On the Nature of Being Qfwfq

It is impossible to write a character who does not have some sort of flaw, because without character flaws you have no plot. In Qfwfq, the main character of Italo Calvino’s Cosmicomics, the defining flaw is that he almost constantly misunderstands the intentions and thoughts of others, while he is often misunderstood by them; he also seems to have an underlying fear of being inadequate.

For a certain period of time, Qfwfq is the last living dinosaur, and because he has nowhere else to go, he ends up living in a village of the mammals that now inhabit the Earth. He is able to do this because the dinosaurs have, by now, been gone for long enough that nobody remembers what they looked like. As during several other lifetimes (of which he has many throughout the book), he eventually falls in love, in this case with a “New One” by the name of Fern-flower. Most of their relationship consists of her telling him about her dreams, which he generally misinterprets in one way or another. In one particular instance, she describes a dream in which a particularly magnificent dinosaur passes her house while ignoring her completely, and Qfwfq, as usual, reacts in the wrong way:

“The young creature had mistaken my shyness for disdainful pride. Now, when I recall it, I realize that all I had to do was maintain that attitude a little longer, make a show of haughty detachment, and I would have won her completely. Instead, the revelation so moved me that I threw myself at her feet, tears in my eyes, and said: ‘No, no, Fern-flower, it’s not the way you believe; you’re better than any Dinosaur, a hundred times better, and I feel so inferior to you…’” (104)

Fern-flower, of course, does not expect or want this reaction, and as Qfwfq says, “a feeling of uneasiness” develops between them. Qfwfq reacts wrongly to her dream because he is afraid of being misunderstood, of being thought of as something he does not believe he is. He also displays this is his other reactions to his misinterpretations of Fern-flower’s dreams; when she informs him of a dream in which a dinosaur wants to eat her alive and she likes him for it, for example:

“That dream should have made me understand many things and especially one thing: that Fern-flower desired nothing more than to be assaulted. This was the moment for me to embrace her. But the Dinosaur they imagined was too different from the Dinosaur I was…I missed a good opportunity.” (101)

Here, too, he does not react as Fern-flower expects and wants him to, because he takes this to mean she perceives him differently than he really is, and he wants to correct that perception. However, in his rush to ensure that no one thinks of him in the wrong way, he completely disregards the intentions of those he interacts with. He assumes they think in a certain way, and he filters all of their actions through his own misapprehension of their personality, reacting to what he thinks is meant. It is an interesting irony that, by trying to make himself understood, he misunderstands everyone else.

In one of his earlier incarnations (which likely influenced his feelings as a dinosaur), Qfwfq is some sort of amphibian; what kind, we will never know. All of his family, at the time when the story occurs, have made the transition from life in water to life on land—all, that is, except his great-uncle N’ba N’ga, who stubbornly insists on remaining a fish. Because of this situation, the rest of the family is engaged in a continuous struggle to convince N’ba N’ga that life is better on land. Around this point, Qfwfq falls in love with an undefined reptile, most likely a lizard, by the name of Lll. As has been mentioned, Qfwfq is an amphibian and not entirely free from the pull of the water, so he worries about appearing inferior to Lll as he sees her, leading him to hide his uncle’s existence:

“The time had come for Lll to meet my family; and since its oldest and most authoritative member was Great-Uncle N’ba N’ga, I couldn’t avoid a visit to him, to introduce my fiancée. But every time an opportunity occurred, I postponed it, out of embarrassment; knowing the prejudices among which she had been brought up, I hadn’t yet dared tell Lll that my great-uncle was a fish.” (75)

Qfwfq, as demonstrated in other passages, seems to view Lll as a superior creature in relation to him, because he is less evolved than she. Thus it follows that he fears that, if it is revealed that his great-uncle is one of those who shuns the land with the insistence that only the sea will last, Lll will associate Qfwfq with this philosophy; she will think of him a too undeveloped for her to continue seeing him. Understandably, he does not wish to be thought of as a lower life form. Furthermore, in this paragraph at least, he appears to be trying to delude himself as to the nature of his secrecy. He cites “the prejudices among which [Lll] had been brought up” as if to say that he expects Lll to be species-ist (which seems the only appropriate word) toward N’ba N’ga, and that this is the main reason he avoids introducing her to his uncle. As it turns out, of course, he has once again misunderstood, and Lll’s reaction on meeting N’ba N’ga is not at all what was expected.

After finally encountering Qfwfq’s uncle, far from considering him to be a lower life form, Lll becomes extremely interested in the nature of life as a fish. She begins visiting N’ba N’ga frequently, learning from him how to swim as a fish would—or somewhat differently, as she is of an entirely different species. Qfwfq eventually realises this and believes he understands her motives, but, yet again, he is mistaken:

“It was a game, for her: I understood. But a game I didn’t like. I had to recall her to reality, to the future that was awaiting her.” (81)

A particularly interesting aspect of his reaction is the lack of acceptance of his uncle’s lifestyle. Earlier in the story, he mentions that N’ba N’ga is unwilling to accept a reality other than his own. By his own statement shown above, however, Qfwfq reveals that he is just as unwilling to acknowledge that anyone might have a different idea of what is an ideal life. This, too, can be traced to his many misunderstandings; he has tried to convince N’ba N’ga that life on land is superior, ignoring the reasons his uncle provides for living like a fish. Because he refuses to understand another way of life, he assumes that Lll thinks the same way, and so confronts her with this mistaken impression:

“‘Lll, I have to talk to you,’ I said as soon as I saw her, ‘you’ve been amusing yourself long enough. We have more important things ahead of us. I’ve discovered a passage in the mountains: beyond it stretches an immense stone plain, just abandoned by the water. We’ll be the first to settle there, we’ll populate unknown lands, you and I, and our children…The world belongs to those with legs, not to fish, and you know it.’” (81)

Once again, Qfwfq has failed to understand another’s intentions, and once again it results to some extent in lost love. He discovers that Lll, rather than agreeing with him that returning to the water is a step backwards, has come to share great-uncle N’ba N’ga’s point of view. Rather than making an effort to interpret her actions correctly, Qfwfq has interpreted them as what they would mean coming from him: a game, humouring his deluded uncle. He mentally superimposes the way he thinks of Lll over the way she really is, and he tries to make himself understood as being on a level with this imagined Lll without taking into account that she may have hidden depths. And this is Qfwfq’s great failing, his life’s downfall: he doesn’t realise that he’s misunderstood until it’s far too late.

Keep ASTI Small

I have, inevitably, heard about ASTI's potential size increase, and a good summary of my feelings on it can be found on Amber Chan's blog:

Personally, I would like it if ASTI could keep its small size, instead of increasing the number of students, because then it would be able to maintain the small family-like atmosphere, and most of the students would know each other.  I really like that the teachers and students are all a very tightly knit community of families and friends, that we can all depend on.

This is almost exactly my opinion on the matter. I have been to only one small school apart from ASTI (which was actually much smaller), and because there were so few students, everyone knew each other; this also seems to be the case here. I prefer this kind of atmosphere to the massive school where nobody knows anyone above or below their grade level and people are separated into groups based on "popularity" or whatever it is.

If you have read this post, you know that most of my experiences with other people my age have been disastrous. It's very difficult to trust anyone after you've been mocked and ignored and betrayed over and over and over--even the people who seem to have good intentions. It's reached a point where I expect people to automatically dislike me, because that's what has happened in the past. This was alleviated somewhat by my two years at the previously mentioned small school, but then, of course, middle school happened and destroyed all of that. But now, at ASTI, with what Amber calls the "family-like atmosphere", I am actually becoming capable of talking to people without running away or deciding that I've just said something so stupid the other person will hate me forever. It may be entirely a personal issue, but being at a small school has caused drastic improvement in my minimal self-esteem.

And then there is the issue of individual attention to students. At the moment I have no scientific studies to back me up, but it has been my experience that many students function better in smaller schools. This is because, with a lower student-to-teacher ratio, it is easier for a teacher to give each student the academic attention s/he needs to be successful. In larger schools, such as my middle school, it was very difficult to talk to teachers because they were always busy or talking to another student who had already snagged the rare free moment.

In summary: ASTI's size should remain as it is.

Unfinished Writing Vol. 3: Malt Excerpt

This is the novel I am actively working on at the moment, unusual for me in that it's actually set in the real world, albeit a fictional town. (Ha, I made you look up one of your vocabulary words. Maybe.) For anyone interested: I will also be adding to the other one, so you should expect to see more of that up in the future as well. Title suggestions will be welcomed. Anyway, here's the beginning of what I'm currently writing. Note: It is long, even this chunk. [I had originally taken this down for length, but I changed my mind. Let me know if this is a problem.]

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    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    Oh, everyone had heard of him, of course. You weren’t much of anybody in Eastport if you’d never heard of Maxwell Malt. Some called him a magician, others the superhero of the day, and still others the “people’s hero”, whatever that meant. He had done amazing things. He had saved the city and its surrounding area from bizarre villains countless times, including, once, an army of giant animate teddy bears. Everyone knew it. Most people had witnessed his heroism firsthand. And yet the question still circulated the streets daily.

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    No one had really seen him anywhere, apart from the averted crises.

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    A few people had managed to catch a glimpse of him during his many escapades, but even then, the only detail that was certain was that he had black hair. Maybe.

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    There were countless reporters circling throughout Eastport, interviewing whoever they encountered for any information relevant to the mysterious small-town superpower (which most of them thought was a catchy phrase).

    Who was Maxwell Malt?

    The unanswerable question was currently repeating itself, with no sign of stopping any time soon, in the head of reporter Wilfred Jenkins as he wandered through Eastport’s streets like many journalists before him. He was trying to think of anything he could do, anyone he hadn’t interviewed, to get to the bottom of this Maxwell Malt mystery. It wasn’t just a matter of journalistic pride anymore; it was almost an obsession. And anyway—

    “Oh, I’m terribly sorry…”

    “No! No! Don’t apologize…my fault entirely…”

    Anyway, Wilfred wasn’t just in it for the potential newspaper article with his name on it, as such. So far he’d only ever gotten a few very minor assignments. The way he saw it, the Maxwell Malt story was his last chance to make a good impression on Editor-in-Chief Dawson before he was condemned as a talentless wretch for the rest of his li—wait a minute…

   Wilfred spun around, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of the man he’d run into while lost in thought. He hadn’t recognized the man, so presumably he was an as-yet-uninterviewed Eastporter who might possibly know something of the elusive Malt—but alas, there was no sign of him. (Wilfred liked to think words like “alas”, in case Dawson could read minds.)

    Come to think of it, Wilfred couldn’t really remember the face of the stranger who had so hurriedly taken the blame for the collision. He had a vague impression that the man’s hair had been dark, but that was all. How curious.

    Oh, well. It was probably just because Wilfred had been so deep in thought, and he hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, anyway.

    With a last, regretful glance behind him, Wilfred continued in search of solutions to his mystery.

    Max looked around the corner of a shelf in the bookstore he’d ducked into, badly startling a six-year-old girl. After a few moments’ assessment to ensure he hadn’t been followed, he considered his options and returned to crouching behind the bookshelf.

    He’d never meant to become so mysterious, he really hadn’t. But he’d worked so fast, those first few times, and no one had really seen him properly. Then he’d gotten into the habit of hiding his identity, once the newspapers had printed their lack of understanding, because nothing was more fun than messing around with journalists’ minds. He had let it become a…a game. And it had been fine then.

    But then there had been the cultist and his bears, and news had somehow gotten to the non-local papers, and now he was always having to hide from nosy reporters. Because if the mystery surrounding him was waved away, he wouldn’t be the people’s hero anymore; the game would end. And while he knew it was a selfish thought, a little, he had other motives for concealing his identity. People needed heroes; if you took them away, what was there?

    By now, the reader will probably have reasoned out the identity of our friend Max. So let us take a look at the people’s hero Maxwell Malt; knowing him, we may not get another chance.

    Max does indeed have black hair; the witnesses were correct in that, at least. He’s a little on the tall side, maybe, although this is exaggerated by his tendency to walk on his toes. His face is unremarkable, eyes perhaps a little large, nose a little pointed—oh, and rather pale at the moment, but we can forgive him that, considering his narrow escape. At the time our story begins he has three broken ribs, courtesy of the cultist-and-bears incident, which are healing more slowly than they ought to because of his unfortunate wall-climbing habit. And that, in brief, is the mysterious Maxwell Malt, at least on the outside (mainly).

    Now he sighed and closed his eyes, inadvertently bringing back memories of his eighth birthday, when he’d closed his eyes to become invisible and sneak extra cake. He’d been caught, of course, although there was no real punishment, just a chiding.

    And now he was all but invisible in the normal course of his life, just another faceless figure passing by in the street. Unknown and unmemorable, even as his name was spoken daily all over Eastport.

    When he had calmed down reasonably from his encounter with the journalist, Max got up and slowly, carefully made his way out to the sidewalk. If he was lucky enough not to run into any more nosy reporters, weasels who tried to be sly while their occupation was written all over them, he might be at work on time for once.

    He tried to run inconspicuously. It worked, mostly because there were at least fifty other people trying to avoid being late for whatever it was they did all day.

    Max was the stockboy at Morris and Morrison, which was not so much a general store as a vague one, because the job kept him out of sight and he didn’t have to wear a uniform. Eastport was not a large town, but Morris and Morrison hadn’t had much business in the past twenty or so years, because the owners had never decided on anything specific to sell, the way everyone else had. They also didn’t ask a lot of questions, which was why Max could work there; all they knew was that he was called Max and would only take his pay in cash.

    After a great deal of trying to run through large crowds of people going the other way, which he had never been very good at, Max came to a halt outside Morris and Morrison. Even the building was vague; it seemed to blend into the apartment buildings on either side of it, and the way it sat between them appeared almost designed to keep it unnoticed. Its only distinguishing feature was the sign, with a space left for the store’s specialty, assuming the owners ever decided on one.

    Max barely noticed the sign by this time; he knew the exact distance to the store from just about every part of the town after working there for five years. A bell dinged when the door opened, but it wasn’t actually over the door. Instead it hung over the counter, connected to the door by a complicated system of ropes and pulleys attached to the ceiling, dangling over Dennis the cashier’s desk. Dennis had assembled this mechanism for the sheer joy of watching customers stare up in confusion at the ringing of an unseen bell.

    Max often wondered why Dennis lived in Eastport and not, say, a mental institution.

    As he passed the counter on his way to the back room, Dennis called after him, “Since when are you ever on time? Are you trying to make me look bad or something?”

    Max just smiled and spent a moment standing in the darkness of the back room, waiting for his vision to adjust. Then he started moving the previous night’s shipments so he would be able to find them when he needed to. It was a monotonous task, and, at the moment, slightly painful, but he enjoyed his work. It allowed him, for just a little while, to forget who he was.

A Commentary on Style

I have generally not been particularly interested in "fashion", preferring to go my own way, but I have always found it interesting to learn what other people's views on this subject are. Thus, I was drawn to Ale'ah Bashir-Baaquee's blog and the post entitled "Swagga-Style"--where I found this:

Maybe its becuase I'm black but inter racial fashions annoy you? Sometimes I say this becuase ever since the saggin pance era started in person other than a black that was saggin hid pants, always had some negativecomment comming from them, But when Black guys start dressing like white guys with skinny jeans and skate boards no one sais anything. WHY IS THAT?

I think fashion is an expression of who you are, I;m not saying every white person who wants to, try and dress black I'm not saying that. But I think styles have to fit you inside and out. Just becase you may feel like your black doesn't mean youa re. I'm not being racist but still.

It appears from other people's posts that I am in agreement with at least some of them when I state that I disagree with this. I have to say, I spy a contradiction here. First you say that you think fashion is an expression of who you are, but you follow it up by stating that "just because you may feel like you're black doesn't mean you are" and that "inter racial fashions" annoy you. I find this somewhat confusing. A person doesn't necessarily decide to sag their pants because they "feel like [they're] black". It may be a completely different and unrelated statement on their part; an expression of who they are, in other words. This is not specifically in defense of the trend, which I personally think is silly, but there is an inconsistency in what you're saying.

Another point: the style you point out as being bothersome isn't race-specific. Forgive me for mixing quotes here, but I find my point better explained by a response from Ruby Rew:

For your information, the sagging fashion began in prison. This means that both black and white men in prison could have been rockin' it. It is often affiliated with gang fashion, hip-hop fashion, or the lack of wearing a belt. It prison, it could have been just the fact that they didn't want to zip their outfits all the way up.

As explained here, the issue of white people sagging their pants is not an inter-racial fashion, and is not necessarily used because these people feel like they're black. You also make the point that "when Black guys start dressing like white guys with skinny jeans and skate boards no one sais anything", but you don't condemn this action as black people feeling like they're white and following a trend for that reason. With this unbalance, your statement comes across (at least to some extent) as saying that white people must stick to their own race-specific fashions, but this is not required of other races.

I'm not criticizing your ideas in their entirety; as has been mentioned by a few others, "Who decides what style is?" is a very good and perfectly legitimate question. You make several good supporting points...but then you seem almost to change your mind and contradict your own opinions. So what is the real position you mean to take?

For myself, I am of the opinion that style is defined by the person who uses it. Everyone has their own specific style, which is always influenced by others to a certain degree, even a small one--in the words of John Donne, no man is an island. But the fact is that everyone should be able to define their own style, without worrying about inter-racial issues or "feeling black".

Unfinished Writing Vol. 2: Untitled

This particular story chunk is destined to be a book one day, assuming I ever get my act together and start working on it again. This is only part of what I currently have, which is two and a half pages long, too much for a blog post. Anyway...opinions?

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    It was time, once again, for Draigfest.

    There were hundreds of different clans and provinces and other self-governing colonies of dragons in Attria, some of which were constantly at war or just disagreement; others pretended that certain colonies didn’t exist for the sake of peace. Dragons are not, by nature, cooperative with those unlike them, resulting in a tangle of boundary lines to confuse even the most accomplished of cartographers. The colonies were not receptive to new dragons emigrating from other colonies, and their leaders rarely had any kind of meeting because of the everlasting tensions between them.

    But Draigfest was different. Draigfest happened in the very center of the valley, where no colony claimed territory, and it was a festival, or possibly a convention, for those dragons that weren’t really concerned one way or another with the misdeeds of their neighbours’ ancestors and were curious about the other colonies. Some, over the years, had even built up long-distance friendships with other dragons.

    This was the twenty-fifth annual Draigfest, and like the others, it was a spectacular success. Countless wooden stalls selling crafts, services and other interesting objects had been set up by the vendors of that year, and hundreds of tents and other portable shelters lined the valley, so that there was barely any room for the walking dragons to move through the campground. There was green grass underfoot, blue sky overhead, and forest all around. Dragons of all colours and shapes and sizes walked among the stalls, looking for something to do or something to buy, and others sat in the open areas and caught up with friends from other colonies. Speed dragons zoomed between the structures, their feathers glinting in the sun like jewels.[1]

    Amid all the shouting and twittering and whatever other noises turned up, there sat a lone dragon. He was the sort of person who is easily overlooked, rather small for a dragon and a generic green colour. His horns had no particular distinction, his muzzle was not more than usually pointed, and his tail lacked even a standard diamond-shaped barb. All in all, it was not particularly odd that no one seemed to notice him sitting there, apparently waiting for someone. Any number of his own kind were here today, mostly larger than him.

    Certainly no one noticed the way he was watching the sky, or how his eyes followed the movements of something no one could see.

    After some time, something descended from a great height above, landing in a cloud of dust and cursing several feet away. The green dragon smiled and made his way through the crowd to the settling dust.

    An orange dragon was sitting among the dirt clods and torn grass of her landing, shaking her streamlined head and struggling to fold red-feathered wings. She shifted her weight in an effort to get her bearings and began carefully grooming the red crest on  her head. The green dragon sniggered. “Oh, now you decide to take pride in your appearance?”

    “Shut up, Tadpole,” she snapped, flattening her crest self-consciously.

    “Hey, it’s not my fault you never learned how to land.”

    “I did, too. But the stupid instructor apparently assumed I’d only ever be landing on my dinner and not, say, the ground.” Finally satisfied with her appearance, she dropped to four legs and fixed a yellow stare on Tad. “How did you know it was me crashing here, anyway? It could have been anyone in my flight class.”

    Tad gestured vaguely toward his eyes. “I think it’s a species thing, but I’ve never asked anyone else about it. Shouldn’t you know that by now? I thought Darasci was supposed to mean ‘intelligent’ or something.”

    “Huh.” Darasci snorted. “I’m not much for memory, but from what I’ve seen I doubt anyone else in your colony has the eyes of a hawk. Your cousin Werther runs into trees all the time, anyway.”

    “Well, Werther’s…Werther. But who cares about him? What interesting and insightful pursuits have you set your mind to since last year?” Tad grinned.

    “Oh, look at Mr. Subtle. You know I don’t go in for work. I’m not made for it, no matter what my aunt says. I’m doing fine with my life.”

    “Which consists of what?”

    “Um…hunting, sleeping, reading and wandering around the forest. But it’s very fulfilling,” she added defensively. “Anyway, what have you been doing that’s so great?”

    “Well.” Tad cleared his throat, as if preparing for a long speech, and then shook his head. “Let’s walk. I’m hungry; I’ve been waiting for you to land for hours.”

    “Pfft.” Darasci rolled her eyes, but she followed him when he headed for the nearest food stall. “So?” she prompted.

    “Right. Well, there was a seminar thing last week about our cultural identity, something like that.” He laughed. “Most of it was complete garbage, of course, but there was some decent information there. One of the things they mentioned—”

    “Who’s this they?” Darasci asked accusingly.

    Tad waved a claw dismissively. “Oh, just some religionists or something. I think one of them was named Zag. Anyway, one of the things they mentioned was this island somewhere in the South Sea—it’s called Partiani—where there’s a cave guarded by some sort of tiger or some such.”

    “Ooh, a cave. Why’s that so interesting?”

    He glared at her. “I was coming to that. Apparently, somewhere in the cave is the Eggstone, which is some kind of purple gem shaped exactly like an egg, with gold wrapped around it or something like that. And supposedly it has some kind of power.”

    “So what’s this got to do with anything?”

    “I’m going to find the Eggstone, just to see it. It sounds…important.”

    Darasci was silent for a few moments as she contemplated this. Then, to Tad’s annoyance, she burst out laughing.

    “It’s not funny,” he said indignantly. Darasci shook her head and waited for the laughter to subside.

    “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “it’s just so ridiculous. You’ve never been out of the valley, and you want to go all the way to the South Sea and find something that probably isn’t even there? Really?”

---

[1] Speed dragons were something of a joke up in the mountains, but here in the valley they were recognized as helpful messengers, since they could speak most languages with relative ease and flew very fast, as the name indicates. They had a clan system and lived in large groups in the forest, and worked for payment in food only, because they didn’t have a currency. They only seemed to have four colour variations, possibly as some kind of subspecies indication, but they were bright enough to be noticeable anyway.

Salt Shakers

Because occasionally I do finish things, and they deserve their own category.

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There were two ceramic chickens who lived on the counter. The rooster was white, and his name was Salt. The hen was black, and her name was Pepper. The humans always called them by their names, when they called them anything at all.

The chickens never called each other anything, because they were the only ones they talked to.

Neither of them had any legs, but it didn't matter because there wasn't anywhere for them to walk to.

The white one was blind, eyes cataracted by his own paint and by years of salt dust, and the black one was his eyes. During the days which they spent together, the days which had no beginning and had no ending, the black one would sometimes whisper to the white one about what was happening that he could not hear.

They kept no secrets from each other because they were their only company and because they had no secrets to keep.

Day after day, night after night, they sat and watched and listened and talked. They talked about the things that only ceramic chickens can rightfully talk about, because only they know.

They talked about the clumsiness of humans, and the meaning of life, and why a cat was, and how they had come to be. They spoke deep, insightful philosophy which no human would ever hear, but it didn't matter because no human could have truly grasped it. They said silly, frivolous things and laughed at jokes no human would ever laugh at, but it didn't matter because no human could have understood why they were funny.

Sometimes the humans that lived there needed their help, and so they called them by their names and turned them over and shook them over food. Sometimes other humans came, humans that the chickens did not know, and they would find themselves turned in every direction imaginable for hours and hours. The chickens accepted this, because they understood their purpose.

The two ceramic chickens on the counter have their story, and they are their story. It is a story of bright, sunny mornings when the humans spend hours in the kitchen where the chickens can see them, and of long, dark nights when the kitchen is empty and silent.

It is a long story, and it has no beginning and it has no ending, and it lasts until they leave the counter for another place. And then it becomes another story, so that the story can never truly stop.

There are two ceramic chickens who live on the counter. The rooster is white, and his name is Salt. The hen is black, and her name is Pepper. They sit on the counter, as they always have, as they always will.

Against Social Networking (A Rebuttal)

Social networking is harmful to people’s health, real-life social relationships, and also constitutes a threat to their privacy. Most teens don’t know that when they post photos and information onto websites like Facebook and Myspace, it can still be retrieved even after deletion. Social networking also makes cyberbullying easier and Sameer Hinduja states that a 2009 study found that 17.3% of middle school students have been victims of cyberbullying, which causes depression and low self-esteem as www.ncpc.org adds on. Adults can get hacked and have their identity stolen, get their homes broken into, and potentially lose their job. And according to David Derbyshire from Daily Mail, too much time on these websites can also cause brain damage to children.

"Social networking allows for people to be more social and lets people see each other from far away. Studies have shown that people who use social networking sites have a better quality of life. It has reduced risk of health problems, helped with stroke recovery, and overall well being."

- Our Opponents

Social networking actually causes people’s face-to-face socialization to decrease in frequency. An article by Aric Sigman, entitled “Well Connected? The Biological Implications of ‘Social Networking’”, states that as the amount of people who use social networking sites goes up, people interact less and less with other people in real life. Families spend less time together, even when under the same roof, because they are using the internet and thus ignoring each other. People who use social networking sites often experience social isolation as far as actually talking to people goes.

In addition, information gathered by neuroscientist Susan Greenfield shows that excessive use of social networking can cause children to suffer from personality disorders such as an inability to have real conversations, ADHD, short attention spans, the need for instant gratification, and self-centered personalities. Greenfield has told the Daily Mail that ‘'My fear is that these technologies are infantilising the brain into the state of small children who are attracted by buzzing noises and bright lights, who have a small attention span and who live for the moment.'’ She also states the concern that the use of social networking may be responsible for the current increase in autism.*

"Most social networking sites like Facebook and Myspace have an age limit and if under a certain age, like 16 people cannot find them in the general search. People can also make all their information like name, age, and where they live private, so a random person cannot see their information unless they add them as a friend."

Age limitations on signing up for social networking sites do nothing to prevent teenagers from being exposed to this, as many lie about their ages. And social networking sites are certainly not free from predators. In 2009, MySpace confirmed that it had identified and removed over 90,000 registered sex offenders from its site, according to an article by Nathan Olivarez-Giles in the Los Angeles Times. This same article states that Facebook declined to give a number of discovered sex offenders. And even if these sites make an effort to remove sex offenders, they cannot possibly find all of them, because it is impossible to be sure that everyone is who they say they are.

Even without the other considerations, there is still the issue of Facebook’s recent distribution of private information. The company actually announced this March that, if you are logged into Facebook, certain unnamed “pre-approved” sites will by default have access to your personal Facebook data (a link to this can be found in Marshall Kirkpatrick’s article on the ReadWriteWeb site). According to Brett Michael Dykes, in some cases the site has been giving people’s information not only to companies who want it, but also to advertisers who haven’t even asked for the information, such as Google's DoubleClick and Yahoo!'s Right Media--and MySpace is doing something similar.

In short, social networking should not be trusted.

Sources:
More sex offenders joined MySpace than previously acknowledged
Well Connected? The Biological Implications of 'Social Networking'
FaceBook May Share User Data With External Sities Automatically
Facebook, MySpace caught releasing user data
Social websites harm children's brains: Chilling warning to parents from top neuroscientist

*Disclaimer: Internet usage is only a possible cause for the recent increase in autism. It is also possible that doctors are simply getting better at diagnosing it, and a number of other factors may be at fault. I am in no way suggesting that the Internet alone causes autism.

Opening Statement

Ebone and I are debating against social networking, and she posted our statement before I did. So my statement is this: What she said.