King's Daughter's Kitchen

As a teen, my mother always knew to find me at the library lost in the pages of an adventure or searching the card catalog for answers to the questions that I was too shy to ask in class. What I really wanted to know was how my dad’s car engine worked or how to predict the outcome of a Cubs game so that I could have a conversation about something we both cared about. If my teachers taught how subjects related to me in my home, I very likely would have paid attention instead of waiting until after school and going to the library to learn more. Then one day, the library got a computer, and I never wanted to go home except to eat and sleep. If no one else had it signed out, it was mine all afternoon. Soon I was glued to the gray and green screen.

We eventually got a computer at home, a Commodore 64, and I became a Pong master, but I still had to go to the library for quiet. My parents made me take timed turns with my three sisters.

Computers have limits of interaction. Sadly, I have chosen throughout life to let them answer questions rather than to ask for help from a live person.

What would my life be like without my go-to plastic answer man? It would be healthier, as I would be forced to physically move more to get answers. I’d be more social, as I’d have to communicate. I’d be more patient, as I’d have to wait on others to think before speaking. Computers don’t answer with wisdom. They gather and dump information. I would most certainly have more friends and take better care of myself. A computer doesn’t care about me and doesn’t care whether I take a shower. Computers make life easier, but I don’t think they make it better. A long time from now when I am gone, no one will care how smart I was or how many hours I spent staring at a screen. They will care how much time I spent with them, present in the moment.