On Perception and Pandemics

Thoughts | Hannah Weinberg

Who Are You?

I wish I had an answer for that question. We all have the ‘elevator pitch’ memorized for zoom introductions (hi, I’m Hannah—a second year English and Sociology student who lives in Toronto). Perhaps you even have a fun fact up your sleeve (I’m a flighty crafter!) but beyond that, in a year when the most socially responsible thing we can do is to stay home and do nothing, there’s very few interesting things about us remaining. 

Identity is constructed from our engagements and social circles. But during this pandemic, the majority of our hobbies are no longer safe. If you’re an aspiring actor with no production, a lacrosse player with no team, or a magazine writer with no print issue, then who are you? At least we have our friends, right? Of course we do, and I have heard many say that their individual friendships have grown much stronger in the past year. However, we can no longer romp around the streets at 3AM with a twelve-pack of our best buddies, nor can we properly party and subsequently terrorize burger chains for ninety of their nicest nuggets; group identity is a thing of the past. And speaking for myself, my friends are some of the most important people to me. Not only do they shore up my ego when I’m having a tough day, but they’re incredible cultural resources. Think about how much you’ve picked up from your friends, in terms of mannerisms, style, pop culture, and quirks. Not to mention academic knowledge—if my friend is a history specialist, you’d better believe that by the end of the semester I’ll be an expert on the French revolution. Major solidarity. 

And so who have we become? Without our productions and print issues, besties and bar fights, our sense of identity has crumbled. We can no longer be passively perceived by strangers on the street, or by peers in Con Hall. We are left with one sole lifeline: Zoom, the platform upon which we rest our highest expectations for extracurriculars, group participation, and our goddamn Bachelor’s degrees. 

As of late, I have been pondering how we perform identity. Naturally, we possess agency over our dress and grooming, as well as our mannerisms and actions, but when we leave our doorstep, how we are perceived is a mystery. Our eyes only gaze outwards, and mere reflections of ourselves in storefront windows and bathroom mirrors can never replicate how professors and passersby perceive us. And I would say this is largely a merciful fact, for it allows us to momentarily abandon the ‘self’ and instead turn focus to our surroundings. 

However, with the advent of video calling, all of the mystery of perception has been robbed from us. Now, we no longer leave our stoop but are still required to participate in society, but this time around, we are gifted and cursed with a pesky rectangular box: the ‘self’. Or rather, the front-camera view of ourselves, which oftentimes, I do not want to see. 

While conducting my highly professional research for this piece, I discovered that one can, in fact, hide themselves on Zoom—simply right click on your screen, and you can hide yourself from personal view. But when that box is your only opportunity to present yourself to your peers, would you have the self-control to hide it? I know I don’t because personally, I would like to know if Professor McResearch can see the teddy bear on my bed, or the discarded laundry on my floor. When you have the power to finally control how others view you, it’s a hard thing to let go of.

This self-reflecting box is not always such a negative thing, either. Now, our hair, makeup, and shirt are not the only ways of non verbally showing identity—I would argue that our backgrounds and lighting communicate quite a lot as well. Your nirvana posters convey a message in the same way that your elephant tapestry does: they’re both an insight into your taste. Your string lights convey the amount of time you spend on tiktok (a lot) or your amount of overhead lighting (absolutely none) or in my case, both of these things. That little box has become a social media of sorts—if you care to do so, you can curate your background in the way you do an instagram feed, and actively shape how you appear to others.

At the end of the day, I find this work exhausting. I abhor and adore that little box, for it finds a way to simultaneously compliment and insult when I should really be focusing on… you know… my lecture. But I strive to keep the video on, for the most part. It’s too easy to push ‘stop video’ and fade into the scroll of names on a participant list. Since we already complain of alienation in our institution, isn’t it our responsibility to face the risk of ill-perception for the slim chance that we’ll actually be seen? 

Of course, I still turn off my camera once in a while. To do normal things, you know—like put on a sweater, lay spread eagle on my floor, get a snack, vacuum, use the bathroom, spin on my desk chair, etc. But after a bit I’ll turn my camera back on, settle down, and perhaps, if Professor McResearch is lucky, take a few notes.