(My own "hybridiction" meaning: using electronic or techogadgets to sequester one's self from community, or to excuse one's self from engaging in meaningful social interaction.)
This phenomenon is everywhere. The first example I can think of is when my college roommate and I would sit in our shared dorm room back-to-back, chatting with one another using Instant Messenger. Anyone who has wasted a Monday night watching an episode of Nanny 911 (not me!) will see that video games now perilously serve as playmates. Television sets have ascended to the role of babysitters.
What is evident to me in the course of my daily commute is how people, who see each other day after day, are too busy receiving audio stimulation to acknowledge a familiar face, let alone interact through friendly conversation. We've closed ourselves off from the world and all of its organic noise and our white designer earbuds are the plugs. Leaving us alone with manufactured sounds and simulated emotions.
I am convinced that in several hundred years a universal symbol for antisocial behavior will develop (standard human figure - think bathroom man - with white lanyard lines sprouting from his head). It will be posted in all public places where vocal human interaction is prohibited. Only early twentieth century scholars will know that the symbol evolved from an old fashioned contraption called "the iPod."
This alarms me, and I think I'll take steps to reverse it - in my own life, at least. I think tomorrow I'll forget my iPod and try my morning ears wide-open. I will say "Good morning" to the bus driver in lieu of my typical "Don't bother me, I'm listening to Christina Aguilera's new song" nod. I'll smile at my fellow metro riders. I'll might even say "hello" to the tall freckled fellow on the blue line who steals glances. I'll begin my day with internal quiet and enjoy the crash and clamor of the external and all its boisterous inhabitants.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Ghosts of Elementary School Horrors Past
It would be egocentric of me to declare that I had the most traumatic elementary school experience of anyone I know. Sure, I was the bookish redhead boasting buckteeth and a notable weight problem (the family orthodontist and dietician made a killing off of my inequities). But judging by the meanness of “kids today,” I’d say I got off easy.
Indeed, I was a solid five and half years into my primary education before I realized that my penchant for daily monochromatic sweatsuits in a range of gruesome colors was never going to secure me a spot in Lauren Melendrez’ Esprit Club. But the unjustly beautiful charter members of my elementary school fashion cult—who I expect are now all married to powerful attorneys and are presently breeding genetically-superior offspring—never deigned to soil my Big Bird Yellow warm ups with pig’s blood. Someone did write, “CORKY’S A PIG!!!” (No worries – my mother informed me that PIG stood for “Pretty, Intelligent Girl”) on the lid of my desk, but I never lifted it and found, say, a decapitated horny toad among my school supplies. I may very well have been the regular target of after-hours slumber party torment (re: plants up my nose; toothpaste in my hair), but at least I was invited, right?
As an elementary schooler, the first few times I remember playing mandatory group kickball, I wasn’t selected last. In fact, I may have even enjoyed being fifteenth or sixteenth picked (out of twenty-eight, that’s respectable). Perhaps the choosers thought, she’s a solid girl…maybe there’s some thunder in those thighs. If memory serves, I indeed served up a mean kick, but the resulting run/walk cum upper-respiratory episode quickly relegated me to number twenty-seven in subsequent matches.
Just the other night I caught a lingering whiff of those old schoolyard scents of failure and humiliation. How ridiculous that a successful, generally well-adjusted, now fit and athletic, and by all accounts fortunate adult female should allow the prospect of playing a new position in a church softball game to conjure quite literally old-school anxieties. Suddenly, I became acutely reacquainted with the sensation of imminent embarrassment. As expected, my debut as Catcher was not entirely a glorious one. In prior games my throwing disability hadn’t been quite so prominently showcased, but in this game every person on the field watched as, over and over, I lobbed the ball back to the pitcher with an astounding lack of skill – frequently falling several feet short of the mound. The real zinger was having our pregnant pitcher waddle up to home plate and cover my position during important plays.
But you know what? It's okay. I now take pride in being the same dork I was during my formative years (albeit better dressed!). Thankfully, cerebral eccentricities can be useful and even celebrated in adulthood. Perhaps if I'd been a popular child, or an athletic child, I wouldn't have developed my rollicking imagination or my self-effacing humor. So I'll gladly go to my next softball game. I'll probably drop the ball at a key moment. I'll choose the bat that correlates with my outfit. I'll make my perennial post-game "Capri Sun" joke. And I'll come home and blog about it. I can live with that.
Indeed, I was a solid five and half years into my primary education before I realized that my penchant for daily monochromatic sweatsuits in a range of gruesome colors was never going to secure me a spot in Lauren Melendrez’ Esprit Club. But the unjustly beautiful charter members of my elementary school fashion cult—who I expect are now all married to powerful attorneys and are presently breeding genetically-superior offspring—never deigned to soil my Big Bird Yellow warm ups with pig’s blood. Someone did write, “CORKY’S A PIG!!!” (No worries – my mother informed me that PIG stood for “Pretty, Intelligent Girl”) on the lid of my desk, but I never lifted it and found, say, a decapitated horny toad among my school supplies. I may very well have been the regular target of after-hours slumber party torment (re: plants up my nose; toothpaste in my hair), but at least I was invited, right?
As an elementary schooler, the first few times I remember playing mandatory group kickball, I wasn’t selected last. In fact, I may have even enjoyed being fifteenth or sixteenth picked (out of twenty-eight, that’s respectable). Perhaps the choosers thought, she’s a solid girl…maybe there’s some thunder in those thighs. If memory serves, I indeed served up a mean kick, but the resulting run/walk cum upper-respiratory episode quickly relegated me to number twenty-seven in subsequent matches.
Just the other night I caught a lingering whiff of those old schoolyard scents of failure and humiliation. How ridiculous that a successful, generally well-adjusted, now fit and athletic, and by all accounts fortunate adult female should allow the prospect of playing a new position in a church softball game to conjure quite literally old-school anxieties. Suddenly, I became acutely reacquainted with the sensation of imminent embarrassment. As expected, my debut as Catcher was not entirely a glorious one. In prior games my throwing disability hadn’t been quite so prominently showcased, but in this game every person on the field watched as, over and over, I lobbed the ball back to the pitcher with an astounding lack of skill – frequently falling several feet short of the mound. The real zinger was having our pregnant pitcher waddle up to home plate and cover my position during important plays.
But you know what? It's okay. I now take pride in being the same dork I was during my formative years (albeit better dressed!). Thankfully, cerebral eccentricities can be useful and even celebrated in adulthood. Perhaps if I'd been a popular child, or an athletic child, I wouldn't have developed my rollicking imagination or my self-effacing humor. So I'll gladly go to my next softball game. I'll probably drop the ball at a key moment. I'll choose the bat that correlates with my outfit. I'll make my perennial post-game "Capri Sun" joke. And I'll come home and blog about it. I can live with that.
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