The back seat was unassuming.
Basic cloth seats that stayed wet long after the rain clouds moved away. Seat belt buckles that would scorch the skin during a hot summer day. Manual window cranks and door locks.
Nothing fancy, yet still quite memorable.
For I grew up in that back seat. It was part of my parents’ sedan.
I rode to school in the back seat. I headed on grocery runs in it. I spent hours back there on family road trips.
My only entertainment during these treks? The radio, the view out the windows, and a Rand McNally atlas in the seat pocket.
It was a spartan existence. But I survived.
Today, I’m in the driver’s seat of my own SUV. The seats are comfier, there are power windows, and the seat belt no longer burns me. All my entertainment needs can come from my mobile phone, which syncs to a display on the center console.
But even with all these frills, I’m drawn to those old three standbys. I listen to the radio while on the road — albeit the satellite variety. I plan out my route before setting foot in the vehicle. And I check out the scenery as much as I safely can while behind the wheel.
Old habits die hard. But that might not be a bad thing.
Screen time.
It wasn’t a buzzword when during my youth, but it sure is now.
Smartphones and tablets are now ubiquitous. With supercomputers in our hands and entertainment just one tap away, we can stare at screens for hours — regardless of where our day takes us.
These days, kids will pass the time on road trips by playing video games on their tablets. Teenagers will spend hours scrolling social media on their phones. And adults will stream their favorite shows whenever their schedule allows.
This has led to an odd dichotomy.
We are all much more in the loop than we once were. It’s never been easier to stay informed and up to date on anything trendy or buzzworthy.
And yet, we are more isolated than ever before. Even in the center of a bustling metropolis, we are interacting with our screens, oblivious to all that’s going on around us.
Add in the shadow of a devastating pandemic — one which required months of social isolation — and the problem compounds.
We might be dominant at Mario Kart, looped in with the latest on Ted Lasso, or masters of online trivia. But we’ve forgotten how to act while at the dinner table, in the line at Starbucks, or even while walking our dog at the park.
Basic decorum is sorely lacking. And given the hyper-partisan state of our society, this problem seems particularly intractable.
Like many, I’m concerned about our present, and what it might mean for our future. But I refuse to be fatalistic.
All is far from lost.
I walked into the classroom, shaking like a leaf.
It was my first day of third grade, at a brand-new school. And I was terrified.
My teacher extended out her right arm and asked me what my name was. I replied softly, my eyes staring off at a classroom wall as my right hand crumpled under the force of my teacher’s firm handshake.
Within seconds, the encounter was over. But my adventure was just beginning.
For my third-grade teacher, bless her soul, refused to acquiesce to my timid nature. She could tell that change was particularly hard on me. But she wouldn’t let me bypass social customs because of it.
Over the course of months, she coached me to look others in the eye while speaking with them. She taught me how to give a firm handshake. She convinced me to stand tall, listen intently, and be bold.
And I was.
I walked out of third grade a fundamentally different boy than I was entering it.
Sure, I still had a lot of growing up to do. But my days of tiptoeing on eggshells were over.
For the first time, I fully engaged with my peers. I tried new things and made mistakes. And I suffered the consequences of those mistakes.
But with each step — forward or backward — I learned a little more about social norms. I became more proficient in the nuanced language of our culture and our society.
Yes, third grade was a game-changer for me. But now, we’re all about ready to forfeit.
Not long ago, I boarded an airplane for a business trip.
As I took my seat, I noticed the man sitting closest to the window in my row had the plastic shade pulled down. Oblivious to my stares, he gazed intently at his smartphone as it played the next episode of who knows what — the sound percolating into his ears through noise-canceling headphones.
As the plane taxied and took off, the man was oblivious. His body was in an airplane seat, but his mind was somewhere else.
Meanwhile, I was out of sorts. This man’s self-serving act had deprived me of the view of the airport fading into the distance, as we glided over the city and on to our faraway destination. All I saw instead was a strip of tan plastic.
The last time I was this disoriented, I was on a school excursion. We were all blindfolded, placed on a school bus, and dropped in a remote location, with only a compass and a watch to help guide us back to the starting point.
I led the class back to base that day. While blindfolded, I had memorized the turns the bus had made, relying on the jolting I felt in my seat. Then I triangulated the sun’s position in the sky with my watch and compass. And I combined this knowledge into a successful action plan.
If this man at the window seat had been the one leading that excursion — well, God help us all.
And yet, that seems to be exactly the conundrum we’re in.
We’re all too content to stumble around in our self-contained bubbles, happily oblivious to anyone and anything in our path. We’ve punted away the hard tasks of observation, conscientiousness, and communication. And we’ve forgotten the rules of social engagement in the process.
Our tech landscape certainly plays a role here. But make no mistake, we bear much of the blame.
For there were screens back when I was in third grade too. We had Nintendo video games to distract us, and televisions to entertain us.
None of that prevented me from learning social norms. None of that kept me from abiding by them.
It’s time that we put the broken chain back together. It’s time that we stop making excuses for our antisocial behavior and commit to a code of common decency.
This doesn’t mean banning screen time. It doesn’t require us to return to the era of no-frills vehicles with cloth seats and window cranks.
But it does mean taking the time and effort to actually give a damn. And to hold ourselves accountable to that standard — the same way my third-grade teacher once held me accountable for it.
This mission is eminently attainable. Let’s get after it.