The Loss of a Programming Identity: When Your Tribe Changes Beyond Recognition

When I first read about ratfactor's experience of losing his "computer programmer" identity, I was struck by how universal yet deeply personal this feeling is. The essay captures something that many of us have felt but rarely articulate: the sense that the community we once belonged to has transformed into something unrecognizable, leaving us questioning where we fit in.

The Social Nature of Programming Identity

The essay begins with a fascinating insight from Samuel Bagg's research on epistemic identity—the idea that how we process information and truth is fundamentally tied to our social identities. This framework provides a powerful lens for understanding why the transformation of programmer culture feels so disorienting. When you've spent decades building your identity around being part of a community that shares your values, watching that community shift beneath your feet isn't just about changing technical preferences—it's about losing a fundamental part of who you are.

Ratfactor describes his programmer identity as something that steered his life in both small and large ways: the websites he visited, the friends he made, where he worked and lived. This wasn't just about writing code—it was about belonging to a culture that valued learning, craftsmanship, and the pursuit of elegant solutions to complex problems.

The Transformation Nobody Saw Coming

What makes this loss particularly painful is how sudden it feels. While the essay acknowledges it's been about three years, the transformation seems to have happened in the blink of an eye. The culture that once celebrated programming as an end in itself—a craft to be mastered, a set of truths to be discovered—has become something else entirely.

Now, programming is often viewed as merely a means to an end: "let's see how fast we can build a surveillance state!" or "an unwanted chore to be avoided." The forums and websites that once felt like home have become alien territory. The author describes staying longer than he should have, in denial, thinking it would "blow over like NFTs or 'Web3.'"

The Values That Once United Us

The essay beautifully articulates what the programming culture used to value: learning, the merits of language design, type systems, software maintenance, levels of abstraction, and yes, even "minute syntactical differences, the color of the bike shed, and the best way to get that perfectly smooth shave on a yak." These weren't just technical preferences—they were expressions of a deeper commitment to craftsmanship and continuous improvement.

The reference to Larry Wall's quote about good programmers being lazy is particularly poignant. The original meaning—that good programmers automate away tedious work through elegant abstractions—has been twisted into something unrecognizable. The author observes that today's "computer programmers" seem okay with "pulling a damn slot machine lever a couple times to generate the boilerplate," a far cry from the culture of eliminating cruft through deterministic abstractions.

The Fear of Meeting Your Own Tribe

Perhaps the most heartbreaking realization in the essay is the author's newfound wariness of meeting other "computer programmers" in the wild. For the first time in his life, he feels there's a "decent chance we won't actually have much in common, let alone values or morality." This isn't just about technical disagreements—it's about fundamental differences in what we believe technology should be and do.

The distinction between "computer programmers" and "technology enthusiasts" becomes crucial here. The author needs to ensure they're "talking about the same things," suggesting that the term "technology enthusiast" has been co-opted to mean something quite different from what he values.

The Generational Perspective

There's a bittersweet quality to the author's realization that he "lived through a peak" of personal computing. The wave that started with the radical advent of home computers in the 1980s and continued into the 2010s carried him forward, but now he watches as the trend slides "downward as fast as possible back into centralized corporate control."

This perspective offers a valuable lesson about technological progress: it doesn't always move in one direction. The author's naivety—believing progress could only go one way because that's all he'd ever known—speaks to how quickly and dramatically the computing landscape has changed.

Finding New Identities While Keeping the Old Craft

Despite the loss, the essay ends on a note of resilience and hope. The author recognizes that we all have multiple social identities, and he's naturally leaning more heavily into his other interests: art, books, music. These "big groups" provide creative outlets and social connections that don't require contorting his beliefs to fit in.

Yet he remains committed to writing technical articles and computer programs for "his fellow humans." The motivation comes from imagining a beginner who might stumble across his work and find the explanation that finally makes a topic click. This connection to the next generation—those who will come along "against all odds, with a love for learning and creating"—provides purpose and meaning.

The final line is both defiant and deeply human: "you would have to kill me to stop me from making things. Sharing them is just part of the pleasure." This isn't just about programming anymore—it's about the fundamental human drive to create and share, regardless of whether the current culture values it.

The Broader Implications

This essay speaks to a larger phenomenon in technology and beyond: the feeling of watching your tribe change into something you no longer recognize. Whether it's programmers, journalists, educators, or any other professional community, the experience of losing your cultural home is deeply unsettling.

It raises important questions about how communities evolve and what happens to those who don't evolve with them. Is it possible to maintain your values while the world around you changes? How do you find or create new communities that share your principles? And perhaps most importantly, how do you continue doing the work you love when the culture surrounding that work has shifted away from what originally drew you to it?

The answer, at least for this author, seems to be a combination of acceptance, adaptation, and stubborn persistence. Accept that the old community has changed. Adapt by finding new social identities and creative outlets. And persist in doing the work you believe in, regardless of whether the current culture values it.

In the end, the loss of a programming identity isn't just about technology—it's about the human need for belonging, the pain of watching your community transform, and the resilience required to maintain your values in a changing world. It's a story that resonates far beyond the world of software development, speaking to anyone who has ever felt like a stranger in what was once their home.