Stuck In the Future —Part II
I recently finished a science fiction book from the library’s selection of new titles. It’s not my usual genre, but I like it on occasion. And while the abundance of techno-jargon makes it difficult for me to envision the universe in which the story takes place, it’s clear that everybody’s movements in this hypothetical future are monitored. Always. Videos can be reviewed at a nano-second’s notice from almost anywhere. Which ultimately makes it difficult for the bad guys to hide.
But imagining this ever-eavesdropping technology makes it hard for me to feel secure even in the present, having come from an era when letters and phone calls were, by and large, private. The capability is already here for someone to always be listening. Even watching. Just as I was thinking of caving in and getting a smart phone.
I remember the first pocket calculators. I didn’t trust them. I would do my math on a calculator—then check it with my own figures on paper. Now I do it the other way around. So theoretically, I can be trained to have some faith in technological advancement.
I do look at Google Maps, then write down the directions on a piece of paper. I don’t have a GPS. Although since I’ve lost my husband—who could find any place without ever asking for directions (which he’d refuse to do, anyway)—I might find comfort in a robotic co-pilot.
But this technology scares me. Yes, it makes it easier for me to find my way. But it also makes it easier for other people to find me. And I don’t always want to be found.
There are apps for doctors to monitor your heart from afar. You can see your therapist remotely. These are good things, I suppose, especially during a pandemic, when possible lack of privacy is outweighed by the need for guaranteed uninfected air.
I talk to Siri on the iPod I bought to control my hearing aids— mostly to say, “Please set the timer…” (I can’t function without a timer.) I always say “Please” and “Thank you.” But in all the years I’ve known her, she’s only said, “You’re welcome” twice. But once she said, “It’s my pleasure.” That made my day!
My Siri is Australian. She sounds like my daughter-in-law (who is also Aussie). But my laptop, who sometimes has to interrupt me to give me necessary information about the calendar or the computer, is a soft-spoken American male. He’s ever so polite. “Pardon me,” he says before delivering the info.
My mother is dumbfounded when she catches me talking to a machine. I don’t know if she can hear that the machine is talking back to me. Maybe that would send her over the edge.
But when I look at my own difficulty accepting the future that engulfs me, my mother’s problems with debit cards, PIN’s, and anything but difficult-to-trace cold hard cash comes into perspective. If I am avoiding the almighty Google, I might think I’m hiding, but I’ll be the only one with my head in the sand. And everybody else will have access to an online vision of my other end, in plain view. At a nano-second’s notice.