Performative Posts stack up bucks for Zuck. Let’s stop.

People think the biggest problem with Facebook is disinformation.  

It’s not. It’s something far more insidious. 

It’s the social pressure to make a Facebook declaration—a Performative Post—of love and admiration on every birthday,  and anniversary, and celebratory event known to man. 

It’s not enough anymore to directly tell someone we care. We must do so to a digital audience on a stage hosted by Facebook. These Performative Posts expand Facebook news feeds and generate more ad dollars for Zuck. 

Our best intentions have been hijacked.

Woah Nellie, this is a big one  

My 20th wedding anniversary is this week. 

I feel pressure lurking around the edges of my psyche. It whispers I should be working on a lengthy and heartfelt proclamation to my wife. 

Not to recite to her under a shady tree during a serene riverside picnic.

Not to write out with a feathered pen on scented parchment paper. 

No. Not at all.

It’s to post to freaking Facebook. 

But who would that be for, really? Not my wife.

A graveyard of Performative Posts

I make this observation with all humility. My own Facebook past is littered with the digital skeletons of Performative Posts. 

I, too, have caved to the new social expectations. A genuine desire to make people feel appreciated was coerced by Facebook, which bolted on the requirement to make the declaration in front of a digital audience. 

There’s no finger-wagging going on here. This isn’t about the posters themselves. Many Performative Posts are truly heartfelt. It’s just frustrating we feel such pressure to do this inside Zuck’s Funhouse. 

I am certain Facebook has a team on this. Experimental A.I. iterates on co-opting the desire to support friends and partners, all to serve a few more ads about Bill Gates’ vaccination microchips.

HallMark holidays

We once declared marginally acknowledged holidays, like “Sweetest’s Day,” as “Hallmark Holidays.” We chalked them up to the conspiratorial conjurings of greeting card companies desperate to move folded paper at 1,000 percent markups. 

Today we’ve left the Hall behind for “Mark Holidays,” creating content expectations that put yet more ad dollars into Zuckerberg’s coffers. And these holidays have mutated. We have new variants on tradition. Suddenly “Son’s Day” is here. So is “Daughter’s Day.” 

What even are these days? Most of my life is “Daughter’s Day,” “Daughter’s Hour,” and “Daughter’s Minute.” Choose your favorite unit of time measurement. It belongs to my daughters already.

What if we just … hear me out … used air and vocal cords?

One year, near my birthday, I could tell my wife was stressing about trotting out a proper Performative Post. 

“You know,” I said, wading cautiously into murky and uncharted waters. 

“I’m right here. You could just ... maybe, like … say it to me.”

I waited. I wondered. Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead.

After a few moments, she kinda agreed. 

We were free from Performative Posts. 

My wife still gets heartfelt and appreciative anniversary, Mother’s Day, and birthday messages from me. But they are nestled inside the confines of an insanely priced Hallmark card. They are for her, and only her. They are not for the news feed of that one guy I met at third grade camp.

And Zuck isn’t invited either. He cannot extract profit from words I write in ink. Not until he buys Hallmark, anyway. I bet he’s already on the phone with them.