Technology Addiction

Long ago, in a reality far removed, an English teacher had a student, who told intriguing tales of a strange phenomenon called the World Wide Web. Millions of people, he claimed, could simultaneously access it to retrieve information and knowledge in a nanosecond. Becoming the student, the curious teacher said, “Tell me more.” The student-teacher taught the teacher-student everything he knew about the WWW, and within days, the teacher had purchased a computer that transported her to the Virtual Promised Land. Thus began the love affair this teacher has with all things technological.

Fancy landline and cellular smart phones, iPods, PCs, Macs, laptops, netbooks, Kindles, flat screen TVs, CDs and DVDs, webcams, electronic dictionaries, digital cameras, and copious quantities of software, and I now cohabitate and serve as high-tech, help-meets. Previously tiresome, hours of drudgery have been replaced with convenience, efficiency, and twenty-first century entertainment, while cardboard boxes of outdated technologies are dragged and dropped in the recycle bin of the garage. I can devour gigabytes of technology and assimilate all the “who, what, where, when, and whys” of them almost as quickly as new products can be launched. My HOS (Human Operating System) just seems to intrinsically download data transfer principles to my root directory, and in spite of its dry nature, I know it is a true mark of an official geek squad member.

Boldly going where few women, or men for that matter, had gone, I quickly graduated from that 1989 Tandy DOS-based computer and purchased my first hard drive computer. I fearlessly crashed and re-crashed it, only to satisfy a voracious appetite for discovering what made it tech-tick. I also learned that brave women are not born; they evolve. I proudly wore my evolutionary badge of binary courage, bit by byte storing computer chips of communications in my RAM and ROM, until I gradually optimized the mysteries of the memory and motherboard.

I soon learned all human CPUs do not process in computer-file fashion, as my husband, children, parents, siblings, friends, colleagues, and students boarded the tech-train, too. I painfully listened as they inverted terminologies like “upload” and “download.” They confused WWW and Internet and frequently sent me a URL with an ill-placed “@” sign or an email with an “http://” address. Even my saying the word “browser” yielded “a “deer-in-the-headlights” look as they mistook its meaning for “search engines.” Becoming computer savvy was like learning a new language. I advanced in the technology ranks and became the techno-guru in my circle. I even considered abandoning my English major for Computer Science.

In the 1990s, hard drives, monitors, software, and processor speeds changed as quickly as dot.com companies. I spent long nights, biting my lips and furrowing my brow over the dreaded blue screen, while working to resolve the reason behind each computer’s crash. Isolated in my home office, I learned the language and the technology in those dark, West Texas nights, while my family slept, oblivious to the excitement of the Information Highway and the broken-down vehicle I labored over in order to continue my travels there. So it was; interest became fascination and passion became obsession. I was addicted.

New technology continues to transform my ears to Vulcan-like status, as they grow peaked and pointed toward new innovations. Recently, I have lusted for Apple’s captivating iPad, that powerful little slate of joyful possibilities. HD commercials continue to bombard my senses and whet my appetite for yet another marvel of the ages, taunting me with applications to multi-task at supersonic speeds, yes, all bundled up in one sleek, chic, skinny body. How cool, and perhaps smug, would I look popping a perky iPad from my already overstuffed travel bag of gadgetry? Oh, how efficient could I be with the Internet only a data-tip and key-click away, an extension of my very soul?

And this week, technology talk continues to Twitter and text its temptations to my e-mail inbox, luring me with a new and improved iPhone possibly coming soon to a Verizon near me. What must I do? More, more, more of what I adore!

Inevitably, it had to happen: a “Come-to Jesus” meeting regarding technology ownership, an honest and agonizing dose of reality. Multiple modes of media already manage my life; however, I am human and my desires do threaten my resolve. Thus far, I am holding firm in my decision to abstain from buying the iPad or switching my cell service to the iPhone. Each day, Me, Myself, and I fight over my firmness quotient, reminding me how hard I work, a bitter dispute of my deservedness. Me and Myself pressure me to rush online to place the order, but I have prevailed with “Ten Good Reasons NOT to Press the Submit Button.

• 1-9: I have nine computers (plus a Kindle, a digital camera, an eDictionary, and three DVRs connected to flat screen televisions always in need of programing).
• 10: There aren’t enough hours in the day to utilize an iPad and iPhone to their full potentials without neglecting my other prized technologies.

I have wised up and left this advice to myself: “Use up, shut up, and close up my wallet.” Everyday something bigger and faster, more powerful, more interesting, and more fun surfaces. The iPad’s replacement is around the corner. Rather than run around that corner, I think I will just stroll.

Heart

The driving pump within us is the size of a fist. It steers tall, short, skinny, fat, healthy, sick, old, and young vehicles. We abuse it, baby it, smother it, and recklessly abondon it. Each heart is potentially like the Energizer bunny, the Timex watch, and Old Faithful. And rarely do we think about hearts until they cease to work properly or until one wildly pulsates into overtime.

Millions know first-hand about the latter: the pump that doesn’t work properly. Discovering a bad heart frightens the biggest, baddest, and bravest. Fight or flight sets in; survival mode takes over, realizing we cannot abuse the old ticker any longer, nor did we even realize we had treated it like a second class citizen within our own body-like country. Religiously, diet and exercise try to revive that once healthy, young heart, and promises of undying devotions and renewed efforts spill from our mouths and obsess through our brains. “I’ll never abuse you again.” “God, if you will just get me out of this one, I promise to…” Honestly, yet hopelessly, we devote ourselves with such vehement oaths, knowing full-well we cannot keep up such premises. After all, we are indulgent Americans.

There are many personifications attached to the heart: We love with all of ours; we heartily agree with yours; we animate it; it “goes out” to you; it aches, bleeds, breaks, and sighs; it can be felt; it comes under attack; it’s pained; it’s a Valentine, and it can be found at the center of the matter. Songs, books, and movie themes abound, around the anthropomorphic heart.

In spite of all its allusions and red-blooded American associations, there is another heart that is universal and of utmost importance. It’s the unseen heart that makes one person bitter and another joyful, one person young and one person old.

In a nation where youth is glorified and age is nullified, I had the opportunity to admire a young man’s video that appeared in my email this week. The intriguing short, hailed from one of my favorite cities, Tulsa, OK, and alluded to another interest: ranchers and farmers. The opening revealed the young man Ruben Hopper sitting at his kitchen table and playing a hand of poker, and then later, a relaxed Hopper on his brocaded couch in his overalls; the young Reuben answered all the questions the interviewer had for him about his life and the farm. “How old are you? What do you actually do for a living? Would you change anything about your life, so far? What do you like to eat?” They were simple questions, answered by a simple young man. With each nugget of information, the corners of my mouth insisted on curving into a smile. My eyes glassed over too, at this alluring man, who eagerly talked about how much he loved eating vegetables and how he admired hard work, and, in spite of owning many farm vehicles, he had never had a driver's license.

At interview's end, the young man grabbed his walker and tapped a few Fred Astaire dance moves. Then, as he Ta-da’d his ending, he added, “Did you get 'er?” hoping the camera had not missed his stylishly performed parting shot. Ruben Hopper had just celebrated 106 young years on this planet Earth, attributing his longevity to hard work and those wonderful vegetables he grows. I could see a twinkle in his young eyes and hear mischief in his mirthful voice, and see youth in his heart, as he still receives delicious enjoyment in everything he does.

Heart is what keeps us young; when we lose heart, we lose our youth.

How "You" Play the Game

My family experienced, first hand, the grueling and exciting road to Yankee Stadium. Our Oklahoma nephew, Garrett, held a baseball bat in his hands, long before his strength caught up with his toddler-desire to swing. His strong male and first-string female support groups encouraged him to reach for the stadium stars. Along the winding road, trials and celebrations abounded: the family made some good and bad decisions and some good and bad college choices. And in spite of it all, Garrett caught the eye of a lot of influential people and scored some amazing victories. His oyster opened to that world of which he dreamed.

However, throwing fast and hard with heart and soul often comes with a cost; slowly and intermittently, injuries plagued Garrett’s super-fast, pitching arm. Then, repeatedly returning to the game before his arm healed put the lefty at increasingly greater risks. Still, in between injuries, he clocked in with speeding bullet pitches at 99 mph that eventually won him a spot in the minor leagues of the New York Yankees.

Excitement fever pitched each week as new opportunities presented themselves, he worked his way up the league, and Garrett met the rich and famous: “Mom, guess who I just met? Derek Jeter!” “Dad, guess who came to see me pitch today?” "Reggie Jackson took us to lunch today!! He is a legend and he sounds like it when he talks baseball." "Brian Cashman just came up to me and said you looked really good today."  And when he stood on Yankee turf the first time, he called his mother; they rejoiced, sharing tears of joy. Family members zigzagged across the country to watch the small-town boy, who hoped to honor the family name in the Baseball Hall of Fame. And no one doubted Garrett’s passion for the game.

We grieved at the downturns; we rejoiced at the successes with teary eyes, swelling with pride from spectator perches as if our investments directly affected him in some personal way, wondering if he were aware how personally they affected us.

I now project myself into Garrett’s shoes, as opportunities propelled him forward two steps and each trial set him back three, and I try to imagine the required patience and the feared hurts, both physical and emotional.

Whether athlete or not, each of us strives to succeed at our chosen fields. We start out loving our games, but soon discover, we “might could” make money at the very thing that we perform for free. “Do what you love,” they tell us, “and the money follows.”

And then someone says, “You should do that professionally!” Encouraged, we say, “Let the games begin.”

Promoters, partners, investors, practice, competition, self doubts, and injuries complicate our games. We players enter a confused zone, where money rules decisions. Fear fiercely grips and immobilizes; our loss of focus often forces us to lose our edge. Suddenly, our best effort is replaced by the newest rising star. Lost, we pursue a different dream.

A devastated Garrett has left the game: his injuries cost more time than the required healing allowed, leaving him an old player at a mere twenty-seven years of age—much too soon and before the young pitcher could fulfill his Yankee dream.

Finding a passion and pursuing a dream is special. But we can find a passion at any age. Sometimes, we play many games before we finally discover that which we love. Passion and age are not necessarily conducive or exclusive to how we play the game. But Garrett knows passion. He will find another game. Some people never do.

3-29-10

Pride

When I realize how proud I am of someone or something, it brings to mind, "Pride goeth before destruction." But today, I pinched myself, and lo and behold, I am still here, holding destruction at bay, after experiencing a whirlwind week of proud moments.


Granddaughter Madi, after failing last year, tried out for cheerleader and succeeded this week. She could have given up, but instead, she cheerfully cheer-led herself to say, "Don't worry. I'll just try out again next year." To a thirteen year old, a year is a very, very long time, but she rededicated herself to gymnastics. No family get-together during the past year was complete without some flipping and flopping and jumping. She lived, ate, and breathed her goal. Madi had not been a toddler-gymnast, but instead, had joined the club later on. And truthfully, last year's jumps and confidence lagged some. Then came rededication, and after the additional year, she could do four flips and jump higher and smoother, and her confidence soared, which no doubt secured her place on the cheer squad this time. Prouder of her dedication than her reward, I know how well this lesson will serve her the rest of her life.


Daughter Tania presides over a husband and teenagers; she has changed jobs more often than she has changed her hairdos, which is considerable. Tania returned to college a few of years ago, earned her BS in IT, and worked a job, which offered her little financial reward. As entry-level sales staffer at the local radio station, she committed to hard work, which finally paid off: she got her own talk show; she became station manager of not only the local radio station, but several others; and she received a financial incentive package, making made those very, very difficult three years, worth every effort. A talker and singer since toddlerdom, she now utilizes all her best skills as she writes and sings jingles, talks, sells, and confidently manages a staff.
Prouder of her dedication than her reward, I know how well this lesson will serve her the rest of her life.


Daughter Darcy's work and living arrangements had floundered worse than my own; then, she and her husband returned to college a few years ago. Mastering levels of difficulty such as one vehicle and bus schedules for a two student household, job schedules, and a cat, she will soon receive her Masters degree in English and, along with coveted awards in her program, will receive a doctoral fellowship to continue on with her pursuits. Dr. Darcy, I presume, soon to come. Prouder of her dedication than her rewards, I know how well this lesson will serve her the rest of her life.


With each generation, we hope to impart our lessons--gained during our own lives--impart them fast enough so the recipient does not have to make the same mistakes. And yet, we know those lessons are best ascertained from personal experience: good and bad. In my world of education, where I see and hear, "I don't care," on too many levels, it joyously fills me to know three people in my family this week, do care. Their hard work and dedication paid off and gave them so much more than their rewards.


Keeping a perceived, higher wisdom to one's self is never easy, but pride does rise to the top, just like the cream, and, so far, no destruction.