Zoom Gloom! Connection in the time of facelessness

Let's talk about being seen.

You may or may not know I enrolled in Portland Community College back in spring, which means in the last eight months I have spent many, many, many hours on Zoom.
Due to the ongoing pandemic, I have never once been on campus. It's my third quarter in school and I can't say with any certainty where campus actually is. It doesn't matter because I go to school in my bedroom on a laptop.

From day one, I always have had my camera on for every single class.
This has become a fascinating social experiment, though my intent was simply to be considerate. I've been a teacher at various times in my life, and the idea of showing up to teach 25 faceless black boxes makes my insides cringey. So I made it a point to be the sacrificial lamb: I offer you my face, see me, I'm here.

Here are my most interesting finds:
1.) My first day of a new class this fall I was the first to turn my camera on, even before the professor. From his name-screen he said, "Erin you're the bravest of us, I don't have my camera on yet since I still have papers everywhere, but thank you." After that, every single person in the class turned on their cameras. They did it the next class too, and the professor was amazed. He had never had that many students let themselves be seen once, much less twice. It became the standard in that class to let ourselves be seen.

2.) One day I was rushed and running late for Japanese, so I brought my lunch to my desk. I did not turn my camera on right away so no one would have to watch me snarf down my mashed potatoes at top speed. No one else in the entire class of 24 students turned theirs on either. When I'd finished eating I turned my camera on, and still no one else did. Usually in that class about 3-5 of us keep our cameras on, but for the rest of that day I was the only one. I have to wonder if it's because at first...I hid. I didn't show my face at the start, and the tone was different.

3.) In Anthropology I have my camera on every day, and usually 1-3 classmates out of the 30 join me. We use the Breakout Rooms every week to discuss readings in small groups, check in with each other, etc, and I have almost always had to make conversation with three or four faceless black boxes at a time.
But once in a breakout room, two girls turned on their cameras to talk to me who otherwise never did. I was thrilled to see their faces for the first time. They turned the cameras off again when we went back to the main class. It took 5 weeks, but they let me see them. Our teacher never has.

Why does any of this matter?

For one thing, it helps to notice how low the bar on intimacy has become.

Seeing faces used to be unavoidable; it was a given that we would see each other in class, at the bank, at the grocery store, over coffee, everywhere and anywhere.
These days, we have to ask.

"Can I see you while we talk?"

And 28 out of 30 say "No," not for the sake of safety, but because we now have the option to avoid the vague, nagging discomfort of being seen.

The ones who say "Yes," become instantly precious to me because they are very very rare. We are generating so few human connections now that even the most basic trust—seeing each other's faces—is special.

For another, it helps to acknowledge that being seen is being brave.

It’s uncomfortable, and sometimes awkward, and it’s generally a REALLY WIDE GAP between the part where you put yourself out there and the part where anyone anywhere says, “Thank you for putting yourself out there.”
Case in point: It was about six months from when I started school to the day when that professor called me brave, and the rest of the class decided they wanted to be brave too. That was six months of often me being the only one visible in a sea of anonymity.

The gap sucks. There is no way around this. But practicing being in it makes it easier, if only by tiny increments, for you and for everyone else.
Our connections are more valuable than ever for the sake of their tenuousness—for their dependence on wires and wifi.
We are built to be together, and while we make do from behind our electronic scrims, offering even the smallest pieces of our real selves is the most beautiful gift we can give.

So here is my encouragement to you:

Be brave. Be seen.
A little at a time is good.
It shows others that they can be seen too.