There’s a bench in Cannon Park near my house. It doesn’t ask who I voted for. It doesn’t care if I’m right or righteous.
Facebook, stripped of politics, becomes that bench. A place to sit with memory, humor, and the quiet ache of survival. No slogans. No shouting. Just a picture of a cat on a windowsill, or the echo of a birthday post from someone who’s no longer alive.
The Scroll as Scrapbook
Without politics, the feed flattens. Not in meaning, but in volume. The algorithm no longer rewards outrage—it rewards pets, sunsets, and casseroles. I see Shady again, curled in a patch of light. I see my mother’s smile in a photo I forgot I posted. I see myself, younger, trying to look brave.
Facebook becomes memoir in microform. Each post a refrain. Each comment a footnote in the story of survival.
Threads of Identity
We still signal. We still stitch identity into the scroll. But now it’s through playlists, recipes, and the way we caption a photo of our shoes. Humor becomes the pressure valve. A meme about aging. A joke about myself. A dry quip that says, “I’m still here.”
Without politics, we find other ways to say: This is who I am. This is what I’ve survived. This is why I am grateful.
The Park, Not the Protest
Facebook without politics is less a town square, more a park. Less confrontation, more contemplation. We sit beside each other in silence, liking each other’s grief, each other’s joy. We don’t argue—we witness.
Copyright 2025 Barney Jaime Pearson. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without permission from the author.
© Jaime Pearson 2025. All rights reserved.
Please do not copy, reproduce, or share without permission.
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