Technology and Humanity

This evening in class, I was working with my students, reviewing their drafts to ensure everyone was writing the right paper. I moved from computer to computer as I usually do on draft day, allowing my students a little downtime as I work with individuals. Depending on the dynamic of the particular class, this downtime is spent any number of ways—some work on their papers; some work on other assignments; some snicker and giggle with the people nearest them; and, inevitably, there are those who sneak out their phones and begin texting away. (Ah, dear students, you didn't really think we don't notice, did you?)

Source: http://some.ly/HvYTgo

Honestly, it doesn’t bother me. I do have specific guidelines about cell phone use in my classrooms, but I’m realistic with those guidelines. I have a three year old and a five month old who may need me at any given minute, so I realize that telling them to leave their phones at home or requiring that they be turned off in class would be a bit hypocritical, considering I have my phone on me. Likewise, I have never set any guidelines as to what they are supposed to do with this time, and it isn’t as if they are being disrespectful, texting or Facebooking while I’m lecturing.

In fact, I actually expect silence to ensue and most students to turn to their phones. It seems that an unfortunate side effect of society’s continued technological advancement is the lack of human interaction it encourages. Sure, kids still sit around with their friends, but, instead of talking to one another, most are so focused on their phones, one wonders if they even realize that there are other living, breathing people sitting in their presence.

The other day, I saw a Pinterest pin, Albert Einstein's fear, that I found sadly true. It showed several different images of groups of people engaging in what would usually be social activities – getting together for coffee, riding in the car, having dinner – but instead of having a conversation, the eyes of everyone in each photo were averted, their focuses on the phones they held in their laps. The photos were captioned with a quote attributed to Albert Einstein that read, “I fear the day that technology will surpass our human interaction. The world will have a generation of idiots.”

Well, I cannot find any reliable evidence to suggest Einstein actually said those words. But I did find this quote, attributed to Einstein, which seems a bit more plausible:

“It has become appalling obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”

Of course, this is most frequently interpreted as the idea that technology continues to advance at considerable rates, while humanity, the virtue, that is, seems to stagnate for lack of use. And, truly, this is never more obvious than when watching the latest generation to enter the college classroom interact. Students are technologically savvy, yet they have less people skills than previous generations and really lack effective oral communication skills. This, in itself, lends to the decline of kindness and compassion because, if we cease communicating but through written shorthand via text or messaging, doesn’t our ability to utter pleasantries just for the sake of acknowledging another human being begin to suffer as well?

(On a side note, one would think that the constant texting, messaging, tweeting would perhaps encourage the development of writing skills, at least, but, sadly, those skills, too, suffer – so much so, in fact, that some students do not understand why it is inappropriate to submit writing assignments laden with 2 for two [or, worse, to or too!], c for see, u for you, and b for be. Certainly what could possibly be wrong with lowercase letters at the start of sentences? And periods and apostrophes… who really needs them? Shouldn’t a reader just be able to infer what I mean when I jumble a series of words together? But I digress…)

Tonight, while I expected silence and the flutter of fingers noiselessly responding to the texts students had received during the first part of class, I found myself distracted. At first, I couldn’t understand why I was having such a hard time getting through their paragraphs. I read and reread one particular paragraph, not because it was confusing or poorly written, but because I couldn’t focus on the words. I kept getting pulled away from the words on the screen. And then it hit me, rather forcefully (and joyfully, might I add, considering I was beginning to lose faith in my students). I realized I was having such trouble concentrating because silence wasn’t filling the room behind me. 

Instead, my students were actually talking to one another!

From the opposite side of the room, I heard laughter (laughter about the assignment topic, no less!), from my left I heard one student encourage another who was struggling with ideas for her paper, and from just behind me I heard a student praise another’s essay. For whatever reason, tonight my students turned away from the technology that tends to dominate most of our lives today and engaged each other!

And, though it may have taken me longer to get through their papers because I was having to filter the background noise as I read, tonight I left class happy: happy that my students still have voices; happy that they were having conversations about writing; and happy that, if my class can serve as evidence, perhaps technology has not completely surpassed our humanity just yet. 

Thank a Veteran and Exercise Your Right Tomorrow

My brother-in-law and I had an interesting conversation via Facebook today. He made a post about a professor of his who rather flippantly disregarded this coming Monday’s holiday. First, she couldn’t remember why they weren’t having class… some holiday or whatnot. Then, when her memory returned, she said (and I’m paraphrasing his paraphrase), oh, yes, Veteran’s Day. I can’t keep all these “silly” holidays straight.

Now, I am a pretty laid back person. I’m a Libra and Libras prefer balance; they are mediators and dislike conflict to the point that they will endure unhappiness to keep those around them happy. As such, I am relatively even keel most of the time. But there are a few topics I cannot remain silent about: the first is my children. That one is rather obvious. The second is my family, certainly. And the third is my country and those who fight to protect it.

I have the honored privilege of having a great many veterans in my family. My husband served our country as did my uncle, my grandfathers, and any number of extended family members. We have many friends who are still active duty, scattered throughout the world, and many who are either separated or retired right here at home. And my position as a college instructor in a training base city means I meet veterans and active duty military members, all with their own unique stories and experiences, each semester. I am grateful to them all on a daily basis.

To forget the day we honor those who have served in the various branches of the United States Armed Forces or, worse, to refer to that day as “silly” is not only disrespectful; in my mind, such disregard is directly linked to the main problem facing my generation and the generation that will be voting in it’s first election tomorrow: selfishness. I would say ignorance or even indifference, but both of those initial reactions can be traced to the larger issue that truly appears to drive every decision today’s youth makes.

As a further example, the day after the last presidential debate, I asked my classes to respond via a casual journal topic. I don’t preach my beliefs before my students: politics and religion rarely make their way into my classroom except through rhetorical questions and occasional independent writing exercises, honestly, because I view my authority as a means for encouraging and promoting thought in an environment that fosters growth, creativity, and freedom of expression. But with the election looming on the horizon, I thought it was a topic that should be addressed rather than ignored. I knew it was hopeful, to say the least, that my younger students would even have realized the debates were on TV. For my non-traditionals, I really expected passionate, issue-driven responses.

What did I get? Apathy. Indifference. And even a bold, “Who really cares?”

Well, for one, I do. And honestly I find it rather frightening that this is the general attitude of those who will one day be charged with making decisions for this great nation. The selfishness that leads to such bold statements is the same selfishness that leads to Veteran’s Day being referred to as “silly” and students commenting, “I’ll vote one day when I care enough to follow it all.”

The general attitude in this country stinks. Everyone sits around complaining about the economy, about the war, about unemployment, but very few of those who are the most vocal are willing to put forth the effort to change it. Ralph Waldo Emerson argues that mankind is “afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other.” And that is, quite possibly, truer today that when it was written. He encourages man to avoid the conformity that society encourages: “To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — that is genius.” Sadly, today’s conformists are all too content to jump on the “I don’t care” or “it doesn’t affect me” bandwagon. Perhaps a lack of conviction in addition to a “foolish consistency” is, indeed, the “hobgoblin of little minds.”

Much like the ignorant professor whose thoughtless comments inspired this post, those who choose not to vote have every right to conform. That is, after all, what society wants. However, I think it important that we remember who guarantees our right to vote (or not vote), to speak our minds (however boorish our thoughts may be), to walk outside and feel the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair, and not fear gun fire or roadside bombs. Because, despite their sacrifices—and they are many—and despite the fact that they live with the reality that they may or may not return to this country alive, they defend it without question. They defend the freedoms of those who don’t care enough to visit a polling place on Tuesday and give five minutes of their lives to cast a vote; they defend the rights of those who choose to loudly protest against them and what they represent; and they protect this nation because, despite her problems and despite her fair-weather citizenry, America is still a great nation.   

This post isn’t about being a democrat, a republican, or an independent. It is about being a proud American and honoring those who risk their lives to afford us the right to declare our allegiance to a particular political party and exercising that right tomorrow at the poll.

And don’t be afraid to thank those who have served. There’s no need to wait until Monday. Tell them today and tomorrow. Tell them Monday and tell them again the next day. Considering the sacrifices they make, they cannot be told enough.

A Last Great Adventure

In the summer of 2002, I talked my sister into going over to the local no kill animal shelter and adopting two kittens. We had just moved out on our own and needed pets. Never mind the huge responsibility this then twenty year old was undertaking. My family had always had cats—I knew how to feed them, fill their water bowls, and clean their litter. No big deal.

When we arrived at the shelter, we were introduced to a crowded room of cats.  Kittens, adolescents, mamas, and a few Toms. This little portable building was overrun with them, their litter boxes, and their toys. It was sad, really, the amount of animals, all waiting for their forever homes.

My sister wanted a black kitten like our Boo kitty, our parents’ cat, but I eventually talked her into a brother-sister pair. The male was a yellow short hair tabby with a bit of a wild streak; the female, a shy, long haired tortie. We named them Doodle and Snickers (or Snickers and Doodle after the Snickerdoodle cookie).  And, no sooner did we get these little furballs home, my sister rescued another frightened, cornered kitten, so we saved her, named her Tiger because of her gray tiger stripes, and threw her into the mix. The more, the merrier, right?

My memories of these kittens as they grew, and we with them, are plentiful. Doodle’s eyes would turn an evil red and he’d chase and terrorize the other two; Snickers had a broken purr, almost as if it took everything she had to produce a tiny, muffled noise when she was content; Tiger would groom anything in sight, but she preferred human hair. She’d start sweetly and, then, when you were least expecting it, she’d attack you with claws out, digging all four paws into your scalp; Doodle would climb completely out of the litter box to do his business, only his little booty and two hind legs staying inside; Snickers had the sweetest personality and liked to curl up beside you, bury her cold nose into your arm or leg, and kneed away until she fell asleep; and Tiger would eat just about anything you’d put before her, her scrapper instincts making her the thickest of the bunch—at least until Doodle grew into his long, lean body.

When I got married and moved to Vegas, I knew my cat—Snickers—couldn’t make the drive. She was a nervous, anxiety-ridden cat who panicked on a ten minute trip to the vet. I knew she’d never be the same if I forced her in a carrier for eighteen hours. So she stayed with my sis in Texas as I began a new chapter of my life a thousand miles away.

Of course, our animal family grew while we were in Vegas: we added a collie, Daisy, and a second long haired tortie. KitKat. And two years later, we added a golden retriever/lab mix, Chloe. We didn’t forget Snickers, but I never considered what two dogs and another rather prissy cat would do to her emotional well being. When we finally moved home, she was entering her golden years, though she tried to get along with the others. She tolerated Chloe, who was scared to death of her; she stayed away from KitKat; and she drove Daisy, who instinctively needed to herd her, crazy.

Eventually, though, the anxiety got the best of Snickers, and she started a nervous, costly habit: she began peeing on everything. The leather couches, the bathroom rugs, the carpet. We tried everything possible to break her of the habit: numerous new potties; new food; new litter; various sprays; antibiotics. Nothing worked. And then she started not only peeing but pooping on everything, too. The vet finally told us that this might be a problem with no cure.

Luckily, we have a garage, so we were able to relocate Snickers. In the garage, she had her own potty, her own food, her own water, and an entire room to herself in which to roam. At first, I felt guilty. She was always such a people cat—or should I say person (singular) cat. It broke my heart to have her outside alone. But… really… what can you do when the cat wants to urinate and defecate on everything?

Sure enough, the problem eventually cleared up. And Snickers was happy. Really happy. She didn’t have to fight two dogs and another always hungry cat for her food. She got to chase field mice that happened, unsuspecting, into the garage and play with them when she caught them. And the best part of the whole arrangement: she got to play outside on a regular basis. I think, in fact, that she timed sneaking out of the open garage door just right, so she regularly got to spend the entire night outside unbeknownst to us (that is, of course, until the next morning when we found her crying and scratching at the back door).

And, so, life continued. I would see her, basking in the sunlight that poured in through the broken blinds covering the garage window. She’d give me a little meow occasionally and watch as the girls and I hurried to and fro, always running late or forgetting something and having to go back into the house. When I’d see her, looking so content, I’d remember when she was a kitten and would curl up at my side, bury her face in my leg, and purr that broken purr. And I’d feel a bit nostalgic, wishing she could join us in the house and we could curl up, four of us now in the big bed instead of just two, and fall asleep.

Just the other day as we were hurrying out the door to work, I caught sight of her atop a box. She had been in the same place all morning, as I’d hurried in and out of the garage, doing little odd tasks that required me to venture outside. She looked at me as we hurried by and let out a tiny little meow, and I told her I’d pet her later; we were late and there just wasn’t time.

I didn’t think about my promise again. That was three days ago.

Tonight, my husband came into the living room while I was rocking the baby to sleep. Something about the look on his face was odd; I couldn’t have guessed what. And then he told me he was pretty sure Snickers was gone. I don’t know what I thought at first. Had she run away? Had she left on her own, set out on some grand adventure? And then I realized… oh, he means she died.

He hadn’t found her. But that was what was so odd about it all. Snickers was always there, always hanging out. All you had to do was call for her and she’d come running. But she wasn’t on the front or back porch where she liked to roll on the cool concrete. She wasn’t on her box, the box where she always slept, in the garage. He even walked through the field next to the house with a flashlight, afraid she had wandered away from the house to die in peace. But it was too dark to see much, so he told me he’d look again tomorrow.

I can’t remember the last time I sat down next to her and let her bury her little cold nose into my arm. I can’t remember the last time I pet her. Really pet her. Not just a quick nudge as I walked by. And it makes me feel so guilty. I broke my promise to her. And now I just don’t know that I was the best kitty mama I could have been in the last years of her life.

Each of my furry girls got extra attention tonight. I rubbed Chloe’s ears as she slept on the couch; I scratched Daisy’s booty (her favorite) for as long as I could; and I even pet KitKat until she swatted at me, telling me she’d had quite enough of that, thank-you-very-much. And I cried as I told them all how much I love them… and I know they understood.

So, Snickers, wherever you are tonight, I hope I gave you and your little broken purr a good life, a better life than you would have had growing old in that little room with all those other cats.

I hope you felt like the queen of that garage, free to come and go as you pleased, to chase mice and play with bugs, to bask in the sun and roll on the cool concrete.

I hope that little meow that afternoon when I was late for work and my hands were full with car seats and backpacks, juice cups and doll babies—I hope that meow was your way of saying, “Mama, I’m okay. I’ve had a great life, and I know you love me.”