Before personal computers, the Internet, and cellphones, we
had our own version of Facebook in grammar school. Called “Slam Books”, it was one of those adolescent
fads before electronics. Each student
had their own spiral notebook that they passed around, with the invitation
“please sign my Slam Book”. The owner of
the Slam Book wrote her (predominantly “her”) name on the first page, and then
penciled in a question on the header of each subsequent page. “What is your favorite color?” “Your favorite food?” Innocuous questions at first, but deeper into
the book, the questions became more defining.
“Favorite band?” “Favorite radio
station?” “Favorite movie?” “Cutest boy
in the class?” The books were passed
around and each person that “subscribed” wrote their name on the first page
next to a number. All the answer lines
on each question page were numbered, to identify the respondent with the
response.
We only had two rock and roll radio stations in our area, so
picking one over the other placed no taboo on the respondent. But once you progressed to a choice of rock band,
or singling out the class heart throb, you were pigeonholed. The crucial question came in around page
10: “Who is the most popular girl in
school?”
I succumbed to the trend and probably scribbled in a lot of pat
answers in bad faith, for fear of being ostracized. But I eventually made friends with a girl who
chose an “adult” news radio over the stations playing the “Top Ten”. I admired her courage. She also admitted to liking Andy Williams. This, in the early days of the Beatles.
Back home, I kept my own private notebook, and had started
writing a treatise I entitled “The Anatomy of the Popular Person.” My mother pitched my notebook out one day in
her whirlwind housecleaning, which is a great loss. I would love to read that now. I remember being enraged that certain kids in
the class were dictating how we should dress, how we should think. If you didn’t conform, you were an
outcast. As children in school, we are
overwhelmed with a need to belong. I would never have revealed to my classmates
that I was writing romance novels when I was ten, or that I would put my mom’s
classical music on the stereo and practice ballet in the living room. It was bad enough to be very tall with a huge
overbite and glasses. I eventually had
my teeth straightened and wore contact lenses, but the damage was done at a
very early age. I was not one of the
Popular Girls. I finally embraced that
stigma when two of my grown children, with advanced degrees in mathematics, gave
me the proud title of “Outlier”. I was
and am an Outlier.
During his October 20th broadcast, Bill Maher
qualified Facebook as “the place where thinking went to die”, bringing back
memories of those adolescent Slam Books.
I left Facebook after the Trump-Clinton presidential election because I
got slammed by “friends” for my political postings. I admit that I still log on occasionally,
because I have true friends here and abroad who post personal news and
photos. Just as in grammar school, I
want to feel connected, and yet some types of connections alienate more than
reunite.
Social media, ostensibly designed to bring people together,
has become a place where “follow me” is taken to a new level. We are comforted by finding people of like
minds, but those thoughts and ideas must first be formed outside of the social
media, outside of the Slam Books. The
unfortunate truth is that people spend more time on social media than reading a
newspaper or a book. Now someone can
come onto Facebook and post political information that plays into that need we
all have for belonging. Our likes and
dislikes are now statistically evaluated, our numbers are crunched and our
trends are analyzed. The Popular Kids in
School now have big money behind them when they read our responses.
Maybe, someday we can overcome our fears of exclusion, of
foreign peoples and religions, and finally arrive at a single reverence for our
common humanity. On the understanding
that each human being is his or her own expression of what it is to be human.
Don’t Slam what I Am.