When approached to give a presentation on Digital Storytelling in the immersive world of Second Life, my first reaction was “Uh, I’m not sure about that…” I, like many others I’m sure, had an uncomfortable first-response to the idea of “presenting” through an avatar on something I’m quite passionate about, rather than in the first-person. It was, however, a paying gig, and as a graduate student with children, that was a welcomed offering. And, besides, it was something new and I have a predisposition for trying new things at least once.
As directed, I downloaded the Second Life program to my laptop, and with the help of Alina Padilla-Miller—Project Direct techie academic extraordinaire—I created my first SL avatar, trying to shape the body as closely to my own as possible. For some reason I had this idea that by “presenting” myself in Second Life as close to my real self as possible, I would somehow be more “truthful” or “authentic” (both very contested terms in my fields of anthropology/folklore/communication). I realize now in hindsight, I should have chosen the golden robot and called it a day, as a few of the “attendees” to my presentation were wild and wacky versions of themselves. One “man,” (it could have been a woman in the “real” world) was wearing a top hat and tails, while s/he periodically sipped on a glass of champagne. One’s physical choices are, however, limited—in particular, I was uncomfortable with the required use of make-up in the female avatars. It was impossible to find one that did not have at least some make-up on its face and, needless-to-say, this blatant male programming “error” pushed my feminist buttons. Moreover, I ended up raiding the “male” closet for clothes that were more to my liking and personality, and eventually created a person I was at least somewhat comfortable.
As the 7:00 presentation drew closer, I watched people appear in the designated “classroom,” a large grass plateau on an island somewhere in the world of Second Life. People, mostly educators from around Oregon, sat on large stone circles and I stood in front of a large screen that would become the location for my PowerPoint presentation. As I began, I was surprised by how easy it was to talk to people I couldn’t see or hear, although they could hear me and I saw their responses through a chat window. In fact, I enjoyed the environment of open dialogue between myself and those attending. Rather than wait for me to finish completely, as is often the case in presentations, as issues or ideas came up, people “spoke” out, asking questions and making personal observations, thus creating an interactive discussion that was quite a bit like a conversation in the “real world.” With the help of Padilla-Miller, I was able to have them go to a particular website in order to view a digital story and then we would briefly discuss it back in our classroom. Functionally, this process is quite simple, although working out certain glitches, for example the embedding of video directly in a SL presentation, would keep everyone at the same pace. Otherwise, I was pleasantly surprised by the ease of the process itself. I have no doubt that anyone could learn to run all the technological aspects of an interactive presentation in very little time.
Most importantly, and perhaps more specifically, are the possibilities this process allows for educators, students, activists, and advocates. Having worked with youth who are trauma survivors, I have heard participants state that digital storytelling is a liberating process for them because they could say things in their stories “they couldn’t say face to face;” immersive environments potentially afford the same kinds of freedom from judgment. It also allows for people from all over the world to work together, using digital tools at the cost of an Internet connection. Although other programs such as Google Chat or Skype allow for a similar gathering, I find that being freed of the physical allows for more focus on the task at hand, in this case, sharing important information about the process of digital storytelling with youth in a time of unprecedented funding cuts and limited processes of personal expression. And who doesn’t like the idea of presenting to a global audience in your pajamas?
As directed, I downloaded the Second Life program to my laptop, and with the help of Alina Padilla-Miller—Project Direct techie academic extraordinaire—I created my first SL avatar, trying to shape the body as closely to my own as possible. For some reason I had this idea that by “presenting” myself in Second Life as close to my real self as possible, I would somehow be more “truthful” or “authentic” (both very contested terms in my fields of anthropology/folklore/communication). I realize now in hindsight, I should have chosen the golden robot and called it a day, as a few of the “attendees” to my presentation were wild and wacky versions of themselves. One “man,” (it could have been a woman in the “real” world) was wearing a top hat and tails, while s/he periodically sipped on a glass of champagne. One’s physical choices are, however, limited—in particular, I was uncomfortable with the required use of make-up in the female avatars. It was impossible to find one that did not have at least some make-up on its face and, needless-to-say, this blatant male programming “error” pushed my feminist buttons. Moreover, I ended up raiding the “male” closet for clothes that were more to my liking and personality, and eventually created a person I was at least somewhat comfortable.
As the 7:00 presentation drew closer, I watched people appear in the designated “classroom,” a large grass plateau on an island somewhere in the world of Second Life. People, mostly educators from around Oregon, sat on large stone circles and I stood in front of a large screen that would become the location for my PowerPoint presentation. As I began, I was surprised by how easy it was to talk to people I couldn’t see or hear, although they could hear me and I saw their responses through a chat window. In fact, I enjoyed the environment of open dialogue between myself and those attending. Rather than wait for me to finish completely, as is often the case in presentations, as issues or ideas came up, people “spoke” out, asking questions and making personal observations, thus creating an interactive discussion that was quite a bit like a conversation in the “real world.” With the help of Padilla-Miller, I was able to have them go to a particular website in order to view a digital story and then we would briefly discuss it back in our classroom. Functionally, this process is quite simple, although working out certain glitches, for example the embedding of video directly in a SL presentation, would keep everyone at the same pace. Otherwise, I was pleasantly surprised by the ease of the process itself. I have no doubt that anyone could learn to run all the technological aspects of an interactive presentation in very little time.
Most importantly, and perhaps more specifically, are the possibilities this process allows for educators, students, activists, and advocates. Having worked with youth who are trauma survivors, I have heard participants state that digital storytelling is a liberating process for them because they could say things in their stories “they couldn’t say face to face;” immersive environments potentially afford the same kinds of freedom from judgment. It also allows for people from all over the world to work together, using digital tools at the cost of an Internet connection. Although other programs such as Google Chat or Skype allow for a similar gathering, I find that being freed of the physical allows for more focus on the task at hand, in this case, sharing important information about the process of digital storytelling with youth in a time of unprecedented funding cuts and limited processes of personal expression. And who doesn’t like the idea of presenting to a global audience in your pajamas?
