A FIELD DAY IN A HURRICANE: How social media is changing how we relate to community

“What if gangnam style is actually just a giant rain dance and we brought this hurricane on ourselves?”

This comment went viral as Hurricane Sandy began to hit the northeast coast Sunday. The true beginnings of the post have yet to be proven. (Although there is much discussion via tweets, Facebook and blogs such as here.

Many tweets and Facebook statuses about Hurricane Sandy over the past few days have exploded. Many of the posts have been satirical, while others have had a serious tone as people in and out of the destruction reach out to each other.

While most of the somber communications have occurred on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram seem to have dominated.

This is something that would never have been possible before the era of smartphones and 3G (and 4G) connection. Millions of people are still without power throughout the northeast from flooding, down trees and other wind-related problems, but that has not stopped them from tweeting.

As a kid I loved the nights when the power went out. Mom and Dad would pile wood in the stoves so it was cozy and warm. We’d crowd around the kitchen table and play cards by flickering candlelight until we yawned too often.

My ghoulish candlelit face in the mirror above the bathroom sink would always cause me to turn it to face the wall so I could brush my teeth in peace. Mom would blow out the candles after I’d climbed the ladder to my bunk bed, and I’d fall asleep to the lullaby of the wind singing around the corners of the house.

Yes, these nights are what made us a resilient family. We bonded in appreciation of nature’s power.

Now with our smartphones and tablets as constant portals to the rest of the world, can we achieve that same intimate human bonding?

When I joined Facebook as a naïve 14 year old, I was bit by the oversharing bug. Twitter was even worse. I found this insatiable need to share my every breathing moment, every mundane or slightly amusing thought and an image of every meal with the world.

I have since scaled back—and deleted—much of my mundane social media presence.

Hurricane Sandy (or the Frankenstorm) has opened my eyes to a positive of the oversharing. We, as a worldwide community, have been able to share the experience communally.

The bursts of inspiration that create trend-worthy tweets and reposted Instagram images are almost more real than the socially-aware face-to-face conversations that I prize. They open the intimacy of a disaster to the entire community affected.

A picture says a thousand words, so Instagram has certainly trumped the 140 characters of Twitter. Images of trees crushing cars and houses, cars floating in submerged parking garages, the dark New York City skyline and the subway system flooded to capacity have been posted, reposted, moved to Facebook and tweeted from Instagram. In their wake, those of us who are not there have been touched by the dramatic scenes.

According to this article, Instagram posts regarding Sandy exceeded 10 images per second early Tuesday and likely only increased as people continued to explore their newly barren landscapes.

However, Instagram and other image posts on social media provided a problem of legitimacy. Wait; there isn’t a cat in the storm over the Statue of Liberty? That storm isn’t real? It was taken in a different STATE?

(Find more images here)

Because these images moved through social media faster than the winds of Sandy, people didn’t have the time to sort out what was real and what wasn’t (except for the obvious ones). As social media so often does, it fought to correct itself. Slowly but surely the doubt crept in, and the award-winning investigative journalists of Facebook and Twitter proved many of the images false.

So was there harm done with these images? Probably not, but clearly many people put a lot of energy into their creation and fabrication. Here is a compilation of many Instagram images.

Now the Twitter developments were my favorite.

From its inception on Friday to today (Wednesday), @AHurricaneSandy gained 238,150 followers and posted 320 tweets. As many other Twitter handles did, @AHurricaneSandy took on the darkly comedic persona of Sandy. A taste:

OH S*%$ JUST DESTROYED A STARBUCKS. NOW I'M A PUMPKIN SPICE                          HURRICANE.

DIS B*%&$ ON DA WEATHER CHANNEL CALLED ME A BIG STORM. HOW YOU JUS GON MAKE FUN OF MY WEIGHT LIKE DAT?

Unfortunately, as I read on the cursing became grating to read:

DIS B*@$% STANDIN OUTSIDE YELLIN "SANDY YOU AIN'T S*%&" SO I THREW A F^**ING MINIVAN AT HER. NOW WHAT B*@$%?!?

Sandy has repeatedly been referred to as a b!%^$, as you can see in the graph of twitter mentions above from Topsy.

The posts of @AHurricaneSandy began to repeat themselves, and some were floating around the social media stratosphere attached to other names. With many followers, @AHurricaneSandy took the opportunity to promote his other, personal Twitter handles, which he did so quite regularly. If you dug through the tweets, you could find an occasional gem—like the pumpkin spiced hurricane tweet or many rewritten song lyrics.

My favorite Twitter handle, however, was @RomneyStormTips. This effectively combined recent political gaffs with the storm of the year, without using expletives and generally avoiding the offensive.

Examples:

#RomneysFEMA We're out of food, water, blankets, and medicine but here is a tax cut

Todd Akin asks New York City women like @amaeryllis to shut this whole thing down #Sandy

Some 47%er is outside fixing the power lines. Hope it's not a union member. I want power but not Soviet Power #Sandy

For every head-palm-worthy Romney quote, there is a tweet.

@RomneyStormTips was since changed to @RepublicanTips, which likely signifies that the handle is around to stay and parody the Republicans further.

I don’t think this Twitter handle will have an effect on the election, as many other parody Twitter handles and blogs have emerged critiquing both campaigns. The only difference with this one is timing. The reality is that the followers of @RepublicanTips are likely already against Romney.

So with the many images and tweets scattered about the internet, have we truly broadened the intimacy of surviving natural disasters?

In some ways we have, and in others we have only moved further away. The immediacy and amount of contact between people all over the world brings us together, unified against the weather. We know what dangers await outside our doors without looking out the window.

The comedy invoked by Sandy was a game of sorts, like the card games my parents and I played by candlelight, except played by the glow of our smartphones and tablets. Correcting the doctored or false posts became a distraction from the howling wind outside.

These falsehoods, along with the obscenities of some posts, broke down the trust. This is the one flaw. It is easy to lie on the internet, especially when we all know the truth is dramatic.

So, we have a tighter community with less trust than face-to-face contact. Not bad considering how young social media is.

I’ll leave you with a few more tweets.

From‏ @AFrankenStorm:

YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO DESTROY CITIES AND TWEET AT DA SAME TIME? YOU AIN'T BOUT DIS LYFE.

From‏ @WhiteFolkProbs

Hurricane Sandy is forcing me to spend time with my family.

True Country

Okay, I’ll admit it. I knew nothing about the Grand Ole Opry before going to their 87^th birthday concert. What I expected, however, was a mecca of country music. I pictured a crowd of cowboy boot-wearing, heel tapping, young southerners connecting with their cultural roots.

Driving up to the Opry, I began to get concerned. What was this sea of bright lights? A mall that goes on for miles? I must be lost, I thought.

With the traffic clogging every possible path towards the Opry, I had plenty of time for this new reality to sink in. I had trapped myself in a world of consumption and showiness. This wasn’t me. What was I doing here?

Finally arriving at the proper parking lot, we waded through a sea of cars towards the brightly glowing music hall. I noticed that the majority of our companions in this trek were generations older than us wee young’uns. Could it be that I had misunderstood the meaning of this event that was supposed to be the heart of country? Was the heart of country old?

The lobby of the Opry house had new age, color-changing lights hanging from the ceiling. Trippy. The lighting didn’t quite fit the crowd.

We made our way to the front row balcony seats—on the very side of the stage—just as the curtain was lifting. Although I had grown apprehensive, I kept an open mind as the crowd demonstrated clear excitement through their applause.

“I’m proud to be a daughter of the South,” sang out Mallary Hope to open the concert, “We ain’t scared to get down in the dirt and hang out with the boys.” 

Hope contrasted most of the musicians that graced the stage that night. She was a young woman, while the other lead singers were all male and mostly older than her. My interest was piqued as she walked onto the stage with confidence and excitement, waving to someone in the crowd above us.

 Her lyrics began to resonate with me. Yeah! Right on! I thought in surprise. As a kid, I had gravitated towards the more interesting activities on the playground: soccer and football…with all the boys. Hearing Hope’s confidence in this who-the-hell cares attitude made me sit up and take notice of this new world of country.  It couldn’t all be bad if this strong young woman was singing about her rough-and-tumble identity.

“We got closets full of cowboy boots, little black dresses and high heeled shoes. We can change it up—change the mood—if we want to,” She sang on, her southern twang reminding me that I was not in Massachusetts anymore.

And yet her intriguing self-identification continued to draw me in, echoing my childhood. I never hesitated to kneel down in the dirt and do what needed to be done, regardless of my attire. In fact, I had an overflowing dress-up box and was often dressed in fancy, satin dresses or a white, lacy dress I used to pretend was a wedding dress. I never needed a groom, just a white dress, my imagination and some dirt on my knees.

As I said earlier, Hope was an exception to the trend of older male performers, plucking away at their guitars. The oldest was Little Jimmy Dickens, at 91 years old.

Dickens was at ease up on that stage (as he should be! He’s been a member of the opry since 1948). Even at 4’ 11”, he had the presence of a gentle giant crossed with an endearing grandfather. Clad in a black suit with white, rhinestone, sparkly designs, and white cowboy boots and a cowboy hat to top it off, Dickens took the stage by storm.

Between songs he captured the audience with stories of his day-to-day life and cracked jokes with the audience, like one about being older: I’m not well. I had a little accident the other day. I was patting a little toilet water on the back of my neck, and the lid fell down and hit me. But that may not have been what caused my stiff neck. I went to the doctor the other day, and he gave me some of those pills for men my age. Now if you don’t swallow them quick, you’ll get a stiff neck.

With a huge smile spread across his face, Dickens was clearly there for his own enjoyment. He is 91 years old. He could have been at home, sitting on the couch, listening to the show on the radio, and yet he chose to be a part of that community experience.

Something felt familiar about this… Could the Grand Ole Opry really feel like the little ole coffeehouses in my hometown, a tiny hill town in western Massachusetts? And yet it did. That same distinct, small community feel of the Wendell Full Moon Coffeehouse washed over me. I closed my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—I was back home, sitting among my friends and neighbors in the metal folding chairs set up in the old, wooden town hall. The music echoed the folk songs that were often shared, with soft guitar accompaniments.

But when I opened my eyes, there were the sequins, cowboy boots and hats, and the atmosphere shifted. Dickens had stopped singing, and everyone in the room had paused for a “short message from our sponsors,” broadcast out to the radio listeners. This advertising shattered the intimate, coffeehouse feel Dickens had built up.

In Wendell we do everything for ourselves. Our town motto is, “we’re all here because we’re not all there.” Most of us interpret that as just being comfortable in who we are, and expressing ourselves the way we want to.

Our coffeehouses begin with an open mike portion. Typical performers include older men or women in long flowing clothes with hair to match, playing an acoustic guitar to accompany a song they wrote about nature. When I was younger—and still played violin—I would take the stage to perform whichever Suzuki piece or fiddle tune I was working on.

While these open mike performances would run the range of poetry, music, dance and other performance, they all were bound by a common thread. Every person that stood on that stage was positively thrilled to be there. These performers were rarely professionals—and never paid. They were not receiving much publicity and the audience would likely be of 50 to 100 people, at best.

No, these performers were there for the pure enjoyment of sharing creative expression.

This passion is what I found compelling about Mallary Hope’s strong southern identity, and Little Jimmy Dickens’ stage presence.

Hope encourages a who-the-hell cares-I’ll-do-as-I-please strength. Well, my heritage embraces that attitude. My culture says, be a Little Jimmy Dickens and own your identity. Wendell says gather with people who love you for who you are and for being here together. Be creative together and share your voices.

“It don’t matter where you’re from, it don’t matter where you’re raised, from New York City down to LA, everybody’s got a little southern running through their veins,” sang Mallary Hope.

I am a true country girl.

I am from the northern country, but that doesn’t mean I have to shun the “southern” in my blood. It is one and the same. I’m not afraid to work hard and get dirty, but like to dress up too; just like Hope said. No matter where I am, I am country and proud.

Rowing: North Meets South

Sitting at the starting blocks, a fiery ball of nerves roils inside me. The stake holder moves the boat slightly away from the blocks as the official directs—I respond by calmly asking two seat to take a light stroke to reset my point so we start straight. All eight of my rowers sit in hyper focus waiting for the starting call from the official.

“Sit ready. Attention. ROW!”

I let out the beast of nerves inside me as I call out the starting sequence, “Three quarters. Half. Three quarters. FULL. One, two, three…” My voice is gruff, powerful and direct—I’ve unleashed my coxswain growl.

Immediately Exeter pulls ahead in the lane on our starboard side. Shake it off, I tell myself, focus on the boats we can beat.

Slowly but surely we work our way past the four other boats. “I’m on stern, let’s get me to coxswain…I’ve got bow, let’s get bow ball!” The thrill of passing boats rushes through me. I let it fuel my coxswain growl to head into the last 500 meters.

 It is a fight in the final sprint, but we pull ahead and cross the finish line second—placing into the Grand Finales heat for NEIRAs 2011.

Beginning my rowing career at a New England prep school, the United States rowing hub seemed to me to be centered there. While everyone in the rowing community knows there are fast crews elsewhere, the hottest competition always seemed to be in prepville: New England—or the northeast in general.

Case in point was that Grand Finals competition—Exeter, Kent and Andover duked it out for medals, with the remaining three prep boats soaring in behind. All six boats were from Massachusetts, New Hampshire or Connecticut.

Now, I don’t want to pretend that I know a lot about the rowing community, because I don’t. I have coxed on three school teams for a total of about 25 races. I never went to rowing camps or other programs where the rowing community becomes interconnected. I know nothing except my own limited experience. (Although I do get pretty much all the jokes on whatshouldrowerscallme.)

However, I have competed twice in the Head of the Charles regatta in Boston. It is one of the most thrilling experiences to be part of the huge convergence of the international rowing world. The excitement can be overwhelming, but it fuels the air of competition through the pure, collective joy of speeding over the water, passing boats, and rowing with a tight-knit crew.

Coming to Nashville, I never expected to find such a flourishing rowing community in the south. Sure, some Florida and other coastal programs are thriving, but in Tennessee? Alabama? Georgia?

Let me explain what I mean by thriving. This past weekend I traveled to my first official regatta with the Vanderbilt Rowing Team: the Chattanooga Head Race. Considered somewhat of a warm-up for Head of the Hooch, I expected the regatta to be a small race with nearby crews, local, somewhat disorganized officials and a laidback atmosphere.

I was right and I was wrong, but as it turns out both in a good way.

At the coxswain and coaches meeting at the wonderful hour of 7:30 a.m., the regatta organizers presented pertinent information and rules regarding the course and the competition—as any race organizers would.

I was somewhat perplexed by the questions some coxswains asked. Immediately following a very thorough description of the buoys on the course and what they mean: “Which side of the yellow buoys do we need to be on?” After the officials said you would either hear a horn beep or someone yell “Mark” (if the horn is broken) as you crossed the starting line: “Which one will it be?”

At first I was annoyed by these seemingly silly questions, but I realized that they did not come from a place of misunderstanding, but rather from a place of excitement. Likely these coxswains were new to the sport, and did not want to have anything extra to think about on the fly. They were eager, so they did not entirely hear everything the officials said—I was certainly guilty of that as a novice coxswain.

Once I realized that this air of utter excitement was hanging over the crowd, I couldn’t stop noticing it in every spectator and athlete. Next to our team tent alongside the river was a large club team from Alabama. The team consisted of juniors and masters rowers, but the group also included a massive extension of enthusiastic families. Every person wore a broad smile—and their cookout spread was extensive.

These rowers of a range of abilities and ages were truly thrilled to be a part of this community event. When one of their boats approached the finish line, they stampeded to the shore to cheer loudly for their teammates. Their enthusiasm was infectious.

When we launched for the men’s college 8+ race, a group of juniors and novice rowers were returning to the docks. They were drenched and most of their shells were full of water, demonstrating that tricky wind patterns awaited us upstream. And yet they were laughing about it, smiling, and still completely happy to be a part of the scene.

Rowing up to the starting line, we rowed by Nashville Rowing Club. They gave us a friendly good luck shout. This kindness put a smile on my face that affected subsequent interactions with officials and other boats. I recalled that the Georgia Tech coxswain in the morning men’s 4+ race had been friendly at the start as well, even without the connections we have with NRC.

When the officials called us to our race, we started close behind the women’s junior 8+s. Being a men’s collegiate 8+, we bore down on them quickly. I had to yell to the coxswain to yield and let me pass, and when she did, I yelled out a friendly thank you in the spirit of the day.

The warm community feel of the day had an influence on me, as I would never have wasted my breath in any of my previous races. In my previous experiences, coxswains had always been brusque with me at best, and sometimes outright mean. Taking my cue from the dominant culture, I simply responded likewise—in short, efficient words.

Last year I coxed for a D1 program in Boston. At the Princeton Chase, Princeton’s frosh 8+ was passing us. When the coxswain called for me to yield—and I did to the best of my ability—she felt it necessary to include an f-bomb in her instructions.

My rowers laughed it off—coxswains are normally b!#@$y!

I think it is time that we change that standard.

The southern rowing community has showed me that I can hold onto the competitive rowing spirit, without succumbing to the sophomoric harshness associated with fierce competition. Now I see that it is not necessary to omit kindness. It takes only a small breath to say thank you.

My coxswain growl does not have to be mean to be effective—in fact it seems to be more effective to be kind.