his article, “The D’Amelio Show: what do you do with TikTok fame?” Horton describes the intent of the series:

The D’Amelio Show, in both its very existence and primary storylines (Dixie’s nascent singing career, Charli’s business deals, mental health), is primarily concerned with the question of professional likability. What does it do to someone, especially young women, and what do you do with it?

Midway into the first episode, I realized that the emerging theme (one that persists throughout the entire series) was primarily the mental health of the young women, Charli and Dixie. Both young women speak candidly and repeatedly about haters who often respond with vitriol to their social media posts. They cry, they seek solace from other social media influencers and their family, they question their worth and the worth of their work. To say that it’s painful to watch is an understatement. It’s grueling, at best, and wholly defeating, at worst. On a positive note, however, as my granddaughter and I watched, it did offer us valuable opportunities to talk about the effects of social media fame and the compulsion to be liked on social media platforms.

This series and recent research into the addictive nature of social media also raise disturbing questions: Do social media users increasingly need these platforms to feel anchored, to prove that they exist? Can users successfully manage their fluctuating dopamine levels? Are we creating behavioral addictions that seriously damage users’ mental health and drain energy and attention from life in general? Should we shape ourselves (and how we present ourselves) and our interests based on how many likes and dislikes we receive?

Pete Cashmore, founder of mashable.com, claims that [w]e’re living in a time when attention is the new currency. Some may argue that even being disliked is preferable to being invisible. Commanding attention is gold, they may insist, being noticed–even negatively–is marketable. Clearly, the D’Amelio sisters’ fame is a testament to this argument. Still, it makes me wonder whether the relative invisibility characteristic to most of our lives is always and necessarily a bad thing. Most of us live without huge social media followings and have little time or inclination to check our likes on social media platforms. We’re simply too busy with the stuff of ordinary living where dopamine rushes come occasionally as pleasures to enjoy rather than highs to sustain. Of course we’re human and, by nature, we want to be liked. But wanting to be liked and living to be liked are clearly different things. I fear that those who live to be liked will invariably lead less healthy, rewarding lives than those who simply want to be liked. And talking about this difference and why it matters is truly important.

Perhaps The D’Amelio Show will prompt these types of conversations. Or perhaps–tragically–it will give birth to a new generation of social media users eager to supercede the popularity of Charli and Dixie D’Amelio, driven to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records for most social media likes. I’m really, really hoping for the former.

P.S. If you like this post, check yes ________ or no __________ (Just kidding!)