Medium Difficulty

I approached Second Life with a bias already throbbing from a year in the interactive marketing industry. As I downloaded the software, the name Adam Broitman flashed against the back of my eye. And while I like Adam, and I felt excited to build my account, I tried to fend off the sour flavor radiating from my more judgmental side.

The man, Adam Broitman, is not a particularly important figure to this experience insofar as I can tell. Rather, his existence has been underscored by my decision to attend the New School. I knew him during my brief wall-flowering with interactive marketing, I discovered the university through him, and I remember him speaking in a stubborn yet embarrassed tone as he explained that Second Life is still a viable marketing vehicle to ears that were quite happy to dismiss him.

The first moments logging in to Second Life I felt like I had betrayed something – some pack-like loyalty to something I didn’t fully understand. My avatar nearly took his first steps as his creator sat embarrassed at his own closed-mindedness. Before that could happen however, that wave of insecurity, a sense that I believe stemmed less from joining Second Life and more from embarking on a new academic career, was immediately replaced by a new unnerving decision.

I know many people who spend a lot of time getting dressed before their first day of class. I was never one of those people. To me, I look like myself and that’s all there is to it. This undermined that philosophy, of course. As I looked at my choices, I thought first that one of those eight characters must reflect some sensibility about the real me if I am to chose it. My brain then became occupied by two simultaneously occurring thoughts: one was the immediate question at hand; the other was a struggle to remember the name of a philosopher who questioned the essence of humanity. He asked that if a human were to have her parts removed and replaced with robotic parts, one by one, when would she cease being a human. I thought his name might be Dave, and his last name possibly started with an “N.” I am at once frustrated by the decision I must make about my identity, and at how notably pointless it is to remember a philosopher’s first name.

I looked up and down the screen, thinking that five years ago I would have quickly chosen the gothic male character. But now, so much has changed. Before I set out on the road to begin lamenting or celebrating the moments of my life that brought me to this monumental decision, I sat back and laughed at myself.

I could choose to be a dinosaur if I wanted, or a woman. The freedom to create oneself, to assume a new identity or to simply deceive those around is built into the design of this new world. I am an infant here. I was overcome by the sense that for one to judge me, already, and for me to take that judgment seriously are equally preposterous, ridiculous, and bizarre.

Now the choice had its barriers removed. I began to believe that the forces guiding my decision relied more on my own sense of aesthetics and some logistical concerns. Whatever neuroses I may have tucked themselves neatly back to sleep and I floated back on my eagerness to take steps in the new world (a less-than-coincidental symbol for my first day as a graduate student). I thought about what class will be like, and that perhaps, to avoid confusion, I should pick a character that will resemble the pictures my peers might see of me on Facebook. Again, I scanned the characters, and narrowed down all the anxiety, the excitement, and the curiosity to one keenly important factor: curly hair.

Then I became two people with big hair.

I felt confident behind the keyboard. My confidence then turned to irritation as I discover that my avatar’s navigational qualities more closely resemble a drafting go-kart on a slick track dragging a shopping cart than a human being.

“Maybe it’s my computer,” I mumbled to myself in an attempt to stay positive.

I began to think of the night prior. I tried to describe Second Life to a friend of mine in an attempt to counter his skepticism over my “online degree.”

“It’s like the Wii,” he responded.

I paused in the way that I normally do before conceding.

“Yes. It’s just like the Wii, except less games. It’s a social environment.”

That concession was hardly complete, I thought. The Wii has pretty good graphics. I sat back and wondered if everybody responds to Second Life with as much negativity as I had. I must have been tired because my thoughts were simply indignant:

“A torch?”

“I have to buy new clothes?”

I scanned the screen and saw a little button that said “Fly.” I moused over it, wondering what class would be like.