TECHNO-TRAUMA-TRIFECTA

BY JOYCE B. WILCOX

This past spring was filled with many remarkably memorable moments for me, including some which have been known to send shivers down a senior’s spine. But where should I begin my story of the techno-trauma-trifecta? And by techno, I mean technology, not electronic dance music.

I’m talking gadgets. Devices. Apparatuses. In other words, these are the wired-thingamabobs-of-the-worst-kind for many seniors. Of course, not all seniors are adversely affected by the changes in technology. It really depends upon when you were born, where you were born, and what you did in life after you were born; the first two over which you have no control.

In my particular case the distress was caused by the recent purchases of an updated Fitbit, an audio recorder, and the dreaded big daddy of them all, a new cell phone. These gizmos dragged me out of my comfort zone and into unchartered air waves.

I feel that I should set the stage with a trip down memory lane with some of my childhood memories in order to explain my distrust of devices of a technological nature. Bear in mind that I was born right in the middle of the baby boomer generation. That means I started out in life in the mid-1900s with the following items viewed as state of the art at that time:

• manual typewriters

• wringer washers and clothes lines

• wind-up alarm clocks and wrist watches

• stationary house phones with rotary dials

• small black and white televisions without remotes

As an example of the fabulous technology available in my elementary school, we viewed reel to reel movies projected onto a screen in the audio-visual room. What is an audio-visual room, you may ask? It’s a designated small classroom with shaded windows where classes went to view educational filmstrips and 16mm movies. Seating consisted of hard, wooden chairs left over from the library and placed in rows, just enough for one class at a time.

When John Glenn made his historic orbit of the earth in 1962, over two hundred students were seated on the floor of my elementary school library to watch the event on the only television in the building. Just as a reminder, this device was a black and white 16” television situated on a portable stand and able to receive a whopping six stations, one of which was located in Windsor. I presently catch dibs and dabs of current events on cable television as I click away on a remote. I also receive regular updates on my laptop or cell phone. Believe me, NASA and I have come a long way.

Back in the 50s and 60s exercise wasn’t really monitored like today, so joggers were only seen on high school tracks and the only people out walking were pushing baby strollers. Fast forward to 2014 and with the help of my daughter, there’s suddenly a Fitbit on my wrist. Miraculously to me, it was tracking my four miles of daily walking, along with my heart rate, number of steps, calories burned, and hours of sleep. Since slapping it onto my wrist, I have always viewed the Fitbit just as I had always viewed my toaster; as long as it did what it was supposed to do, I didn’t need to know how it did it.

This spring I recently had the interesting experience of having to buy a new Fitbit. And while that purchasing task was easy enough, the one and a half hours at home spent trying to install and synchronize data was a bit taxing. I am sure others could have accomplished this feat in the blink of an eye, but I was determined to do it myself. It’s now a Fitbit fait accompli and you’ll be happy to note that presently there’s an added bounce to my steps due to my solo techno installation achievement.

By the time high school rolled around, my school district had truly progressed, or so I thought. We were actually using Bic pens in English and history classes instead of those splotchy cartridge fountain pens which tended to leak onto the paper easily. Slide-rules and hand-sharpened pencils ruled the day in math classes. Manual typewriters were utilized in the mandatory tenth grade typing class, but other than that classroom and the principal’s secretary’s desk, typewriters were not available.

The only computer in the entire high school was located in the math department chairperson’s classroom and one student at a time was granted usage. Since I never took a class beyond trigonometry, I wasn’t given access to the high school world of computers. Little did I know that this computer lapse would come back to haunt me years later. When I started college, I finally made the keystroke adjustment to speedier electric typewriters in journalism classes, but still no computers.

During my years in advertising in the 70s and early 80s there weren’t desktop computers available, so anything I wrote was given to the typing pool to be typed or re-typed and copies were later made. White-out became my best friend. Media buys required a large amount of data which couldn’t be accessed on a calculator, so adding machines with running receipt tapes were used. My assistant thought he died and went to heaven when a computer lab was later installed for billing purposes, and he no longer was required to check media invoices manually.

It wasn’t until the 1990s that computers sprouted on office desks. Of course, by then I’d gone back to college, switched careers, and was entering the world of teaching.

It suddenly became a sink or swim situation with my subsequent plunge into the computer world if I were to survive in the employment pool. The expectation was that I would create power point presentations for funding, generate Excel spreadsheets for reports, as well as write scripts for plays. These tasks were all achieved through some additional computer classes I sought on my own and the purchase of a laptop. My skills and comfort levels improved. I had learned to dive into computers and tread water, but I would save swimming laps for the next generation.

When I recently purchased a small audio recorder for my Canadian Laker feature article interviews, I had flashbacks of my initial exposure to technology in college. My Wayne State University journalism, television, and radio classes included writing, production, and directing courses. We utilized electric typewriters, heavy film-fed cameras, and bulky reel-toreel tape recorders which were considered state of the art. Somehow, we managed.

My brand-new audio recorder is approximately 1 by 4 inches, has eight buttons, a small display window, and the capacity of forty-six hours of memory storage. I was thrilled that it would be such an inconspicuous addition to my interviews and only came with a tiny three-page quick start guide manual. Further instructions can be found on their website. The packaging indicated that the recorder was designed for maximum comfort, efficiency, safety, and ease of use. The comprehensive manual that I downloaded told me otherwise. It was thirty-six pages long with detailed diagrams and instructions. How could something so tiny need so many pages to explain how it worked?

Activating the audio recorder took much longer than my Fitbit to install, but less time than reading a book for my book reviews. I was almost overwhelmed but refused to give up. I’ve printed the manual for easy reference as needed. But I still think these sorts of gadgets should operate like my toaster and just do what they’re supposed to do when I turn one knob and push down a lever. I guess I’ll be satisfied as long as the audio recorder doesn’t end up burning my toast.

All of this brings me to my latest techno-trauma acquisition: the purchase of a new cell phone.

Back in the day you shared one telephone in the house with your parents and siblings. There were no messages left, other than those scribbled on notepads adjacent to the stationary phone in the hallway located in a cutout nook in the wall. And there was no such thing as texting.

I almost forgot something. You also had to check the phone line before calling someone just to make sure it wasn’t in use. This was to guarantee that the randomly selected stranger located somewhere in your county who shared your same phone line, wasn’t using the phone at that time. Don’t ask me why or how; you just learned to wait your turn. Patience paid off because although my parents lived in that home for thirty years, they never had to replace that phone.

While my Fitbit and audio recorder could be purchased without any customer assistance, a new cell phone was a different matter. I would be entering a strange new world where folks spoke a different language. Those advanced English classes and four years of high school French went right out the window, or “Est passe par la fenetre.”

With my new cell phone fear displayed on my brow as I walked in the door of the store, I was greeted warmly by a smile from a young salesclerk. Dest-ne Porter immediately put me at ease. Dest-ne, pronounced destiny, was true to her name and it was truly my good fortune to stumble upon her that day for assistance. Twentyfour years old, yet she was lightyears beyond me in the world of phones. All those years of teaching phonics, but I had never been taught to speak phone.

When I showed her my current phone and explained that I was in need of a new one, she sweetly smiled and carefully withdrew it from my hands. While I had been concerned about the crack in my screen, Dest-ne had noticed the bulging battery of which I wasn’t aware could apparently explode at any moment. “Don’t worry. This happens all the time,” she cautioned.

She agreed immediately that I was in need of a new cell phone and inquired as to if I knew what I wanted. Besides owning a phone that worked, I had absolutely no idea. “That’s what I’m here for,” Dest-ne replied. “to find the best fit for you. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure that you’re comfortable with your new phone.”

Dest-ne began showing and demonstrating various phones and allowed me to feel, access, and operate any that caught my eye. She definitely knew her product and understood her clientele. The very latest apps in technology, which could probably do things that I’d never utilize, were not suggested because they weren’t needed in my life.

Whenever I needed any of the technical terms explained, she obliged me with simple explanations. Whenever a new customer walked in the door, she’d cheerfully acknowledge them and direct them to a display or individual who could assist them as she continued working with me. I never felt rushed or pressured and even after I made my selection, she managed to calm my nerves with more helpful hints and polite conversation. I was grateful for her patience.

As she explained that transferring my contacts, pictures, and other data would take another seventeen minutes, she left me to sit or browse at my convenience as she attended to other clients. It was then that I noticed that I had actually not been the recipient of any special treatment. Destne greeted and assisted each customer with the same warmth and wealth of telephone technology. I left the store like most of her customers: with a new phone, a smile on my face, and a sigh of relief.

The way I see it, if I was able to conquer this techno-trauma-trifecta this spring, I can’t image what’s in store for this summer. But I think I just might be ready. And if I’m not ready, I will just sit back and enjoy my toasted English muffin.