I’m convinced that the single largest challenge my children’s generation will face is appropriately managing screen use. It’s a constant struggle in my own household and I daily experience a front row seat to how it’s shaping students within the classroom context. It’s a continual conversation at our house. After we’d spent a lazy morning on our third snow day this week watching Minecraft videos on Youtube TV, I told the boys that we needed to make a plan for what we were going to do for the day.
The message behind my urging was: Get off your screens. Go be a human.
I feel incredibly lucky that each day I get to teach reading and writing to ten and eleven year olds. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that story is a cornerstone of both civilization and humanity. Stories allow us to experience first hand the viewpoints of others lives. It gives us a window into trials we will never face and challenges we will never know. It provides a space to practice empathy, to question our beliefs, and to understand multiple perspectives. I’d wager we could use a great deal more of that these days.
Parker argued that the same benefits can be undertaken by watching YouTube videos. I concede that to a point, he is right. But in this age where we are drowning in digital information, I’d wager that videos often lack depth and leave me questioning the legitimacy of the information shared. They offer a passive experience where we sit and receive, instead of rewarding sustained attention and effort over time. Don’t even get me started on the dopamine issue at work. All I need is one glimpse at the zombie state that reels and video game channels produce within my kids to know that something is off. This is not the best choice for how to spend their time. And don’t get me wrong, we fail and flounder in this space regularly.
So as we discussed our options for the day, Finn ran upstairs to grab an old list of “things to do” that we’d compiled a few years back. On his return, his eyes were glassy and his hands were empty. “What’s the matter?” I asked him. He shook his head back and forth without words. “What happened?” I pressed.
Through a few sniffles he explained that some of the things on the list we couldn’t do anymore. Still confused, I asked a few more questions to finally understand.
“It says ‘visit Great Granny’ and we can’t do that anymore,” he explained. My heart sank, oh the ache of loss. I grabbed him close and he curled up in my lap. “Oh buddy, I’m so sorry.” All we can do sometimes is sit with people in their heartache. And so we did. Then I remembered how even though people leave this world, they don’t quite leave us. In fact, the day before Jackson had reported that he’d fallen asleep on the bus ride with the marching band down to Florida. He had regretted this nap because the kids had taken his picture while he was asleep. He texted that he looked just like Great Granny when she napped after dinner, her head tilted back and her mouth hanging open just a bit. It brought a seed of joy to my heart as I remembered.
Stories keep the important things alive. And so I told him Jackson’s story. Which reminded us of playing Bingo down at the Oaks and how Great Granny was one rich lady when it came to Bingo Bucks. We talked about the year we trick-or-treated in a hurricane and how she’d loaded the boys up with pounds of candy. Even though they only went to five houses, they had acquired quite an impressive haul thanks to a generous few.
Stories. Not a one remarkable. But a thread of connection, a tether to others, an anchor of remembrance that echos, “They were here; they were loved.” Great Granny’s stories got Parker asking questions about my grandparents and where all the boys’ middle names came from and tale after tale was told. This is what it means to be human. No screen, no video game, no device, no phone can replace a conversation, an exchange, an effort at sincere understanding.
And so, we made some brownies. Devoured them. Then headed to the Salem Golf Course for day two of sledding. The day before had been our first time going there, as we have a neighborhood hill that has sufficed for years. But the golf course has won our hearts. I had watched all the escapades from the top while the wind whipped all around me. We’d run into several of the boy’s friends and I’d chatted away with some awesome folks. I left with my cup filled from conversation. And now we were back.
The boys did a few wild runs and as I watched them, I knew the fast hill was silently calling me. We fashioned the two sleds we’d brought together and the three of us plopped down in a heap of legs and arms a’tangled.
We started slow, then shifted to the left while gaining speed. Sideways sledding is not my jam. I clinched the handles fiercely and hollered as we careened out of control, “I don’t like this! I don’t like this!” all the way down the icy hill. This loss of control left me in a state of terror. I realized I often march through my days trying to maintain some form of order and structure. I like control. The hill strips you of this illusion. I was at its mercy. Fear gripped my soul for those 5 seconds, and then gave way to utter exhilaration. As it occurred to me that I would survive without injury, the joy of it all rushed in. I had survived and though I am forty-three years old, I’m not too old for sledding just yet.
We made a few more runs together and at the end of the day, not one of us said that we wished we’d watched more YouTube, that we wished we’d scrolled a little longer. Nope. We’d added another story to our book – full of thrills and joy, mingled with a hint fear. Topped off with laughter as the sled coasts to a stop. I wonder what stories we will write today?
“Turn your screens off, boys. Humanity is calling.”
sarahpgarst 