Scrolling through the television channels to see what I could watch started this train of thought. My usual TV, a lovely large SMART Samsung, had decided to turn blue. Blue permeated every single channel and nothing could be done about it. So I am now watching an old TV, which is not SMART at all. I cannot get Netflix or any other such thing. My choices are drastically limited. There is only so much of Wheeler Dealers one can watch.
I am a child of the 70s. Born in 1959, my formative years were spent in dusty Bulawayo, when the country was still called Rhodesia. We did not have many gadgets and gizmos. We did have a very advanced lighting system in the lounge however; ceiling under-lighting that could change colours by way of a remote. This was unparalleled technology and suited the luxury wall-to-wall carpeting, another brand new concept.
Our highlight was my dad’s record player, standing proudly next to the drinks cabinet, a very necessary feature in any colonial home. Petula Clark rang out from the turntable, as did Jim Reeves and Diana Ross. Dressed in bellbottoms and platform shoes, I played Bay City Roller tunes and songs by David Essex, whose face was affixed to the wall behind my bed. My father would yell fire and brimstone if a record was scratched so I’d hold my breath as I put the needle into the groove praying the record would start without a scraping shriek.
In terms of communications, the fastest way to send a message was by telegram. These were costed per word, so messages were cryptic, brief and to the point such as, ‘Uncle Graham died. STOP. Funeral Monday.’ To keep us connected at home, we had one telephone with an extension in my parent’s bedroom. A great big dial-up black thing, it nestled in the corner of the entrance hall where it met the corridor. There was no such thing as an answer machine so we had to run to answer it before the other person disconnected. The sneakiest thing my siblings and I could do was to pick up the extension and eavesdrop gossipy conversations.
Our television was state-of-the-art. A big square lump of tech that required manual adjustments of volume. There was one channel and a wondrous test pattern that came on before programmes. Often there was just ‘snow’ to look at. Our one indulgence was being allowed to watch Bonanza while eating our dinner on our laps on a Friday night. Little Joe and Hoss galloped their way into our hearts.
I developed a love for photography at this time too. The joy of taking photos was often dashed when collecting the pictures up from the development shop. Two weeks later, after twenty four photos had been taken, I would see that over half of them were blurred or showed my feet or the top of people’s heads.
I remember when the fax machine came into being. The absolute wonder at a machine rolling out writing or a drawing from somewhere else was mind-blowing. We sent faxes to each other for fun. In the morning, we often saw a heap of fax paper strewn across the floor as people played pranks or sent stuff by mistake. In the 1990s I lived in a Philippine island village which had one phone for the local population. The day they got a fax machine was a day of celebration. People queued up to send a hand-written page to their families and friends. At 100 pesos a page it wasn’t cheap but oh, the excitement!
About that time I got my first mobile phone. It was the size of a brick. It had a sturdy antennae and a substantial charger stand. It had to charge all night to fire up. When I graduated to a simple Nokia that could actually text and talk, I felt like a bona-fide businesswoman.
The internet was futuristic, a foreign concept, as out of our lived experience as Star Wars. When emails were introduced I was gob-smacked. This magic superseded music tapes, videos and pagers. We could connect with people in other countries, instantly. We could even find love online.
Since then, I have seen computers evolve from massive machines to sleek laptops. I can face-time my friends and family in Australia and America and use my phone for any kind of transaction, from ordering food to booking a trip. I scroll though TikTok of an evening, peering into the lives of people across the globe. There seem to be no more secrets anymore. Life is an open book. Influencers dictate our happiness. Others tell us what to think and believe.
The Disney song, It’s a Small World, goes like this,
It’s a world of laughter
A world of tears
It’s a world of hopes
And a world of fears
There’s so much that we share
That it’s time we’re aware
It’s a small world after all
The world is getting ever smaller. It has become a SMART world. I wonder how this has changed us. I wonder who is being left behind, who is struggling to keep up, to conform. When followers equal success, what does this say about those who do not have an online presence? It’s difficult to recognize authenticity. It’s impossible to measure up.
As I enter 2024, I want to be unashamedly me. I may be trailing behind technology and navigating this digital world with arthritic knees but I still have a reservoir of experience from which to draw. I don’t have to measure up. I can have my own thoughts and beliefs. I am learning, with advancing age, that I am enough.
I still have room to grow. I still have things to learn. I might even do a dance and post it on TikTok but I don’t think the world is quite ready for that. So I will do the SMART thing, and focus on the important aspects of life, on authenticity, love and happiness even as I watch another gripping episode of Wheeler Dealers.
What do you want for the year ahead?
How does social media impact you?
What does being authentic mean to you?