meditations on an algorithmized self
reflections on my proclivity towards wholesome content
Picture this: a somewhat busy intersection on Toronto’s west end — that part of the city where Dundas West goes diagonal and meets Bloor. There’s the Crossways complex across from the subway station, you know the one, the building that always has dozens and dozens of pigeons perched on its roof at any given moment? Yeah, that one.
Picture this: one of those pigeons has now, somehow, gotten injured. The little bird is on the pedestrian crosswalk, it’s not quite moving, but noticeably limping when it does.
Picture this: the pedestrian traffic light is counting down, with mere seconds to spare before oncoming traffic begins driving westward. By now, a small group of pedestrians getting ready to cross the street have taken notice of this pigeon. There is a sense of collective unrest, of panic, in the seconds that pass — for the pigeon is not moving, but it must! There is pointing, gasps, and then suddenly there is a woman tentatively inching towards the pigeon; she is crouched over on the crosswalk, her hands gingerly outstretched, getting ready to scoop up the pigeon. The pigeon briefly takes flight, moving into the bike lane. And with the traffic light turning green, the woman gives up, rushing back to the sidewalk. Having left the car lane, the pigeon has escaped the worst of it, but onlookers are all thinking the same thing: the bike lane is not safe! And suddenly, there is a middle aged man, standing quite literally in a star shape, barricading the bike lane with his body, protecting the pigeon! Signaling to cyclists—don’t bike into this goddamn little injured bird!
Picture this: the bird musters enough strength to fly a few steps onto the curb. The man steps out of the bike lane. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Everyone goes on with their day.
I admit I’m a total sucker for stories like this—this being: this coming together of ordinary people; this being: this nothing flashy, living, breathing, in-front-of-my-eyes proof that people have the capacity for care and kindness; this being: this maybe a little corny (but who cares if it is, because corniness is, frankly, underrated) display of humanity; this being: this beautiful possibility that at the end of the day, people are, perhaps, good.
It is late summer and I am feeling unmoored, uninspired, a residual heartache that has dulled in intensity, an uninteresting kind of sad. I find ways to keep myself busy, distracted: I cook. I listen to news podcasts. I make plans with friends. I work weekends. For weeks, I try writing, open many new google docs, and nothing comes. I try watching TV, try reading, but cannot bring myself to immerse myself in the complexity of another person’s world. I cannot explain it, but it is as if the hugeness of someone else’s interiority is, at least momentarily, unbearable. If not unbearable, then at least terribly overwhelming.
I am, however, able to watch Instagram reels.
On some nights, I watch them for hours on end in the darkness, lulling myself to sleep. I watch rugs being deep cleaned. I watch sea otters holding hands in the water. I watch cows in a field walking towards music performed by a string quartet on the side of a road. I watch two girls wave at a big grizzly bear from a car window, who waves back. I watch people tenderly narrate their elderly dog’s last day on earth. I watch students surprise their teacher on Zoom with an orchestrated, coordinated, thank you. I watch babies laugh, I watch babies dance. I watch couples explain, sparkly-eyed, how they fell in love with each other one, twelve, thirty-five years ago. I watch a chorus of public school fifth graders sing about love with an ocean of intensity and emotion on their faces. I watch immigrant grandfathers and fathers bake cakes, crack open coconuts, slice open home-grown melons. And on most nights — or sometimes first thing in the morning when I wake — my face dimly illuminated by my phone screen, I find myself moved to tears. It feels foolish, but I can’t help myself.
Like I said. I’m a total sucker for stories like this.
I realize it might be naive—dangerous, even—to be a total sucker for stories like this: these feel-good, bite-sized, stripped of context, sanitized, palatable versions of people coming together; these depoliticized instances of people being kind. Perhaps the decontextualization is in part, what makes these kinds of stories feel in some way universal; in some way relatable. Perhaps these easy to watch, twenty-second glimpses of humanity, when consumed alone, function to distract us from the reality of the world’s grief and violence. After all, people aren’t moved to action, aren’t moved to organize, aren’t moved to correct injustice, by a belief that the world is just and kind. After all, how often this concept of ‘goodness’—of people meaning well—is used as a shield from accountability or as an excuse for perpetuating harm. After all, how often goodness becomes charity becomes indifference towards the violences that make charity seemingly necessary in the first place, that so often allow the so-called charitable class to uphold systems of power and the status quo. After all, how very often such tear-at-your-heartstrings narratives of goodness and tenderness are exploited to sell us things (things being: life insurance, menstrual pads, chewing gum, smartphones, gasoline, the list goes on).1
And yet—if I may offer a counter argument to my own musings; a thought exercise if you will; what I meant to say is, I’m not convinced myself, but here it goes—most people are aware that the world is an increasingly unlivable dumpster fire (though of course, the degree to which one is insulated from these violences, or is intimately aware of them, will vary widely depending on one’s positionality). And if our understanding, at baseline, is that the world is an increasingly unlivable dumpster fire, perhaps there is a place for bearing witness to nature (or touching grass, as I believe the youth are saying), for finding beauty in strangers, for watching the magic that is babies laughing, or for making meaning out of everyday instances of people coming together. Perhaps what I mean to say is, on some days I’d like to think a better world is possible.
Yes, I have been a total sucker for some of these ads, as well.