The iGeneration, my generation, has emerged complete with hands, feet, eyes, ears, and a mandatory USB port.
My recollections of a life untethered from computers are sparse. I remember a childhood painted with Legos, GI Joes, and Ninja Turtles; a time when ‘Manhunt’ was a heart-pounding chase game, not a search query on Google.
I yearn for the tangible vestiges of my youth: the sting of bruises earned from tumbles, the tickle of pine needles and the stickiness of pine sap on clothes and skin, and the metallic taste of a slightly bloodied tongue from harmless roughhousing. Back then, our backyard was a fortress against an onslaught of girls, a reality that seems reversed in adulthood.
Our mother used to chide my brothers and me about the countless hours spent entranced by video games, an obsession that sprouted with River Raid and Asteroids on Atari and has matured with multiplayer online gaming with Halo 3 (I’m twenty-three; I’m not obligated to be grown-up…yet). Her admonitions eventually gave way to a compulsory exile to the world of sunlight and grass. We would plaintively gaze through the sliding glass door at our paused Sonic the Hedgehog game, yearning to resume our battle against Dr. Robotnik.
But ironically, what I cherish most about my childhood are not the digital victories against final bosses in “Doom” but the times spent gallivanting around the neighborhood, my nose runny from the chilly autumn air. Two years into my post-college working life, the opportunity to be a kid again seems tantalizingly out of reach.
Presently, I find myself navigating the trappings of adulthood: cellphones, iPods, and PDAs. I vividly recall being at the opening game of the World Series where the Red Sox faced the Colorado Rockies. One striking observation was the deluge of cell phone cameras and point-and-shoots capturing every moment. It seemed as though spectators preferred viewing the game through a lens, chronicling the Sox’ victory in 1s and 0s of Binary Code to share electronically, rather than savoring the experience firsthand.
Now, it may seem hypocritical coming from me, a professional photographer, who indeed had my DSLR ready for action that day. However, on the drive from Cape Cod to Boston, I had ample time for introspection about the impending event.
This outing to Fenway marked a personal first for me. When I woke that Wednesday morning, little did I know that I’d be heading to the opening game of the World Series by nightfall. Receiving a mid-afternoon call from my father, who had secured two tickets through an AT&T contact, was nothing short of thrilling.
As I neared Fenway, I reflected on the impending shared experience with my father. Even at 23, the prospect of a baseball game with him seemed the epitome of “father and son bonding.”
At the game, while others were engrossed in their digital worlds, I chose a more grounded approach: a beer in one hand, a Fenway frank in the other, and no camera. Instead, I basked in the cool autumn night air, creating memories rather than digital files.
