Mr. Purser posed an interesting question to my Intro to?Sociology class last semester: “Are you slaves to technology?” I looked around the room for other students’ answers – some nodding their heads, some sleeping soundly and others too busy on Facebook chat to care. Of course I’m not, I thought to myself. The class ended, and we all filed out into the hallways. I left the question posed by Mr. Purser to linger in the back of my mind until this past weekend, when late Friday afternoon I left Starkville and headed for home.
As I pulled into the driveway of my house, I surveyed the exterior and surrounding land; nothing had changed. Spring had come, spewing lush grass and chirping birds all about the place. Stepping out of the car, I made my way?to the front door while traversing a sea of clover and monkey grass. Before entering, I admired a red tulip that had blossomed in my mother’s flowerbed. All alone, the veracity of the tulip’s bright red skin stood out amongst its vast emerald surroundings. With one last admiring glance about the yard, I entered through the front door and sealed off the world behind me.
I stepped lightly through my house, dodging piles of dirty clothes and sneakers – my mom was on vacation, so the act of cleaning, or lack thereof, waned under my control. I pushed my bedroom door open with my weight and dropped my book bag to the floor. Sunlight splashed through the blinds and struck every corner of my khaki-colored bedroom. I slowly admired my room and its familiarity: My Van Gogh was still hanging, albeit a little crooked, the Mardi Gras beads draped down the bedside lamp still and my book case had grown in dust and character.
I sat down at my desk and pulled out the hard rectangular object from the back?of the book bag. Silver letters embossed on the object spelled out the word?”T-O-S-H-I-B-A” as a loose beam of sunlight struck its surface. I placed my laptop carefully in its nest on my desk amongst crumpled sticky notes and pencils. I then stuck my hand back into my book bag searching for the object that would breathe life into my laptop: the charger. I jerked my hand side-to-side waiting to feel the cold wires of the charger. There was nothing. I soon realized that I had left my charger back at MSU. My forehead wrinkled as I sat down on the edge of my unmade bed. “What would I do for two days?!” I wondered. I thought of driving back for the simple reason of attaining my charger, but that was wasteful, and I was too tired. No, I thought, I must suffer the life of solitude, of quietness, of no Internet whatsoever. After the initial shock and disappointment at my own forgetfulness, I thought how interesting it would be to see if I could live a completely Internet-free life for two days.
And so it began, my trip into the world of laptoplessness. Multiple times over the weekend, I approached my laptop in hopes that it would come back to me like a mechanical Lazarus. Each time my fingertips felt the lifelessness of the cold, unresponsive machine, I remembered quickly that I was offline until Monday morning. I pondered aimlessly how to fill the ceaseless hours ahead of me. Like an addict realizing his substance was gone, the loss of the Internet struck me hard. I, however, was resolved to make use of my time. I reread my favorite passages from the books on my shelf and found solace in cleaning my house. One load of laundry turned into four loads, which turned into me scraping out the exploded ravioli in the microwave, which transpired into taking out the trash. By the time my work had ended, the sun had fallen out of its throne, and the moon was in her rightful place.
The once wasted hours spent looking for useless junk on eBay and Facebook-stalking friends had morphed into poignant, positive action. When did we as a society lose ourselves in the soft glow of a computer screen? The University of Maryland operates an Internet research site called WebUse, and they report that for the 18-24 age demographic Internet use averages at 9.6 hours a week. That’s close to spending 10 hours of one week sitting in front of the computer. What could you do with 10 extra hours? Perhaps, write that essay you have been putting off? Or finish that Paulo Coelho novel you set on your shelf half-way through it? Or spend time with family and friends?
How, though, are we supposed to fight of the addiction of Firefox when the Internet has integrated itself into out lives so well? Relationships and engagements are now announced via Facebook, and we can pay our bills and check banking account balances via their online Web sites. The wild and uncivilized Internet has integrated itself into our way of life and made itself at home in our day-to-day routines. So how do we fight an enemy that has captivated and entrapped seemingly all of mankind? The answer to that question is all about choice. You may only slightly dip your feet into the vast waters of the World Wide Web and allow it to pervade very little into your life or you can trek out into the sea of YouTube videos and Facebook accounts until you take that one last gulp of Internet-free air.
Joshua Bryant is a freshman majoring in political science. He can be contacted at [email protected].