Notes from a gap year

And so, I come to the end of two years in York. Well, fuck - that's a bit mad, isn't it? I will soon be leaving for pastures new (well, Sheffield), and it's fair to say this has been an eventful couple of years. Good and bad, I've learnt phenomenal amounts (about linguistics and about myself) and had some utterly, utterly glorious times.

This year in particular has been busier than I thought possible, juggling five part-times jobs and PhD applications, but being someone who doesn't function unless they're late for five things at once, it's been bloody great. I've spent most of the year responding to "So what do you do?" with "Well, it's complicated..." -- so what have I actually been up to this year, and what am I taking away from it all? Glad you asked...

Do ALL THE JOBS!

Job #1 - Project Officer for the Temporal Co-ordination in Communication project
What? My main source of income this year, I was lucky enough to snag a research assistant job at York Uni almost immediately after graduating. Working under Dr Richard Ogden in partnership with some talented musical folk at Cambridge University, we set out to investigate whether rhythmicity in speech (and music) was shared between conversational participants, and whether this could be seen in their intonation patterns or physical gesture.
No really, what? I spent the year analysing the speech and movements of pairs of speakers as they chatted, played games, and made music. It was super rad.

Lessons learnt
- Analysing people's video-captured eyebrow movements in great detail makes you hyper-aware of eyebrow movements in real life. Related: people get uncomfortable when you stare at their eyebrows.
- If you pause a video at the right moment, any two people can look like they're in love. Or like they want to kill each other.
- Some cliches are true, and sometimes people are so posh that you literally can't understand what they're saying. One gent was talking at length about "rang" and I swear to God it took me about three minutes to figure out he was talking about "rowing".
- There is little more painful than having to watch two non-musicians try to make music for fifteen minutes.
- High quality audio recordings are a gift. The sound of a person smacking their lips or hocking up phlegm directly down your headphones is not.

Job #2 - Vowel analysis for the Scilly Voices project (University of Sheffield)
What? Dr Emma Moore is looking into language variation and change on the Isles of Scilly. I leant a hand by listening to old archive footage of Scillonians born at the turn of the century and delimiting, labelling and coding certain vowel sounds.
No really, what? I listening to charming old folks talking about island life and marked up whenever they said a vowel that rhymes with the one in 'mouth'.

Lessons learnt
- Never underestimate how long it will take to get through a 75 minute recording. (For the record, eight hours.)
- All Praat and no play makes Hannah something something. (Go crazy? DON'T MIND IF I DO! etc.)
- It's very easy to get invested in the lives of interviewees, particularly if they saved someone from drowning and/or their dad beat up the headmaster of their school for caning them. (Both the same guy!)

Job #3 - Data monkey for the Surrey Syncretism Database project
What? The University of Surrey, along with its compatriots, is compiling an online resource that gives academics access to an easily-searchable database of languages, in order to display and investigate syncretism (when a language has the same marking for different features).
No really, what? I unpacked reports about complex languages and turned them into shiny, organised spreadsheets to pop into the database.

Lessons learnt
- Kashmiri is a fucking complex language.
- Excel spreadsheets and complex language paradigms are made approximately 67% more fun when you colour code them while listening to loud pop music.
- Accidentally ctrl+Cing when you mean to ctrl+P is akin to a papercut, in that it is a minor annoyance that causes ridiculous amounts of strife.

Job #4 - copywriter/subeditor for publicservice.co.uk and defencemanagement.com
What? These guys compile public sector information journals, commissioning and creating content and distributing it. I worked here for a year between my BA and MA, and they kindly kept me on freelance.
No really, what? I write stuff, and nitpick stuff that other people write.

- Anybody who talks excitedly and with passion for their field makes for a charming interviewee, and the article subsequently writes itself.
- It's possible to get super-invested in something you had no idea you were interested in, so much so that you exceed the word count by nearly half; in my case, military medals, and how they're made and awarded.

Job #5 - copywriter/content provider for various sites, through a centralised pool of writers
What? I wrote blog posts, articles, product descriptions and suchlike for a bunch of websites.
No really, what? Seriously?

Lessons learnt
- There's only so much bullshitting one can do. And you can't bullshit your way through an article about institutional insolvency in Europe when you have less than no idea what you're writing about.
- Fluff pieces about Kate Middleton's holiday plans and the best-dressed celebrity mums are alarmingly easy to churn out, but doing so kiiiind of makes you want to kill yourself.
- Never underestimate a word count. Sometimes, 450 words can seem like thousands.

York livin'
Having lived in this glorious city for two whole years, I am obviously the foremost influence about the places to be in York. HA! No. But still, I love this city dearly, so if you ever find yourself visiting or living here, these are my recommendations.

• Go to the Minster. Yes, I know, duh, but it's easy to forget that your home plays host to one of the most staggering pieces of architecture and history in the country. Even if you're not religious, go to Evensong or the Christmas carol service - it's beautiful. If you can, explore the crypt and the tower - it's worth the money. At the very least, go inside and look up. Take a deep breath, and take in the ceilings. Incredible.
• Visit National Railway Museum. All of York's museums are great, but this is my favourite by far. Its free, for a start, and is a brilliant celebration of man-power and industrial endeavour. Huge and sprawling, it makes you feel like a child, and walking through the room full of mish-mash railway memorabilia and accessories is like a historical jumble sale. It's a fantastic museum that needs and deserves saving.
• Walk up the river, from Skeldergate bridge. Either side - down the cycle path or through Rowntree Park. Both are gorgeous.
• Cycle the solar system route, particularly if it's a sunny day. It's super easy to do because it's 99% flat, you take in some gorgeous countryside, and when you get back you can say that you CYCLED AROUND THE UNIVERSE.
• Get a huge, ridiculous ice-cream sundae from Licc. Hands down the best ice-cream I've ever had, and comes in a ridonkulous number of flavours. One time, I had a sundae that was cinder toffee, caramac and salted caramel, and it's probably the closest I've come to passing out in an eatery because the food was so good.
• Bishopthorpe Road is where it's at. The Pig and Pastry is a delightful and friendly café whose eggs royale are to die for; Pextons is a proper old hardware store which has everything you could ever need; and Millie's greengrocer is cheap and brilliant (and one time they gave me a free Milky Way). The whole street is just a lovely, mutually-supportive group of independent shops, and it's lovely.
• Go to the Mason's Arms on Fishergate, whether it's for food (their portions are huge!), drinks (lovely, cosy atmosphere and a host of ever-changing local beers), or the Wednesday quiz (SUPER fun, and free food!). The staff are impossibly lovely and kind, and the food is stellar.

Life, the Universe, and everything in it

This has been A Year. Good, bad, bonkers, awful, exciting, terrifying, all of that business and more. I learned many Important Life Lessons, and much as I might not have wanted to, I'm very glad I did.

- It is, apparently, entirely possible to simultaneously have not enough and too much to do. It's very easy to get to the point of "well, I have so much to get done that I might as well just curl up under my duvet and watch Doctor Who again".
- I have the attention span of a gnat, and I need to work on that.
- You're never too old for boybands.
- What you think is 'right person, wrong time' may actually just amount to 'wrong person, full stop'.
- I have loved living with guys, but when they start peeing with the door open, you start to need female company. I've mainly lived with girls in the past, but living my best New Girl life with four male housemates this year has been absolutely brilliant, and I wouldn't have changed it for the world.
- You can't fix people who don't want to be fixed.
- It's tough when your closest friends aren't geographically close, but that's doesn't mean you're alone.

The number of people who asked after the family before/after dad's op, and who congratulated me on getting PhD funding, was staggering. There's been times this year where I felt like I had nobody, but I was wrong. I was just focussed on the people who weren't there, rather than the ones who were. Thank you, everyone.

My time in York has been enhanced and rescued by some wonderful, wonderful friends. I'm afraid the rest of this blog post will be horrendously sappy and overemotional. But, you guys are reading this, and it's ME - what else did you expect?

THE ARCHAEOLOGISTS

I was lucky enough to be warmly welcomed by the Archaeology/Cultural Heritage Management gang last year, and they're about as lovely and fun a crowd of people you could hope to meet. I also learnt a staggering amount from them all - it's a diverse and fascinating subject, and I'm very glad they just let me sit there and ask inane questions about it for hours on end.

THE ECONOMISTS

This year's Archaeologists (i.e. the group of people who allowed me to tag along with them all year) were the Economists, who are also a properly fantastic bunch. Admittedly, I asked fewer probing questions, because the idea of Economics makes me brain bleed, but they were just as interesting regardless.

THE BISHY ROAD LADIES

Coming to York, I didn't know anybody. I luckily managed to snag a room in a house with three girls through a friend of theirs, and arranged to meet my new housemates a few weeks before. Within about four seconds I though "these are my people", and they made the transition to York a wonderful one. Fun, sweet and just as nerdy as me (if not more), I can't think of people I'd rather scream at the television with.

LINGUIST LADIES

Linguistics tends to be a female-heavy course, and the MA programmes last year felt a bit like an awesome girlband, minus the dance moves (well, most of the time). We cried on each other about dissertations, bitched about professors and danced off all the stresses of the year. Each and every one of them is a beautiful brainbox, and I'm so glad we got to chuck our hats in the air together.

ALI AND BRI

(I should note that I've already started crying by this point.)

A dreadlocked South African, bespectacled Californian and a bright-tights clad Brit walk in to a bar and order some flavoured cider. They then proceed to talk animatedly in pop-culture quotes and Internet memes while flailing their arms about and intermittently singing and dancing. They alienate the rest of the bar, but build a friendship for life. God, I miss these girls every day, but I know for certain I will see them again as frequently as the oceans allow.

MISCELLANEOUS BESTIES

Yeah, I was doing really well at categorising groups of people, until I got to this point. Friends, friends of friends, housemates of friends, friends I watched a lot of football with, friends whose weddings I happily attended, friends I did pub quizzes with, friends who marathoned tv shows with me, friends I watched on television, friends I attempted to swim in the North Sea with but quickly bailed because it was too damn cold. God, I love you all.

GRAY STREET MASSIVE

We've had lots of people in and out of the house this year, but the five of us have had a cracking time. We've enjoyed/endured Ross' eclectic music tastes, we've cared for DJ Boot in his invalid state, we've eaten A LOT of banana cake, and while two of our number are currently gracing Thailand and Belize with their presence, it's been a bloody brilliant house to live in all year.

ROSSINGTON

We found Ross on the Internet when looking for a housemate, so he could have been anything: an axe-murderer, a kleptomaniac, a Tory. But I thank my lucky stars every day that he was Ross - a hilarious, charming, caring and generous guy who honest to god lights up any room he's in. I wouldn't have got through this year without him looking out for, entertaining and challenging me. He's like my big brother - very occasionally I want to tear the Avril Lavigne singlet off his shoulders, but I wouldn't be without him for the world.

***

Right, I've cried enough writing this. On to pastures new, taking incredible friends and important experiences with me. So long, York. It's been real.

On Stoke, and a change of heart

Here are two facts about me:

1. I grew up in Newcastle-under-Lyme, a small town right next to Stoke-on-Trent.
2. I used to be ashamed of this first fact.

And a third.

3. I'm no longer ashamed of the first fact, but I am ashamed of the second.

I'm from Stoke. I'm not really a Stokie, nor will I ever be, really, but I'm sick of being embarrassed by my hometown, and I'm angry with myself for having been so in the past. I've had what you might call a minor epiphany, of late, and have realised that a lot of the resentment I held towards Stoke as a city was wrapped up in my own, under-the-surface classism and prejudice, something I'm hoping to rid myself of in the future. Here's hoping this is the start of it.

To provide a bit of history/geography, Stoke-on-Trent is a city in the North West Midlands of the UK, approximately equidistant from Manchester in the North and Birmingham in the South, not far from Crewe and Alton Towers*. 

Look, there it is!

Notable Stokies include the novelist Arnold Bennett; Edward Smith, Captain of the Titanic; footballer Stanley Matthews; Slash from Guns n Roses (for the first five years of his life, anyway); and - of course - Robbie Williams**. It's quite unique in its construction, being a conurbation of six towns - Burslem, Tunstall, Hanley, Fenton, Longton and Stoke*** - which also means it has a complex identity and fragmented sense of self, juxtaposed with a strong sense of local pride.

Historically, it has always been an industrial centre, surrounded by moorlands. Its pottery, mining and steel industries were some of the best in the country, with Wedgewood pottery being its most prominent and impressive export. However, recession and the Conservative government of the 80s led to much of this being closed or downsized - a huge hit for the city's economy. It's never quite recovered.

Perhaps owing to a combination of its faltering industry, lack of 'historic' and stereotypically pleasant architecture and portrayal in the media (as well as other factors), Stoke is often used as a shorthand for non-affluence, dreariness and/or unpleasantness. For example, in Charlie Brooker's Gameswipe, he described a video game which depicted a post-apocalyptic landscape strewn with dead bodies and toxic waste, and likened it to 'living in Stoke'. The amount of times, when telling people I'm from Stoke, I've been greeted with sighs of patronising pity, is really quite ridiculous.

Thing is, I used to buy into it, too. I was embarrassed. Stoke isn't pretty - it's not York or Durham or Cambridge. And it's not a new, thriving urban centre like Manchester or Sheffield. It's stagnant, it's struggling, and it's deprived. It has poor levels of heathcare, a high number of families relying on benefits, and was recently listed as the eighth poorest place in the UK. Football-related violence and BNP support are rife and widely-reported**** in the area. But I've realised that doesn't make it a bad place and doesn't make its people any lesser, nor does it justify a) my being embarrassed by it, or b) people openly mocking it.

I don't claim to be working class - to say would be appropriative and stupid. I may have been mocked by my Southern friends for not trying pesto until I was 18, but I had a middle-class, comfortable upbringing, which is not the case for many people in Stoke. There is an inextricable link between working class origins and violence, low intelligence and laziness, a link perpetuated by the media, and by the inherent classism that many middle class people carry with them. This isn't the place to get into social disenchantment, but the coverage of the London riots displays it perfectly - a generation of people left stranded by their government driven to extremes, yet brushed off with statements about yob culture and poor familial discipline.

It makes me quite disgusted with myself to admit this, but I think my rejection of being from Stoke has a lot to do with my need to detach myself from the city's poor reputation. While I don't think it's the 'working class'-ness specifically that I rejected, the stigma of being from Stoke always annoyed me, and I tried my hardest to disassociate myself. Going to University, the majority of people around you are new and excitingly middle-class, so any opportunity to have a quick laugh at my awful home town was embraced, without me realising that I was perpetuating the horrid stereotypes myself, and adding to the barrage of classism people face day-in, day-out.

Visiting recently has given me a much-needed punch in the face when it comes to my mocking of Stoke. Having read more on classism and prejudice, I realised how awful my own actions were, and how horribly haughty and stuck-up I'd been each time I'd looked down upon people who live in Stoke. I'm absolutely no better than anybody who lives there, and to think otherwise is to have a sense of my own self-importance that is beyond measure. Hideous.

I'm reminded of Jane Austen's Emma, where the eponymous hero mocks the 'tiresome' and lowly Mrs Bates, and is thoroughly chastised by Mr Knightley. 'She should secure your compassion, not your contempt!' Knightley angrily cries, admonishing Emma for thinking herself so above Mrs Bates, who is financially hard-done-by and considered ridiculous by higher society. That's precisely the case with me and Stoke. Stoke has had a bloody hard time of it, and continues to do so. It's not pretty, it's not affluent, and it's not the cultural capital of the country, but mocking it is cruel and unnecessary. It gets a hard enough time as it is - I should be defending it, helping somehow, not tearing it down even further. By speaking poorly of it on such a regular basis, particularly as a native, I'm only perpetuating the awful stereotypes it is associated with, and furthering its poor treatment by the public, a treatment wrapped up in classism and prejudice.

The accent

One of the most salient stigmas I distanced myself from was the accent. I remember being about seven and coming home from school, talking to my mum about a book. The general vowel for the 'oo' in book in the North of England is [ʊ], like the vowel in full; in Stoke, however, it's often pronounced as [u:] like the vowel in cool. When I told my mum about the bewk I'd read, she told me I wasn't to say it like that, that it was wrong, and that I should say buck, luck and cuck. I've said that ever since, and have often cringed when people did otherwise, and have looked down upon the Stoke accent, thinking it common or improper.

I was a fucking idiot, as I have later realised. Many years of linguistic study has made me realise that, no matter how many times people say that there is a correct way to speak (and believe me, people say it A LOT), no accent is intrinsically better than another. They are only judged as 'better' because of the arbitrary associations between location, accent and personal characteristics, and the rise of the Southern 'standard'. I repeat: NO ACCENT IS INTRINSICALLY BETTER AT THE JOB OF COMMUNICATING THAN ANY OTHER. It's that simple. People will say that some accents sound ugly, stupid, or wrong, and they are of course entitled to their opinion, but it's important to understand that such opinions come from years of ingraining prescriptivism into our collective consciousness.

That's why I'm hoping to study the Stoke accent in detail - for a variety with so much idiosyncrasy, connection to identity and stigma attached to it, there's been very little academic linguistic analysis going on. I'm looking at a specific feature for my MA dissertation, and - with a lot of luck and hard work - I hope to use my potential PhD to document, explore and understand the complex relationship between the city's accent, its residents, and the general public.

In my own, quite pathetic way, these projects are like my love letter to Stoke. They're not going to change the world, but I hope that, in a small way, I'll be able to contribute to softening some of the stereotypes people have about Stoke, and I can make amends with the city who, for better or worse, made me who I am.

You're damn right I do.

----------

*I add in these details because, notoriously, nobody knows where Stoke actually is, and I've had to use some or all of these descriptions when trying to explain its location in the past. It comes from being part of the forgotten, unspecified Midlands, I think, combined with not being a notable visiting/tourist destination. Most people's reaction tends to be 'yeah, I went through the there on the train.'

**Definitely our most famous alumnus, it was originally pretty cool to be associated with Robbie, and to be able to tell people I once served his mum in Boots (claim to fame!!1!). I think we tend to play down the association since 'Do The Rudebox' came out. You understand. I'm listening to Escapology as I finish this post -- why did you fire Guy Chambers, Rob? Whyyyy?

***Bennett's 'Anna of the Five Towns' comes from this - he decided to omit one, because it sounded better with five.

****While the tone of this article is often frustratingly patronising, it accurately sheds light on why the citizens of an ailing city, let down by Labour and staunchly anti-Conservative, often drift towards the far right.

Silent films, Streetcars and super exciting sojourns!

I haven't posted here since what I later realised was Valentine's Day (only the coolest of girls spend the ~most romantic day of the year writing blog posts about Shakespeare and fake sheep), because life seems to have SPIRALLED OUT OF CONTROL somewhat, not quite giving me time to get a foothold.

I expected the past fortnight to be a little calmer (not least because the first five days were Reading Week, the euphemistically titled break from studies that encourages most people to piss off on holiday), but with a formative phonetics assignment, several articles to write and subedit for my freelance job* and a smattering of this thing I believe people call a social life, I found myself with less time than ever. Throw in a motherbitch of a cold and the last fortnight pretty much flew by in a glorious, mental blur.

I did, however, manage to take in some culcha, feelings about which will be vomited below, in traditional listy format.

THE ARTIST
Bringing the grand total of main 2012 Best Picture Oscar nominated films I have actually seen to one, I got to see The Artist on Thursday evening. But, to be fair, it was the only one that, on the surface, made me want to watch it (aside from Tinker, Tailor, which I need to get on asap, because god knows I love me some tragic homosexual spies).

While I'm not sure it deserves the utter, unrelenting adoration it has received in every single way (in that, while wonderful, it was flawed), I bloody loved it. The combination of the novel, unique cinemagoing experience, vintage charm of the era, beautiful direction and extreme handsomeness of Jean Dujardin (more on that later) made it an utter delight from start to finish.

The direction was, as I said, beautiful; one shot in particular, in which George Valentin is angstily sitting at a mirrored table, and pours a glass of whiskey over his reflection on the surface, was really just staggeringly well done. The costumes were stunning, and I'm not quite sure who was more adorable, Berenice Bejo or Uggie the dog (utter scene-stealer)**.

While George Valentin was perhaps a tad whiny as a character, Jean Dujardin was heartbreakingly good at both beaming swagger and utter dejection. Also, as Emma has previously put it, his face should really just be pictured adjacent to the 'handsome' entry in the dictionary.

I mean REALLY. That's basically just obnoxiously handsome***.

The music was perfectly lovely, and I loved the experience of seeing a silent film (though I am Team Talkies - sorry George!). I found myself holding my breath in parts, terrified of disturbing the silence, and I admit that other people's rustling becomes that bit more frustrating in this setting, but I wouldn't give up the cinema experience of The Artist for a DVD viewing in a million years.

A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE @ Liverpool Everyman
(once again, I have taken the majority of this review from a shameful email to Rob)

A brilliant, uncomfortably intense production of a play I was utterly unfamiliar with (I do shame myself with my ignorance at times) before Saturday afternoon. Weak in parts, Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton shone in the most painful way.

I admit, I was kind of ruined for at least the first half-hour, because dear lord some of the accents were ATROCIOUS. I'm no expert on the specifics of the New Orleans accent, but the supporting cast were jarringly bad at the start, and it made it very, very difficult to engage with the characters straight from the off. It seemed so pantomime, so distant, if that even makes any sense. Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton were much better, but Matthew Flynn (Mitch) in particular was in and out like a yoyo! Which is such a shame, because his performance was heartbreakingly good.

The stage was three-quarters of a room, which rotated to reveal an outside spiral staircase at the side and occasionally only gave us shots of the action through an open window, which I really liked. You could really feel the stickiness and claustrophobia of the tiny apartment, and how much that must have driven Blanche to distraction, particularly being so close to Stan.

Amanda was undoubtedly the star - she was INCREDIBLE. When we first meet Blanche it was really, really hard for me to see her as a real person; because her extended periods of solo dialogue seem so unnatural and staged, she seems like a written character rather than an actual person, if that makes any sense. She's SO dramatic and SO verbose that she seems ridiculous, but as the play continues and you see that it's just her, and that verbal diarrhoea is her reflex, her being terrified of silence and being alone, a frantic need to talk and talk and have someone listen (which plays off so heartbreakingly well against Mitch's need to have someone talk to him, oh my soul).

AND SAM TROUGHTON. Having only seen Sam as doe-eyed hopeless cases, I was completely unprepared for Stan's swaggering dickishness, but he absolutely killed it. He's basically all chest, and it is MAGNIFICENT. His Polish-American accent was very strong, and he was masterful at that sinister sexiness that absolutely made you understand why Stella fell in love with him in the first place, and remains so entranced by him. He was equal parts menacing and heartbreaking, and filled the stage brilliantly.

Also, and I am toning down the creepy A LOT right now, daaaaaaamn Troughton! Where'd you get them arms? Flex them for me a little more! Grasp that bottle/doorframe/wrist a little harder! Oh God I hate myself, but he was ridiculously attractive, and spent a good 40% of the play changing his shirt.

And this one time he totally poured a bottle of beer all over himself while wearing a vest.
It was awesome.

UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE!!!!111!1!1!!
So on Sunday, in what was basically the pinnacle of my existence, I got to go to Granada Studios in Manchester to watch the filming of University Challenge. Since my darling friend Becky ass-kicked her way into the captain spot, I've been spending an awful lot of time with the team as they've trained (having subsequently come to accept my own extreme intellectual inferiority), and have become disgustingly fond of them all. They're all wonderful, stupidly smart humans, and I was so honoured to have been able to go and watch them.

Of course, as this series is not airing until July, I am strictly verboten from divulging any of the scores or successes, but I can give you a giddy account of the day - which, I'm sure you'll agree, is even better.

I TOOK THIS PICTURE. THAT'S HOW CLOSE I WAS.

Arriving late, I was made to sit on my own at the front, and thus had to contain my ridiculous excitement at being on the University Challenge set oh my godddddd. INSIDER FACT: they hold the nameplates on with sellotape. Oh yeah, no expense spared. I eventually found some people supporting Warwick Uni, who were just as exuberantly hyperactive as I was, and spend a good few hours freaking the fuck out every time we heard the theme tune or Paxman walked past.

SPEAKING OF PAXMAN: there's some feelings I never thought I'd have. He's kind of simultaneously the worst person - really rude and obnoxious, quite stroppy and a little too overly fond of Oxbridge colleges for my liking - but also brilliant - he was fab with the teams, and cracking jokes throughout. Also, the commanding thing? Yeah. Pleasant.

He also may have walked past us on the way out and I may have taken a photo. Just a little bit.

We got to watch four matches, and all of them were brilliant. We also did a lot of scary 'filming the audience applauding' shots, so there's my claim to fame for the next ten years sorted. Basically, it was the best day ever, and the York team are my absolute heroes for dealing with the utterly terrifying prospect that is Jeremy Paxman firing questions at you at speed.

Man, this blogpost got LONG. I'm going to go drink tea with Bri before salsa class. Laterz.

*I write and subedit for publicservice.co.uk, by the by.** HE WORE A FUCKING BOW TIE TO THE OSCARS KILL ME.
*** If you have been intrigued by this ridiculous specimen of handsomehood (if not, have you not eyes?!), then I insist you go here to briefly luxuriate in his extreme handsomeness, and here to see how fucking adorable he is in real life, too.

Who am I? and other existential dilemmas analysed through the lens of social networking

Because I am nothing if not predictably useless, the part of my evening that was not spent watching Cats was spent reading academic papers that are in no way relevant to my course or any impending assignments. My lovely housemate Cath is currently compiling an essay on the use of social media in the realm of heritage and archaeology, and I asked her to send me the links to some of the papers she'd been reading. One of them - I tweet honestly, I tweet passionately: Twitter users, context collapse and the imagined audience, by Alice E. Marwick and danah boyd* (2010) - was a fascinating investigation into how and why people use twitter, and to whom they imagine themselves tweeting. It tapped into ideas of self-censorship, and the filtering and targeting of ideas depending on actual, or perceived, audience.

I would heartily recommend the paper to anybody, because it's BRILLIANT, but it ~spoke to me quite specifically. I would consider myself as a person who is On The Internet, rather than an internet user -- I have online identities and friendships, and a sizeable chunk of my life is conducted using the internet and its magnitude of resources and timewasters. That might be considered rather tragic, but I like to think not - the people I've gotten to know online are no less wonderful than those I met 'in real life' (a turn of phrase I question, because the internet is not fictional).

Reading fantastic sociolinguistic studies by people like Penelope Eckert and Mary Bucholtz have sparked an interest in the idea of performing identity through linguistic (and non-linguistic) means, and these combined with Marwick and boyd's paper got me thinking about how I divide facets of my personality in various media outlets, and why I do it. (Bear with me, this could be muddled - let's consider it an experiment!)

Twitter and Facebook
One of the respondents on Marwick and boyd's Twitter survey suggested that srs bzns subjects (relationship drama was the thing oft-cited) were saved for Facebook, while Twitter avoided TMI and stuck to slightly less personal topics for a decent amount of the time.

While I agree, and would be very unlikely to tweet about very personal things, I would probably say that I'm far more 'myself' on Twitter than I would be on Facebook. I also feel uncomfortable about the idea of my Twitter feed being read by my Facebook friends. This is really quite odd and illogical, and I have been hammering my head against metaphorical walls to figure out why.

I think some of it has to do with Twitter, to me, being populated with very like-minded people, and my feed in particular being populated with people I have chosen to follow. I appreciate that Twitter is technically public (we'll get to that in a minute), but I think the distinction comes from the fact that the prerequisites for being a 'friend' on Facebook is to have known a person at some point in your life, and thus the people who have access to my Facebook feed may have little to nothing in common with me (of course, I could delete all the people I don't know, but a) social decorum, and b) I am nosy). As such, I feel somewhat uncomfortable posting about certain things - my thoughts, my passions, and suchlike. In short, I have little to no interest in sharing my thoughts with 80% of my Facebook feed, and I'm pretty sure that same 80% would have little to no interest in reading about them.

Twitter, on the other hand, is different. For some paradoxical reason, I find that I am far more able to be 'myself' on Twitter, despite its potentially unrestricted audience, as opposed to Facebook's limited one. I'm wondering whether it has something to do with the knowledge that the people who follow me on Twitter are more likely to have done so electively rather than out of obligation. If they're not interested in what I have to say, they don't have to pay attention, and can unfollow at will (thought of course there is still social decorum involved, but it seems somehow more fluid than on Facebook). If they're sticking around, they're likely to have at the very least a mild interest in my nonsensical ramblings.

What I can't explain away using follow-theory, however, is the fact that I let so many facets of my personality show on Twitter that I don't on Facebook, and often tweet things I wouldn't dream of posting as a Facebook status. Things I am enthusiastic about (people, theatre, tv shows, nature, etc.), political leanings, mildly amusing anecdotes - all these litter my Twitter timeline but would be quite unlikely to appear on my Facebook feed, or at least do so much more infrequently. I'm half a person on Facebook, and yet technically I have known the people on there much longer than I have many of my Twitter followers, some of whom I don't know at all, and yet talk with freely quite regularly.

A possible reason might be the demographic that the two websites appeal to. Facebook is basically ubiquitous now, to the extent that one of my friends' employers posts their work rota and urgent staff communications on there, knowing it to be the quickest and most convenient way to reach the employees. Whereas people who are Twitterly-inclined seem different; I may be making a few sweeping statements here, but indulge me. For one, they are likely to have sought Twitter out as a social media tool, rather than signed up to Facebook as a default. And those who seek out Twitter are perhaps more likely to be On The Internet in other capacities, as I am, and Internet Types might tend to be more 'nerdy' (issues with that label notwithstanding) and enthusiastic, or at least more tolerant of nerdy enthusiasm. Twitter feels somehow safer despite being far more open - a nonsensical paradox I have endeavoured to explain, but have done so very poorly.

And yet, I do still censor myself. The knowledge that I have certain followers makes me less likely to tweet certain things, and remembering that I have certain followers often results in immediate tweet-regret, and occasional deletion. Moreover, right now there is someone I would really like to follow, but I am too afraid to do so, lest the person see this slice of the 'real me', and run away screaming. I'm rather tempted to just go for it, take the plunge, get the weirdness out there -- if said person can't deal with it, then that's just the way it shall be. My finger has hovered over the 'follow' button thrice tonight already - we'll see whether, as it pushes into the wee hours, my confidence grows and I actually click.

Old friend and new friends
I've also found myself editing my personality a good deal depending on the friendship group with whom I am interacting, and am curious as to whether this is just something I do, or whether it is relatively commonplace.

I have changed an awful lot since I was 15/16. Like, 'basically a different person' changed. As such, when I see older friends, I find myself performing that past identity a little, doing and not doing certain things, saying and not saying others. I try to be the Hannah they knew, possibly paranoid that they won't like the Hannah I have become. That all sounds rather melodramatic and grandiose for what it is, but it is nonetheless the case. My older friends know very, very little of who I am and what I like these days, which seems somehow sad, but perhaps necessary.

I find I similarly censor myself with new people, too. Not to the same extent, but - in all honesty - I try to tone down the weirdness as much as possible in the first crucial hours of friendship. Let it out in stages, that's the key - don't start by saying that I met most of my closest friends online through bonding over Doctor Who (among other things), because that is possibly likely to yet again encourage people to run away. I see myself doing this and want to cry 'Hannah, you fool! If they don't like you for who you actually are they are undeserving of your attention!', and that's the attitude I am increasingly trying to have. I really dislike when people are embarrassed by who I am, and I'm turning into one of those people, but I still find myself worrying what other people think, just a little. Less so than I used to, I admit.

Maybe it's progressive. Maybe it'll take time to properly throw off the worry that people who get to see this 'real' me will be underwhelmed, aghast or even appalled. Maybe it'll take small steps, one at a time.

Maybe I'll click 'follow', tonight. Just maybe.

*danah chooses for her name to remain uncapitalised, and her reasons for doing so are explained here. It's actually quite a neat little rationale!