Bad Tweeter

This is a short story (and a long musing) that begs the question, "what if we all turned to the people we were about to anonymously Tweet about, and said it to their faces instead?" Now that's a scary thought, am I right?

This thought occurred to me on the commuter train home from New York this evening. The women behind me were relatively standard. One chatty and full of rumors, the other more quiet but very willing to play along. They discussed the fiscal, emotional and familial stressors associated with entering one's child into extracurriculars plural, the undeservingly promoted and the overlooked deserving'd, the personalities and goings on of life in/outside/around/about/atop/adjacent to the office, the home, the train, the street, Zimbabwe, etc (I live quite far by commuter standards, allowing time for such a breadth of conversation).

What bothered me most about this discourse was my own lack of headphones. What bothered me second most was the fact that I thought about Tweeting responses to some of the comments I overheard. Although I'm blogging about it now, I think it's safe to say that my own mother doesn't even seem that interested in this blog, and I am therefore destined to be one of those elegantly brooding artists whose true worth and brilliance is not uncovered from the rubble until a century after my mournful demise. (To the future readers/my fan club/literary historians: look up Tang, it will explain a great deal about the 90s that you may not otherwise understand.)

Anyway, I was bothered by my desire to Tweet. Why? Because Twitter is a dark and stormy place, and not in a rum-and-gingerbeer type way. A torpid catalyst for criticism and backlash, a place where feuds and anonymous complaints ping around like ammunition in a pin-ball machine. Why would I complain on Twitter? Then I thought about what I might do as an alternative to Tweeting savagely about my commuting companion. Would I turn to her and advise that perhaps discussing office politics in detail is not wise on a quiet and public train? Ye Gads and Monsters, NO! That would be wildly inappropriate! ...but Tweeting would not?

What about Tweeting at a celebrity? What about throwing a metaphorical pie in someone's face? What about embarrassing someone who isn't in on the joke? Would you show them the Tweet? Would you show your Grandmother the Tweet? I never Tweet anything I wouldn't want a prospective employer/my grandmother/my middle school principle/my local parish's clergy/a monk/a boyfriend/a member of the United Nations to see. You know why? Because social media's open accessibility has made me into a double-bound animal wretched with both paranoia and an unnerving need to share my innermost thoughts. Simultaneously.

As I contemplated the larger picture of what my Tweet would mean, and what it wouldn't, the train rolled ever closer to my destination. I would get off and go home and blog like the narcissistic millennial I am, and I would forget all about the situation. But if I had Tweeted a complaint, I would have cut at the character of another human being without ever once looking them directly in the eye. And for what? To have someone read my 140 characters (or less) and nod/exhale a monosyllabic laugh to convey "yep, been there" then keep scrolling? Compassion is easy to forget when you have the power of disposable thought and anonymity apparently at your disposal. So while I continue to wrestle with the moral and ethical standards of Twitter, I offer you this advice; tweet for your middle school principle. You know s/he could always take a joke in good taste, and you know that cyberbullying and unwarranted criticism will totally land you with a 500-word response paper. So just don't do it. Some Tweets should just be saved as drafts.