The phrase grated the moment I heard it. “Digital immigrant,” the IT expert said, dropping its companion “digital native” in the next breath. I absorbed my characterization as sadly deprived of thumbs born to text, and accepted that to some extent he was right. A woman who learned her way around a qwerty keyboard with a manual typewriter was never a girl with a cell phone tucked beneath her pillow instead of a baby tooth. In the broader sense of a stereotyping metaphor, however, the guy was dead wrong.
“But how can you remember phone numbers when they takes so long to dial,” said the Ma Bell representative, urging me to upgrade to Touch-Tone nirvana. “I don’t have any trouble with that,” I responded, “but when it’s free, I’ll sign up.” At 25, I was already a skeptical tech consumer. If there’s a clear personal or professional benefit, if it suits my style, and if the price is right, I will cheerfully incorporate new tools and skills into my daily life. Otherwise, thanks but not interested.
And that’s why I don’t identify myself as a digital immigrant. What I am is a digital adopter. I’ve been living here all along as my writer and reader’s world has shifted from hot type to cold, and then to dancing pixels. It’s been fascinating to watch the evolution of communication media—and to sense my brain adapting to the ones I choose to use. So when I acquire not one but two digital habits in the span of a few weeks, it seems worthy of a blog post.
The first choice was to cancel the daily newspaper. That came with a pang reminiscent of ubi sunt poetry on the transience of life, namely mine as a former print journalist and loyal hometown reader. Where are the joys of hearing a paper thump the front door of an afternoon, and retrieving it to read the previous night’s work under that precious byline? Whither the pleasure of clipping recipes, and travel guides, and intriguing reports on science, history or the arts?
While the subscription to The Oregonian was still running, I started cozying up with coffee, laptop and OregonLive in a predawn December hour. Then I’d unwrap the day’s paper and cross-check to see what I’d missed. Virtually nothing it turned out, and much had been gained: A reduction of negative input from headlines about the latest bloody, random sniping. Freedom from remorse about the environmental cost of newsprint, no matter how faithfully recycled. The ability to scan several days’ worth of articles on a topical tab. Enhanced proficiency with Sudoku, thanks to interactive game features. When OregonLive starts charging, I’ll pay. Until then, I’ll read on for free.
Digital choice number two was a subscription to Ojolie animated online greetings created by a Danish artist and her IT whiz husband. Soon I was blithely dispatching e-cards with get well, bon voyage, thank you and birthday sentiments, as well as holiday wishes. Each spoke to the personality of the recipient and evoked the nature of the relationship or the memory of a shared experience. I used the space for personalizing to write more than I ever used to scribble in cards. While spending far less money (sorry, USPS and Hallmark), I gladly invested time to consider the music vibe as well as text and graphic content. Soon, delighted emails flashed back from friends. The Energetic Commodity Meter now reads: Warm fuzzies, priceless.
So, does this happy tale of Electronica mean I might suspend the pen-and-paper personal journal I’ve kept since 1978, in favor of an electronic version? The virtue of being a longtime digital adopter lies in knowing when message and medium are a timeless good fit for oneself. Glancing through worn, spiral-bound notebooks, I see how the very look of entries by the earlier Karen reveals the distress, hopefulness or delight that prompted her to write. I never want to lose that, and besides—I still love the feeling of making words by hand. When I create a journal entry, I practice an ancient reflective art along with everybody who has learned the value of the old notice “Inquire Within”. Perhaps they’re keying away, or printing because they’ve never learned cursive, but that’s fine too. Autres temps, autres moeurs whispers quaint, inter-generational inclusiveness.
