Extract from The Guardian
David Sax
The internet is often a stream of
anxiety-inducing hatred. Solace can only be found in the real world
‘
Like
many others, I am seeking comfort away from the screen.’
Photograph: Alamy
Sunday
4 December 2016 23.00 AEDT
Five
days after the election of Donald Trump, I stood in line at the
airport wanting to kill time. I glanced at Twitter on my phone,
almost by instinct, to snuff out a momentary feeling of boredom. What
greeted me shouldn’t have been a surprise, given what I had read
all week: a steady stream of hate promised, chronicled, photographed
as it was unleashed throughout America, filled my timeline.
As
the plane began its taxi, my mind spiraled down an abyss
of dark thoughts. Was the America I knew, loved, and once
lived in, now a place I should viscerally fear? Would I witness this
hate firsthand? Would I walk by unsettling graffiti, or feel the
string of racism shouted as I spoke in front of crowds of strangers?
My stomach churned as the plane climbed, and when the seatbelt sign
turned off, I had to lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes,
taking deep breaths to stop my whole body from shaking.
As
I walked back to my seat, I unexpectedly spotted my friend Avi. “Oh
man,” I said, squeezing his head in a massive hug, “you have no
idea what a sight for sore eyes you are.” The relief in a familiar
face was immense. I sat back down, read a novel, had a great
conversation with my seat-mate and even slept a bit. By the time the
plane landed, the fear that had consumed me on takeoff seemed silly.
I
noticed that Twitter, Facebook and other digital forms of
communication fed and nurtured my very real anxiety until it consumed
me. Whenever I turned to the internet for a distraction, and even a
possible sense of reassurance, I was instead sent reeling to the
worst corner of my psyche. Only when I consciously stepped away from
the screen, did I regain some sense of calm and perspective.
I
wasn’t burying my head in the sand. One morning, in Washington, DC,
I read the newspaper over breakfast. While the news was increasingly
alarming, reading about it on the printed page didn’t spur the same
sense of panic that it did online. It was more manageable in paper.
And trust-worthy: there are no bots or fakes to worry about. It’s
all vetted enough to make it into print. The headlines didn’t
stream forward or suck me down a rabbit hole, either. They lay there,
next to my eggs and coffee, and relayed their information. No more.
No less.
Not
so long ago, the internet was a reliable escape from the harsh
reality of the world. Today, it is the reality we need to escape
from. Like many others, I am seeking comfort away from the screen.
The only things that seem to make any sense, and to lighten the
darkness, are those precious moments offline. Listening to a record.
Escaping into the pages of a familiar paperback. Playing board games
with friends. Seeking refuge from the uncertainty fed up so
efficiently online, in ways that feel grounding and familiar.
Inevitably,
these interactions lead me away from the echo chambers and into
face-to-face interactions with fellow humans and strangers. These
were conversations, not comments, which established empathy –
sometimes even greater degree of understanding. Online, it seemed
like an army of racist reactionaries had conquered America. But the
America I knew was still there, full of its usual problems and
prejudices, but also its broad smiles, big bellied laughs and
generous servings of abundance.
This
Thanksgiving, we gathered around the table, filled our glasses with
wine and our plates with turkey, laughed and talked, as Bonnie Raitt
spun on the turntable, and a fire crackled in the fireplace.
Throughout that epic meal, none of us picked up a phone, even to take
a photo. As our kids ran wild through the house, we openly shared our
fears, frustrations, and even hopes over what happened, and what
might come to pass.
We
weren’t ignoring the present for some pre-digital nostalgia. We
were taking hold of the world we could see and feel, while giving
thanks for the chance to connect, just for a brief moment, in a way
that felt really, truly, comforting.
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