The Multidisciplinarian

Kids once covered their schoolbooks with grocery bag paper, doodling on them throughout the year and collecting classmates’ comments. These covers became a slow-developing canvas of self-identity, boredom, and social standing – much like Facebook. Both blur the line between private and public, offering semi-private spaces open to public inspection. A book cover was yours but often unattended, visible to anyone nearby. Facebook hovers in the same in-between, diary and bulletin board at once.

That blur compressed identity into a single, layered plane. Book covers held class schedules, cheat notes, band logos, inside jokes, phone numbers, and the concealed name of a crush, all flattened together. Facebook’s feed mirrors this: baby photos beside political rants, memes beside job updates, a curated mess engineered for engagement. In 1986, no one called it branding, but the Iron Maiden logo or perfect Van Halen “VH” drawn on a cover was a quiet social signal – just like a profile picture or shared article today.

The social graffiti of book covers – “Call me!,” “You’re weird but cute,” “Metal rules” – anticipated Facebook’s comments and posts. Both offered tokens of attention and belonging, sometimes sincere, sometimes performative. Kids chose what to draw and whose notes to welcome, just as Facebook users filter their image through posts, likes, and bios. Each reflects a quiet negotiation of identity in public view.

Over time, both became dense with personal meaning and then, just as quickly, obsolete. A book cover ended the year torn and smudged, legible only to the one who made it. A Facebook timeline erodes too, its posts losing context, its jokes aging badly, its relationships drifting. Each fills the lulls – doodling during study hall, scrolling in a checkout line, with the detritus of distracted expression.

They’re ephemeral. Book covers were tossed or folded away with report cards and Polaroids. Facebook timelines slip backward, pixel by pixel, into the digital attic. Neither was meant to last. But for a moment, each one held a scrawl, a sticker, a lyric, something etched, then left behind. They’re the digital brown paper wrappers for an inner seventh-grader, still expressive, distracted, insecure, and trying to leave a mark before the bell rings.