In 2005, I worked in the basement of the Byrd Library at Syracuse University. My job was to help students load the microfilm machines. Microfilm was already outdated, but I enjoyed the physical nature of thumbing through the card catalog, jotting down the call number, and locating the tiny white box among aisles of stocked shelves. I’d align the sprocket holes of the film, flip the light switch on, and spin the reel to the first article. 

“All set,” I would say, “just turn the knob to the right if you want to fast-forward.” I took pride in mastering this antiquated database, and gladly accepted $5.15 an hour for my services.

If the technology wasn’t enough of a symbolic divide, a long row of black filing cabinets separated the microfilm machines from the Apple computers at the other end of the Media Center. It was always busier on that side, and I was curious about what people accomplished with the new technology. I remember thinking, could I learn Photoshop CS? I gave myself 6 months to figure it out — At the time, it was a goal that seemed just out of reach.

Fast-forward 20 years and a similar, though metaphorical, divide exists in my family today. Every weekend, we go to my in-laws’ house for a traditional Sunday dinner. There are two grandparents, six parents, and seven cousins between the ages of six and fifteen. On one side of the divide are those of us that sit around the dinner table chatting. My wife’s mother, whom we affectionately refer to as “Mimi,” and I discuss books that we’ve recently read. Stolen Focus, by Johann Hari, is a recent example. Mimi, whose Italian father served in WWII, was interested in the psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. Looking around the room, I quietly mentioned his discovery that staring at screens provides the lowest amount of “Flow.” (Hard, 2006, pg. 27) Our discussions are always deep and insightful. I usually learn something new.

It’s ironic, of course, that as one group engages in conversation, the other stares intently at their mobile devices. Sometimes inches away on the same couch, the adults in this group endlessly scroll through Facebook and Instagram, or swipe through the latest viral TikTok videos. The kids will play video games, text, or Facetime their friends. I can’t help but wonder, which group is missing out? Should I learn to communicate with emojis?

At Syracuse, I was initially reluctant to learn about the tools on the digital side of the basement. Eventually I did, though, and that educational leap began my journey to becoming a graphic designer. Should I cross a similar bridge today? After noticing the division within my own family — and equipped with a rudimentary understanding of the technology that causes distraction — I recently conducted an experiment. I revealed to one of the family members that I had been diagnosed with Lyme disease. I may have had it for years, I exclaimed. Looking up from her phone blankly, but not directly at me, my subject simply replied, “That sucks.” Her eyes darted across the room, then straight back to her screen. (Perhaps she didn’t read any fiction novels in her youth, I concluded.) Having received what I deemed the incorrect amount of empathy, I pulled the iPhone out of my back pocket and began scrolling. I needed to check how many hearts my most recent Instagram post received.