Tag: socialization

The Broken Chain

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.

Object Permanence

I waded into the ocean, the saltwater reaching up to my waist.

Every half-minute or so, a wave would come hurtling my direction, threatening to douse me with chilly seawater. I didn’t like the feel of that. So I would jump as the wave approached.

Each leap kept my face from getting drenched by the surf. But it also gave me a moment to see what lay beyond it.

As I reached elevation, I could see the ocean rolling out majestically before me. The crests of waves extended for what seemed like miles. Somewhere off in the distance, a sailboat plodded across the water.

And beyond all this, there was a line. A line where the dark blue of the water and the light blue of the sky combined.

I was flummoxed by this mysterious line in the distance. So, I asked my father — who was wading in the water beside me — what it was.

That’s the horizon, he replied. It’s the furthest point we can see.

My father then explained to me that there’s plenty of life — and, in this case, ocean — beyond the horizon. But we would have to travel out there if we wanted to say what lay beyond. And if we did that, we’d see a new horizon. One located even further from the shoreline.

This was all a bit much for my 5-year-old mind to unpack. As far as I was concerned, what lay beyond that line was beyond comprehension.

If I couldn’t see it, it didn’t really exist.

 

There’s an old proverb you’ve probably heard of. It reads If a tree falls in the forest, did it really make a sound?

We nod intuitively at this phrase, as if it is common knowledge. And yet, many of us have not wandered through the forest at all. And even if we have, there’s a good chance we didn’t hear a tree falling.

We’ve had no connection to the scene that’s being set. And yet, when presented with the idea of its absence, we nod, smile and hope that no one will call our bluff.

Lately though, something has changed. That abstract concept has started to come into focus, in terrifying detail/

As I write these words, the world remains mired in a deadly pandemic. A virus continues to run rampant, causing suffering in hundreds of countries.

As the virus first made its way across the globe, the world largely shut down. With no known cure, a high level of contagion and overwhelming caseloads, many countries were in a tough spot. So, government leaders ordered local or national lockdowns to slow the spread of the disease.

This tactic had been used in previous pandemics. But there was a new wrinkle this time. For even as millions were confined to their homes, technology was there to help them stay connected.

Life under lockdown would still be unpleasant. But the experience would be far less isolating than it would have been in the past.

After all, it was still possible to connect with family and friends through a smartphone. And many workers bring their jobs into their homes, with nothing more than a home computer and an Internet connection.

Even after the lockdowns were lifted, the world continued to adapt. A new normal has taken hold — one where people connect in-person far less than they traditionally did.

We’ve largely been able to rise to this strange occasion. Yet, it still feels as if something substantial is being lost.

For there is only so much reality that we can virtualize. There is only so much that videoconferencing and email can cover.

When we look at our computer screens or smartphones, we get a window into the world that lies beyond our reach. But surrounding that window lies the sobering reality. Us, driven apart from each other and the traditions we are familiar with. Us, staring at the same familiar scenery day after day. Us, contending with the world getting smaller and smaller.

It’s hard to hide from these sobering facts. It’s hard to feel attached to the world around us. It’s hard to even remember that world still exists.

For once we hang up the phone or shut off the computer, it’s game over. We have no sense of what others outside our bubble might be thinking, feeling or doing. We have no channel to build ongoing trust or provide them reassurance. We have no inertia to keep the conversation going.

When that virtual portal closes, it does so with a resounding thud.

Sure, we can try and fill in the gaps. We can guess what’s going on beyond our walls. But the bounds our imagination is all we have.

Object permanence is winning the day.

Querite et invenitis.

For years, these three Latin words have followed my name on every personal email I’ve sent. They translate — roughly — to Seek and ye shall find.

This phrase has long served as a rallying cry for me. For only when I have made the effort to venture beyond that horizon have I yielded the rewards.

This principle has held true throughout my life. Going to a university nine states away from where I was raised helped me grow up — and fast. Studying abroad in South America took my Spanish comprehension to another level. Taking a job, sight unseen, on the dusty plains of West Texas taught me to make peace with the unexpected.

Travel isn’t about glamour for me. It’s not about taking iconic photos or sharing epic stories — even as those sometimes come with the experience.

No, it’s about the exploration. About learning more about the world, and my potential in it.

Of course, the pandemic has put that on hold. Mass movement has gone from an essential to a danger. And like many, I’ve mostly hunkered down in the same zip code for months.

Sure, I’ve gotten outside for some exercise, for work and to run some errands. But I haven’t roamed as freely as I used to.

I didn’t fully recognize the toll of all this at first. In those hectic initial weeks of this reality, my focus was on adjusting to meet the moment.

But now, all I notice is all that I’ve lost connection with. All I can remember is all I’ve forgotten.

Object permanence has set in. And I don’t like it one bit.

This too shall pass.

There will be a day when this strange era is behind us. When the trepidation and restrictions no longer dominate conversation. When conversation can happen in-person more regularly.

But just because it can doesn’t necessarily mean that it will.

For object permanence doesn’t just disappear. It’s a fog that doesn’t just lift under the heat of the midday sun.

All this time we’ve spent away from each other has come with a cost. We’ve said goodbye to spontaneous interaction. We’ve forgotten the art of the follow-up. We’ve lost track of the rules for nonverbal communication.

These are not just critical tools for connecting with our community. They’re also essential social skills.

And the longer they’re removed from our lives, the less likely they are to return.

It’s on us to keep this from happening. It’s on us to keep our gaze on the horizon. It’s on us to remember in a world that has us primed to forget.

It’s not an easy proposition. But it’s an essential one.

What we can’t see still does exist. It’s time for us to find it again.