Arthur Miller’s 1949 stage play, Death of a Salesman, resonates with me even today. Willy Loman, the aged and sad protagonist, wants nothing more than to be liked: by his clients, by his boss, by his sons and wife. Being liked is what gives his life meaning. Being liked is what gives Willy Loman purpose.
But time waits for no man, and after a failed business trip to Boston, Willy, at the prompting of his wife, Linda, approaches his boss to see about getting a local assignment. The grind of traveling up and down the East coast has caught up with Willy, and he would like to get a less taxing arrangement. Howard, his boss, agrees that Willy is tired, but instead of reassigning him, he lets him go, saying that Willy is no longer permitted to represent the company. Willy loses his temper; the scene is painful to watch.
From there, Willy Loman’s life descends into a frantic search for something to hold onto, something that will help him make sense of losing his job and getting old while simultaneously dealing with his two wayward sons, Biff and Happy, and the discovery by one of his boys of an affair Willy had in Boston some time ago.
Life as he knows it is unraveling, and the safe spaces are becoming fewer and fewer. Even his own kids turn on him, pretending not to know him in public. He is not liked. A man who worked his entire life to pay off a mortgage lives in a house nobody wants to visit. Which explains the first suicide attempt. Unsuccessful. And the second. A success. Few attend his funeral. His popularity merely a figment of his imagination.
It is difficult not to feel pity for a man who tried so hard. As his name suggests, he was the epitome of the little guy – low man – who played by the rules and, perhaps, even dared to believe that he had a reputation – that people valued him as a human being and not only as a cog in some vast money-making machine. But the latter really was the truth. Willy Loman was a nobody who thought he was a somebody, and he pushed his sons, especially Biff, to believe the same. Biff used to play football. He was poised to be a real star on the gridiron. But in a moment of weakness, he stole a pen, foiling the entire plan. He made nothing of himself, preferring instead to work in the open air with his shirt off. He knew his father for what he was: a man who cheats on his wife. Biff could never subscribe to Willy’s worldview. The damage was too great. The facade was exposed for what it was: a facade, a pretense, a charade.
This play, dear listeners, has much to teach us about social media and our addiction to likes. We only show our best selves on whatever platform and enjoy the dopamine rush when our posts garner likes or hearts. But, if we are to be honest, are we one in the same as Willy Loman? We not only create worlds where everyone likes us, but we actually believe them, too. We are victims of our own desire to belong and be liked, which means that we will carefully curate what is seen on social media and what is not. Biff, you see, in his discovery of Willy Loman’s infidelity, finds out the truth. And it damages him. He becomes disillusioned with it all. He wants to quit. He wants to walk away. Tear his shirt off. Work outdoors.
What does it mean, then, to live a life searching for likes? Perhaps the answer is staring at us from the stage. Willy Loman dies alone. Does the quest for more and more likes result in the exact opposite of the intended purpose? Look at the current generation, glued to their screens, subscribed to a half-dozen social media platforms. And depressed. Addicted. Anxious. Lost. But not old. Irony of ironies. A despair that did not take a lifetime to reach.
