Coming of Age at the dawn of the social internet

Like many millennials, I entered the online world through AOL Instant Messenger. I created the account one unusual day in the late 1990s, sitting in the basement of my childhood home at our hulking white desktop computer that connected to the Internet via a messy dial-up modem. I chose the username «Silk» after a character from my favorite star and scribble fantasy novel series to distinguish my account from others who also chose to be Silk. The character in the books was a charismatic thief with the confidence that I, an inept high school student, could only aspire to at the time. But the name was not intended as a cloak of anonymity, because most of the people I corresponded with TARGET they were friends from school that I saw every day. Every night, during my parenting hour of screen time, I would run several different chats simultaneously in separate windows, switching between them when one or the other went AFK – «away from keyboard». This was unavoidable in the dial-up era, when the Internet connection was cut off whenever a parent had to use a phone line. Being online was not yet the default state of existence. Either you were present TARGETimmersed in real time, or you weren’t.

There were also strangers on the Internet, and kids who ventured into AOL chat rooms could easily find themselves being tricked or fooled. It will be a few more years before boomers fully realize the dangers of letting their children go online. But at this point, AOL Instant Messenger made my tween cohort feel like a kind of alternative society to the one we inhabited in the physical world. Away messages, short personalized notes that appeared when the user was idle, became a powerful form of self-expression. Quoting lyrics was big—Blink-182’s «All the Small Things» seemed the height of sophistication—but it was considered a faux pas to copy lyrics a friend had already picked out. When an imitation appears, another classic can be used TARGET move, passive-aggressive away-message updates. «Will you stay?» TARGET later?» was a common refrain at school. It meant something like «see you later»—on the Internet, where we were still ourselves, but with a new heady sense of freedom.

My second home on the Internet was LiveJournal, an early online publishing platform. Rather than gossiping and insinuating each other in clear messages, my friends and I wrote journal entries. Posts on LJ, as we called it, were visible to multiple people at once, so my writing there became a kind of public performance, a way to appear more confident and articulate than I was in person. Every night I would search friends’ pages to see if they had posted anything, hoping that others would gradually follow mine. One night, I stumbled upon the LiveJournal of a friend I didn’t know had an account on the site, and was horrified to find that his last post criticized me by name. I evidently complained about not being invited to the party, which my friend took as evidence of my jealous tendencies. I closed the web browser before I could read any further, feeling foolish for not realizing that the kind of scrutiny I was aiming for in my online writings could just as easily be aimed at me.

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A slightly older high school friend named Parker, an aspiring graphic designer, created a website for herself that included a blogging section. LJ allowed us to write about ourselves for an audience, but the nascent world of blogs seemed to be something else—a grown-up endeavor for those who probably had something worth saying. (Little did we know…) My friend’s site was personalized and elegant, with complex HTML page structure and click art that she created herself in Photoshop and then easily pirated online. She posted her thoughts on artists and bands she liked. Her website looked like a curated museum of herself, built gradually and carefully. I was excited about the site, but of course also about her.

I’ve been bugging Parker to make me a blog too. She eventually agreed and hosted it as a subdomain on her own URL, which was retroactively symbolic of the power dynamic between us. The site has been dead for years, but I recently managed to dig it back up using the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine. Reading the blog (which I aptly named Verbal Diarrhea) was cute and excruciating at the same time. I posted wistful observations about the boredom I felt growing up in suburban Connecticut, stranded in the woods without a driver’s license. «I have no mystery in my personal life, so I make it up,» I wrote in one post. Parker and I have been arguing in the comment threads, just the two of us secretly shooting back and forth, maybe on the off chance that someone was reading this. «You killed me in public,» read one comment, referring to a now-forgotten high school incident. Parker and I criticized our narcissism, the way we thought every sign in the world pointed back at ourselves—a feature of adolescence, sure, but also an Internet-enhanced habit that gave each of us our own audience, real or imagined .

I didn’t understand in high school, but in the years that followed, I began to think of my online presence as a shadow self. Those who were aware could see it, and I could see theirs—the reflection of their avatars and icons and messages gone, the tone of their IM chats or LJ posts. But for other people who weren’t so online, it was still invisible, meaningless. I’ve been thinking a lot about this early version of my online self lately as I write about modern digital culture and take stock of how much the landscape has changed. Today, the so-called open internet has coalesced around a handful of platforms that serve up user content according to the mind-numbing logic of algorithmic recommendations and sources. Passive consumption is encouraged. Every interaction is tracked and commodified through targeted advertising.

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It’s easy to be nostalgic for the way things were when you were a teenager. I grew up online, but time inevitably moved on and the younger generation became the prime demographic for the new wave of technology. Like recently the writer Max Read assumed in Times, perhaps millennials have simply aged out of the internet. Still, I think something more fundamental has been lost for all of us with the development of social media. It’s harder to find the spark of discovery or the sense that the web offers an alternative world of possibilities. Instead of each forging our own eccentric paths online, we’re caught in the grooves created for us all by a few giant companies.

Gradually, I realized that the Internet was not just a localized community of people I knew personally, but a larger civilization with virtual cities full of other people creating and managing their own shadow selves. Early in high school, I started playing Ragnarok Online, a Korean multiplayer role-playing video game that allowed me to interact with thousands of other users playing at the same time. The game, a precursor to games such as World of Warcraft, transformed the growing interactivity of the Internet into full color, motion and sound, literally coining the idea of ​​a «virtual world». I was addicted; there are years of my life that I have more memories of playing Ragnarok than going to school. I was still sitting in the basement of my childhood home and now I was meeting people from all over the world. Players from Thailand often typed «555» into the in-game chat room, which I eventually found out was phonetically «hahaha» in Thai.

During my school studies, I would head to the library or computer lab and secretly log into the Ragnarok message boards. Whenever I see the color combination of green and gold, the pixelated design of the forum called Merchant Guild still flashes in my mind. What we would now call «extreme online» was still a clandestine activity for nerds; no social capital could be gained from devices with web habits. Talking on the forums with players I knew only by their nicknames and avatars was the first time in my life that I felt like other people cared about my opinions. I’ve developed an unmistakable expertise in things like which monsters to hunt for «experience» points, or why thief characters should always equip daggers. (I didn’t say it was useful knowledge.) My shadow self had a sense of authority and agency that I lacked elsewhere.

The Ragnarok forum sent me on my first trips down the online rabbit hole. The people I talked to there were skipping other sites they were visiting; researching one led me to another. There was a guitar forum (Ultimate Guitar) that sent me to one about the Dave Matthews Band (Ants Marching) and soon to one for disgruntled Dave Matthews fans (UFCK, legendary for its cliques). Maybe other teenagers felt the same way about playing on a sports team, going to practice together, or working out at the gym, experiences I anxiously avoided. I was clumsy, undisciplined, and unprepared for these collective activities—except online, where I didn’t need to exist in the flesh.

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By the time I graduated high school, the digital world I had grown accustomed to began to change. The expansion of home Wi-Fi has made it easier to connect to the Internet. Cell phones, such as the 2004 Motorola Razr, became trendy accessories and pioneered the language of texting—eg. TARGET cottages you could hold in the palm of your hand. Social networks as we know them today were born. Launched in 2003, MySpace was the first website my IRL friends introduced me to when they picked it up from their older siblings. (Friendster, MySpace’s predecessor, seemed to be for an older audience.) When I created an account, I was surprised to find that MySpace had attached my shadow self to my physical persona. I was no longer just a pseudonym and a cartoon avatar; the website asked for my real name and a photo of my face; he told me to list my interests for everyone to see. Before, I felt like going online was like a solo tourist exploring unknown territories. Now I felt like I was putting up a billboard for myself on the highway.

MySpace connected the digital geography of the Internet to the off-screen world in other ways. You linked your account to your friends’ accounts by «friending» them, mapped your past IRL relationships, and the site prompted you to choose a «Best Friends» rating of the eight people whose names appeared first on the list . This feature became a source of drama—picking someone in your Top Pick wasn’t a guarantee that they’d pick you—but it wasn’t a problem for me since I didn’t have more than eight friends at school anyway. When I looked back at my long-defunct MySpace page, now filled with broken pictures and empty frames, I found that I only had fifteen «connections» on the site, including MySpace Tom, the site’s co-founder and president, who were friends by default. with everyone who joined.

Compared to the fragmented, DIY web I knew, social media felt strangely predictable. User profiles on new sites like LinkedIn or Flickr were templated and surrounded by advertisements. They offered preset options from categories and drop-down menus—age, location, institutional affiliation—and quantified influence through friend and follower counts. Networks were no longer an escape from the power structures of the physical world, but a way to reinforce them. When Mark Zuckerberg he founded TheFacebook, as he called it at first, allowing only Harvard students to join, then the rest of the Ivy League. In the spring of 2006, all undergraduates were invited and I eagerly awaited an official email address from the university I would be attending.


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