"So what do you think?"
"Did he use a period?
"What's that got to do with it?"
"DID HE USE A PERIOD?"
"Honestly, I have no idea. Let me look...ok, no, no period."
"That's a good sign. So he just said 'okay,' then. Is it all lowercase?"
"No, just a capital K."
"You didn't tell me it was just a K."
"Why? Is that bad?"
"Well, there are two options. Either he was driving and had to send something quick because he didn't want to get caught texting, or he doesn't want to see you anymore. Either way, wait ten minutes and send back, 'Whatever, smiley face.'"
As I walked away from the pair, in search of a quieter corner of the park, it hit me: clearly, the answer to modern dating is The Sandlot.
I got my first cell phone when I graduated college, and I started dating Jonny one month later. Unfortunately, because I was too new to texting and too familiar with Jonny (we had been friends for twelve years at that point), our relationship lacked those tantalizing, cryptic messages that alternately soothe and jab the emotions. Nevertheless, I have witnessed text-heavy relationships among co-workers and friends, so I've seen the effects and heard the analyses. And I get it. I understand that texting provides a barrier of protection. I understand that it allows the user to think, to strategize, and when necessary, to calm down. I understand that texting takes the edge off rejection. It saves face.
But I've also seen the bewilderment and hyper-analysis of texting. I've seen the bizarre power play of intentionally waiting to return a text. I've seen the crutch and the cowardice, the endless sources of misunderstanding.
Texting: The New Fence
The text message is not just a method of communication; it's a strategic barrier. You can hide behind a phone. You can lob short bursts of communication to your friends, but you're still safe behind that fence. They can't truly get to you, and you're never forced to meet them face to face. I remember a time in preschool Sunday school when, had it been available, I could have really used a cell phone. I wanted desperately to play dress-up with three of the other little girls in class. They always went straight to the dress-up corner and launched themselves into the sparkliest, twirliest skirts, and I watched them and envied them from the other side of the room. At four years old, I was painfully shy. I often played by myself in Sunday school, or the sweet teachers would sit by me and talk to me while I colored (always within the lines). But I didn't really want to color; I wanted to be a princess with the other girls. Since I couldn't successfully play with them without talking to them, I colored away my Sunday school years. A cell phone would've removed the problem for me. I could have texted them something simple (a carefully crafted emoticon, I imagine) from across the room, gradually gained their confidence, and eventually transitioned our friendship from the digital realm to real life. That would have been the goal, anyway.
But I forget that the same barrier that would have protected four-year-old Emily from having to face her classmates would have also allowed her classmates to reject her with little emotional expenditure. Perhaps I would have sent them an introductory text. In return, they could have blocked my calls, sent a "We're busy" reply, or even failed to reply at all. It would be all too easy behind the communication fence.
We first see the barrier at work in The Sandlot when the boys evaluate their foe. The Beast has claimed a baseball from them, and the boys, fearful of The Beast's fierce temper, peer at their enemy's den through holes in a fence. They're curious about The Beast. They want to see him. They want their ball back from him. But they're safe behind that fence, so they stay where they are and launch a series of ill-fated attacks from their home base.
The first retrieval attempt is feeble. The boys slide a stick beneath the fence in an effort to shove the baseball to safety. The Beast bites the stick in half. Then follows a series of more sophisticated attempts.
- A pot attached to an Erector set
- A vacuum-rigged catcher's mask
- A homemade catapult that uses every piece of Smalls's Erector sets
- An airborne attack featuring Yah-Yah and a pulley
The Beast destroys each volley. The baseball is grimier now, and the boys are no closer to their goal because they have failed to engage their foe directly. They have literally launched communication over a fence, and The Beast, with little effort, has shut them down completely.
Silence: The Power Play
The Silent Treatment: is any ploy more childish? If you are engaged in conversation with someone and out of nowhere he just quits talking to you—stops listening, stops speaking—you are going to stab that man in the kidney. No jury will convict you; the guys deserves it. But transfer that same scenario to a texting relationship, and silence becomes an accepted norm. If you don't want to hear from someone, you can turn off your phone. It's that easy. Moreover, your silence gives you power. The other person is giving information. The other person is making the request for feedback. You can answer or you can maintain silence. You have the power to choose, and the other person is left guessing and waiting until you reply.
I once spent thirty minutes of company time with my co-workers deciphering the meaning of silence. One of my co-workers was in the beginning, flirting stage of a relationship, and she had texted a casual missive to her crush the night before. He had not replied. After reviewing the entire history of the texting relationship and evaluating the guy's habits, ten people in my office gave ten different interpretations of his silence.
In The Sandlot, The Beast is the master of the silent game. The boys gather all information they can on The Beast (most of it hearsay), and then they launch the previously mentioned over-the-fence attacks. They are sending communication after communication to The Beast, and they are revealing to him their strategies and weaknesses. From their attempts, The Beast can determine that they are desperate, ingenious, straightforward, inventive, adaptable, and determined. The Beast plays defense and withholds his own information, so the boys know only that he doesn't want to give up the baseball and that he is powerful enough to stop them.
The boys are forced to be cautious and creative because their foe knows them, but they do not know him. He has all the power.
Misinterpretation Is the Norm
The day after my co-workers gave their ten interpretations of silence, the truth came out in a surprise eleventh option: it turns out the guy had fallen asleep for the night before she had sent him the last text. He responded to her the next afternoon, but not before she had suffered a night of anxiety over his silence. Texts can never substitute for face-to-face communication because they can never reveal tone and body language. They are too easy to misinterpret and manipulate. Texts come, not necessarily from the impulse of a moment (as in regular communication), but rather too often from the careful study and clever use of many moments to create the perfect 140-character message.
We can visit The Sandlot yet again for practical application. The boys exhaust their money, time, energy, and goods (and mothers' goods) to outsmart The Beast, but even after all that, they do not know The Beast any better. They assume he is vicious, territorial, deadly.
The turning point only comes when Benny, through inspiration and desperation, decides to hop the fence and challenge The Beast directly. Benny prepares himself as best he can, laces up his new P. F. Flyers, and hops the fence. Only then does he understand the size and nature of The Beast, and even then, he is just beginning to learn. When the chase through town ends and the fence finally falls, Benny sees his foe up close.
The barrier is down. Silence is not an option. Misinterpretation is impossible.
Benny looks into his enemy's eyes and finds there a new friend—Hercules—who he never would have met and understood had he stayed behind the barrier.
I once spent thirty minutes of company time with my co-workers deciphering the meaning of silence. One of my co-workers was in the beginning, flirting stage of a relationship, and she had texted a casual missive to her crush the night before. He had not replied. After reviewing the entire history of the texting relationship and evaluating the guy's habits, ten people in my office gave ten different interpretations of his silence.
In The Sandlot, The Beast is the master of the silent game. The boys gather all information they can on The Beast (most of it hearsay), and then they launch the previously mentioned over-the-fence attacks. They are sending communication after communication to The Beast, and they are revealing to him their strategies and weaknesses. From their attempts, The Beast can determine that they are desperate, ingenious, straightforward, inventive, adaptable, and determined. The Beast plays defense and withholds his own information, so the boys know only that he doesn't want to give up the baseball and that he is powerful enough to stop them.
The boys are forced to be cautious and creative because their foe knows them, but they do not know him. He has all the power.
Misinterpretation Is the Norm
The day after my co-workers gave their ten interpretations of silence, the truth came out in a surprise eleventh option: it turns out the guy had fallen asleep for the night before she had sent him the last text. He responded to her the next afternoon, but not before she had suffered a night of anxiety over his silence. Texts can never substitute for face-to-face communication because they can never reveal tone and body language. They are too easy to misinterpret and manipulate. Texts come, not necessarily from the impulse of a moment (as in regular communication), but rather too often from the careful study and clever use of many moments to create the perfect 140-character message.
Entire magazine columns are devoted to dissecting the nuances of texts. For further reading, see these (but only if you're in the mood to fuel depression):
We can visit The Sandlot yet again for practical application. The boys exhaust their money, time, energy, and goods (and mothers' goods) to outsmart The Beast, but even after all that, they do not know The Beast any better. They assume he is vicious, territorial, deadly.
The turning point only comes when Benny, through inspiration and desperation, decides to hop the fence and challenge The Beast directly. Benny prepares himself as best he can, laces up his new P. F. Flyers, and hops the fence. Only then does he understand the size and nature of The Beast, and even then, he is just beginning to learn. When the chase through town ends and the fence finally falls, Benny sees his foe up close.
The barrier is down. Silence is not an option. Misinterpretation is impossible.
Benny looks into his enemy's eyes and finds there a new friend—Hercules—who he never would have met and understood had he stayed behind the barrier.
I figure that in the changing technological world we have two choices. We can sit in safety behind the fence and launch endless campaigns of vacuums and Erector sets at each other, or we can lace up our P. F. Flyers, hop the fence, and meet The Beast face to face. Who do you want to be: Bertram or Benny?
You don't even know who Bertram is, do you?
1 comment:
Yes, I DO know who Bertram is.
And I can think of another character who would have shunned texting: that would be one MICHAEL "SQUINTS" PALLEDOROUS. "Texting? TEXTING?! Forget that! I'm gonna go out on that diving board, and I'm gonna TAKE THE PLUNGE. And Wendy is gonna SAVE ME." :)
Post a Comment