It began during the pandemic. A strange time of terror and stillness when the world wondered, "what comes next?" Highways were empty, except for the ambulances. Images of the dying, the denying, and the defying filled our screens. There was also beauty; smog cleared, revealing forgotten mountain peaks, loaves of sourdough rose, and gardens proliferated. In an attic in Queens, a rift was forming.
I will readily admit my luddite tendencies, which I attribute to my father, who I think would happily return to the printing press if it meant he'd never again have to battle Microsoft Word. For me, the pandemic offered an opportunity to dive headlong into the life ways of the ancestors. I planned gardens, baked bread, considered churning butter and gleefully dreamed of becoming a medieval peasant. My beloved discovered Discord.
I'm not even sure how it happened, but suddenly our sonic landscape was filled with Discord notifications, Twitter spaces, and Friday night game nights. I tried to follow, but the linear nature of threads tripped me up, and between incomprehensible emojis, lingo and flashes of toxic masculinity, I found myself scurrying for the door, back to permaculture YouTube and grisly, albeit ridiculously overcomplicated, murders in the British countryside.
In a space that felt so foreign to me, my beloved found a home. As a woman who came of age when creeps perused AIM chatrooms, I am wary of online friendships. The extrovert in me demands IRL connection for the dopamine payoff. My husband, however, created a network of deep friendships and built an incredible, potentially world-changing, platform with some of those friends.
I believe in it, because believe in him, and because, even I can see the upside to a world where more voices have an opportunity to be heard, but I struggle to find a foothold in the digital world. I have published a book through his platform, but I have never held my book in my hand and somehow it feels less real to me than the kindergarten readers I've published through traditional publishing, even though the writing is far superior. My own limitations of imagination hold me back from diving into this unknown, even though I can see the potential so clearly through my beloved's eyes. I'm left wondering why it feels like the rift has grown into a terrifying chasm.
Perhaps, the appeal of the luddite way is the smallness of it. If I tell a story to a group of people I know, there is a trust that throwing mud is frowned upon. The community provides rules for engagement that allow a sense of safety for the storyteller. Of course, the storyteller is also limited in how much they can push against the systems and rules of the community, stifling creativity and quieting dissent.
The digital world feels lawless and dangerous in comparison. The immediacy, vitriol, and anonymity of critique is limitless and, often, devolves into attacks on identity, rather than ideas. The option to be anonymous exists, of course, but to garner attention, personality reigns supreme. I've been told to join communities, but I'm not much of a joiner, even Facebook groups feel like a lot of commitment. I'm a Marxist, I suppose, a Groucho Marxist, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.”
Then there's a challenge which I fear naming because I've seen how rabidly some will argue that it doesn't exist. The girl problem. As a woman, entering spaces, IRL or online, that are predominantly male is intimidating. I tend to use my real first name online, because I want a consistency across platforms as a writer. When I was on discord I was, more than once, welcomed with words like "oh, wow, it's so great to have a chick here!" One Discord show host routinely made comments about the sexual habits of his participants that disparaged their partners. How do I point out my concerns without drawing the attention of those most likely to attack? In a world where women who write are routinely harassed and doxxed for the crime of having opinions and breasts simultaneously, I felt it was safer to leave the room than engage.
And yet, I crave belonging. I want to find a place to share ideas, challenge the status quo, and find safety there. Post-pandemic, the opportunities for IRL connection is slow to restart, and social media is a capitalist hellscape, there is a real opportunity for Web3 to be a better way forward. So far, though, my experiences have left me wanting. Perhaps it's the proliferation of additional steps that require a step-ladder to reach the basic interactions. Do I really need to be logged into three different thingies to participate fully in a contest? I get frustrated before I can start to get excited. My husband seems to navigate these challenges with ease and that adds to my frustration. His ease makes my discomfort feel like failure.
I find, more and more, that my role in the Web3 space is hovering by the door, not sure which line I'm supposed to stand on, trying to learn a new language, and throwing up flares. Sometimes I wonder whether my challenges could be of use. As wide adoption becomes a goal for more and more Web3 builders, I think there will be many more people like me, needing gentle guidance and a clear map into this new way of being. Maybe I could serve as a beta tester, if I can comfortably find my way, your UX might be working. Maybe every DAO needs a crash test dummy.
I want to find ways to join my husband in the world in which he has found so many outlets for his voice and creativity to shine. Yet sometimes it feels like he is on a mission to Mars and I'm left behind waiting for the apocalypse, or whatever wives do in those movies; cry in a montage on a dusty farm? I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to bridge the chasm.
While he toiled away at ETH Denver, I perused the art museum, seeking ancient inspiration for my art. Throughout the museum I saw thousands of years of struggle between tradition and technology. Those who righteously uphold the rules of form, and those who forged new paths, breaking rules and changing things forever. Both paths lead to beautiful creations. Some of the most beautiful and profound pieces wove the two together seamlessly.
There is an art to bridge building. It takes care to connect distinct landscapes in a way that ensures creativity, commerce, and safety can co-exist for the benefit of all. If Web3 is the way forward, we need bridge builders to make sure no one is left behind, even the wives with luddite tendencies.
