Hijacking the self-driving auto: A short story

Foreword

You’ve probably heard about Google’s driverless car, currently being tested on roadways around the land, and now we’re hearing about Chrysler’s roll-out of a self-driving semi—imagine seeing that in your rear-view mirror. To be totally accurate, I guess these are not driverless vehicles. It’s just that the actual “driver” is a robot of some sort, a computerized master executive that gathers relevant data and directs the vehicle appropriately. Besides, at this point, at least, there still needs to be a human “back-up” driver to take over if things don’t go as planned. This new, no-longer-futuristic technology crossed my mind as maybe a perfect analogy for my current quandary. Here's the story.

Chapter 1 

The other day, I was having lunch with a friend, and we were talking about life and aging and adventures and such—common topics for lunch with this long-time friend. As she talked about her travels in recent months and her plans for a very active summer, I had this “ah ha!” moment. I hadn’t thought about it in advance and didn’t quite understand what it meant, but I explained it to her like this: I feel like my life is in a bit of a rut. Too much sameness. Every day is just every day. Even “events” fall into predictable categories and sort of run together. I hadn’t especially noticed this, although I had felt a bit cabin feverish over the winter. But now I had a hint of what was behind this small sense of ill ease that had been floating around my mind of late—not acutely troubling, just vaguely nagging. I said to her, “I need something extraordinary in my life.” Not something monumental or extreme. Just something extra-ordinary. Something that marks a moment, a day, even a year as special, different.

So, I’ve been reflecting on that comment for several days, trying to understand what I meant and what I need to do. Slowly, but purposefully, I’m beginning to craft some ideas about what I’d like my life to hold that would feel extraordinary. Temporary adjustments, to be sure, but perhaps that’s the point—keeping my life populated with temporary extraordinary moments. Some ideas have come to mind and are slowly shaping themselves into plans. Among them, I’m eager to write more—which means doing things other than gazing at the sides of a rut, as ruts have little to offer as literary devices.

Chapter 2

Driving to the gym, I heard a short segment of a TED talk, part of a series on the theme of “identities.” The speaker said something about how important it is to be clear about your identity. That isn’t necessarily, she said, where you live or what you do for your work. It’s more about what matters to you, what you value and what principles you represent in your life. This is not a startlingly novel proposal, but given my frame of mind, her words hit home. I realized that I didn’t have a clear answer (even for myself) to her question as I heard it: Who am I in the world? If I looked at myself from the outside, what values would I see? What do I stand for? What message does my life convey to those around me? How would I describe my place, my meaning in the world?

Of course retirement plays a role in this. I’d venture to guess that this question is familiar to many retired folks, since we often can’t call on the things that used to define us—occupation, family role, position in an organization, etc. Still, there have been times in my life, before and since retirement, when an answer to that question was much clearer. But right now, it’s not. In that moment’s thought, I realized that my life has become pretty self-absorbed. It strikes me that events of the past several months may have nurtured this frame of mind—some deaths in the family that have made my mortality all too evident, my own struggles with health issues, changes in my habits (induced by routine, laziness, boredom) that have kept me inside, at home—all may have contributed to my sense of disconnection from the larger world.

So now, it seemed, my “extraordinary” task looked three-fold—and, paradoxically, more ordinary: to create extraordinary moments in the everyday, to be sure that some of those are about something bigger than myself, and to write more about it all.

Chapter 3

As it happens, just before my trip to the gym, my partner had mentioned an article she just read about changing norms regarding disability language—i.e., how people with disabilities prefer to be named. It sounds fascinating and important, a window on dramatic shifts in the world of disability and disability rights. I expressed interest, which was totally genuine, but I didn’t think much about doing anything more with it than reading it and discussing it with her. She even suggested it as a blog topic, a proposal I set aside. But after the “identity” comment, I thought about it again. The article and what I might do with it now embodied just the sort of thing I’m looking for—something out of the ordinary, something that meshes with the values I want to represent, and something to trigger write-able thoughts.

Chapter 4

I came home from the gym to find a Smithsonian article about this self-driving semi. Nice analogy, I thought: I’ve been taking a ride in a self-driven vehicle that’s nicely programmed to follow the same routes, safely traversing the streets of my life without much thought from me. Safe, maybe, but being safe is not the same as being alive.

So then I wondered: It this just another version of a recurrent theme in our lives? Does everyone have these periods—you realize that you’ve gone on auto-pilot and that it’s time to grab the wheel? I bet so … or at least lots of us. I know I’ve been here before. On one occasion, I remember writing here about computer ruts, and on another, talking about making summers noteworthy—a different focus each time, but a similar point. And I expect I’ll be here again. This time around, it just took a spontaneous comment to call my attention to my own ruttedness, jerk my attention back to the road and, to stretch an analogy, the many other roads I could be traveling. Once that happened, things started to move, to shift. Now my job is to turn off the auto-pilot, stay alert, get busy driving my life, and open my eyes to the possibilities for extraordinary moments. Summer seems a perfect time to do that.

Afterword 

Stay tuned: there may be a self-driving vehicle commandeered by a genuine human traveling the streets near you, headed for something extraordinary. We could make it a caravan, if you’re so inclined.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Epcot, APA, and the unending search for identity

Some time ago, I read about a study where they gave subjects glasses to wear that turned everything upside down. Looking through these lenses, subjects would step up to enter a room, because the panel above the door seemed to be at their feet. They would raise their right hand to reach something that was on their left. At first, folks felt really disoriented. But eventually, it became “normal,” and they were able to master this new view with ease. I think about that study when I find myself making a conscious effort to see things differently. Especially, to shift from a critical perspective (my standard lens) to a more open and positive one (the inverted version). Over the past several days, I had a flock of opportunities to try inverting some lenses. 

I just got back from a trip to Florida. Yup, Florida in August. Temp in the 90s and humidity to match. We went primarily to attend the annual convention of the American Psychological Association (APA), so we had no control over the date. While we were in Orlando, we also visited Epcot, which I had heard described as sort of a science theme park. With lens inversions everywhere I turned, I came away kind of dizzy. 

Epcot Entrance

We started at Epcot, where I had anticipated scientific wonders and fascinating, little-known facts about the earth, space, and the future of both. Instead, we found your basic carnival rides disguised as educational “experiences,” with over-priced souvenirs hawked at every opportunity and mediocre food purveyed in crowded spaces reminiscent of my middle school lunchroom. At least that was my critical, adultomorphic response … perhaps heightened by the visible avarice of small children and the stress levels of their parents. I couldn’t help but wonder, what will these children do with all those mouse ears? And how will their parents pay for this extravagant visit to the county fair on steroids?

But when I managed to apply my curiosity and my education in developmental psychology instead of my skepticism, I saw something quite different. Imagine the challenge of creating experiences that engage the interest of children, tweens, and teens while at the same time teaching them something. Framed in this way, some of the “experiences” were really clever: tests of reaction time and dexterity, opportunities to design a “perfect society” based on personal values, a quick trip through the history of communication (which actually recognized the role of Islamic thinkers in preserving the knowledge lost in the Dark Ages), a ride that simulated the g-forces encountered during blast-off and a slingshot acceleration courtesy of the moon. There weren’t a lot of these, and some lines stretched to almost an hour. But still, the day at Epcot wasn’t, in my mind, a total bust. Besides, the scorching heat and drenching humidity meant that the crowds were relatively light. Can’t complain about that.

Florida has nice skies, too!

Then came APA. I have been ambivalent about this organization and its conference since long before my retirement. It feels sort of stuffy and pretentious to me, with many folks preoccupied with their status and with finding many ways to flaunt it. Also, many of the presentations remind me of the old question about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Scientific psychology is surprisingly able to slice and dice the most intriguing experiences into tiny crumbs that feel meaningless and even absurd in themselves. The idea, of course, is that in combination, they will create meaningful knowledge. But lots of sessions at this conference seem to me to be light years away from any such synthesis. All of this triggers my critical tendencies big time.

On the other hand, I regularly see friends at APA that I don’t see any other time. These are people I really care about, many of whom are doing truly important, socially relevant work. And the simple coming together of thousands of people also often brings surprising interactions. We encountered an old friend from our time in New Hampshire and had a wonderful, extended lunch conversation with her and her friend. We went to dinner with a heterosexual couple whom I had never met before, whose work as allies to the LGBTQ community is informed by broad-based and deeply held social justice values. The conversation was wide ranging and deep, and it left me feeling both heard and educated. A perfect inversion of the invisibility I often feel in the larger organization.

We also went to some really thoughtful and thought-provoking sessions, especially on the role of psychology in informing and shaping public policy. Some sessions were focused on efforts to protect the rights of LGBT folks, and some highlighted other social justice concerns—racial and class equality, prisoners’ rights, support for families facing financial crises, and others. The complexity and sophistication of these public policy efforts are just so impressive. In these sessions, I was reminded how important psychology’s role can be in the world. Seen from this perspective, APA didn’t seem like a waste after all.

Ducks in the hotel lobby fountain. Really!

Then, as if Epcot and APA hadn’t torqued my perspective enough, I ran smack into an old bugaboo: the question of who I am, really, in this setting. The preface: before I retired, I used to regularly present papers at APA. For a time, my work was known and well respected in these circles of folks whom I admire. When conversations popped up, I was an active participant, and I was heard and respected by people I listen to and respect. Now, my place is so much less clear. No one is rude to me. In fact, these folks are very gracious. But I am really aware that I am not, now, “part” of it all. I am on the outside, watching and listening in. My partner, on the other hand, is really churning in her career. Lots of the work she did years ago is increasingly being noticed and honored. She is at the very center of what’s happening in our circle of “homies” at APA.

I know that I chose this position. And I know that I keep on choosing it by not focusing my time and energy on staying in touch with the developments in my field, by not presenting papers at this and other conferences. And usually, I’m quite fine with that. But something hit me this time. My partner was out doing a gig one evening, and I got bored and lonely. I was at loose ends, unable to decide what to do with my time. And sitting in the hotel room, I really saw clearly how different our professional lives are now. How I actually don’t have a professional life, while she has a very vibrant one. Maybe more to the point, I realized that I am at a bit of a loss about how to navigate that difference in a way that joins integrity in my own life and enthusiasm for hers.

So my task now reminds me of that old inverted lens study. I need to find that alternative lens, the one that will guide me to a position of ease and comfort in settings where I used to be, but now am not, in the professional ingroup. One that swaps confusion and discomfort for joy and fulfillment. It’s not unlike the change in perspective around Epcot or around the merits of APA. But I’m guessing this shift will be more difficult—and probably more important.

In truth, this is an old and familiar task, already navigated many times: toddlerhood, adolescence, midlife, and right at retirement. It involves crafting yet another answer to the recurring question: Who will I be now, in this setting?

Today, I’m back home, settling into the pattern of my days. Here, I don’t find myself at loose ends when my partner is busy. I have lots to do, many things I find gratifying (like this blog). But this other issue still itches at the back of my mind. APA and its clones will reappear, and I’d rather not be caught off balance again. So I guess I have to put some thought into this now, while the dust is settled.

Maybe I should buy a bright red sports car or get a tattoo and some piercings instead. It would be easier.

A weekend at the shore … and a confrontation with existential angst.

 This is a story in two parts about, first, a trip to the Oregon coast and, second, reflections on matters less … um … uplifting. Like death and terror and The Hunger Games. It all fits together, odd though that may seem. It’s complicated, though, and it took me a while to decide whether to write this blog. But here it is. So come along for the twisting journey from seagulls to existential angst.

It all began when my partner and I set out last Wednesday for a trip to Oregon. Our sojourn began with the purported reason for the trip: a panel presentation in Salem. The panel focused on the movie “Ballot Measure 9,” which details the events surrounding Oregon’s 1992 experience with virulent and even violent anti-LGBT politics. We both got to talk about the parallels between Ballot Measure 9 and Colorado’s Amendment 2, which happened in the same year. It was a great event with lots of folks in attendance, good discussion, and welcome political energy.

The next morning, over an excellent breakfast, we shared one of those wonderful conversations that make these friends so special. On this particular morning, we talked at length about life, aging, and dying. Our collective fear of death, despite all the philosophizing to the contrary. The difficulty of accepting its inevitability. The denial that makes us search for a cure to this or that, as if the end wouldn’t come if we could just cure this or that. And the realization that we (individually and collectively) keep doing things to prolong life (or at least to avoid shortening it). We take vitamins, eat blueberries, drink milk with Omega 3, exercise, avoid second-hand smoke, get regular check-ups, etc., etc.

We do these things in the name of improving the years we have, even as we cling to the rhetoric telling us that they’ll extend our life (indefinitely?). We do them even though we know that more years doesn’t necessarily mean more good years. As one of our friends put it, citing a Ted Talk she’d heard: Let's be clear: the years we add aren’t young years.

This wasn’t a morbid conversation, but a realistic one. We all die, after all. As I once read, despite all the magic of modern medicine, the mortality rate remains stubbornly at 100%. It was really good to have this discussion with such thoughtful people ... in this case, people who are much younger than I and who therefore have a different relationship with aging. It felt like a relief. I think about all this often, but don’t often have a chance to process it much.

But before I continue with this train of thought—because it will clearly not be as fun as photos of the Oregon coast—let me share tales of days on the beach, which is where we headed after breakfast.

Unlike our earlier Oregon trip where we were somehow blessed with lovely sunsets in the midst of storms all around, this time the weather was ferocious, and the sea shared the mood. It rained hard as we drove to the coast, watching rivers raging and spilling over their banks, the wind pushing the rain horizontally across the road. But we got lucky with the weather once we arrived. It seemed to stop raining every time we went out—and started again each time we got in the car or returned home from a walk.

Dodging between rainstorms (if not raindrops), we watched the stormy sea ...

were greeted by Mildred, my gull friend from our last trip (whose a little pixelated in this photo; she's third from the right in the group photo) ...

         

cruised along the shore, spotting pussy willows in new bloom, huge logs thrown up by the storm, and trees left suspended by eroding soil ...

and explored tide pools ...

During these lovely moments, our earlier conversation about death slipped into the background. But it was to come back to me, wrapped in a book I’d been reading.

On the plane trip to Oregon, I was reading The Hunger Games. I was curious about the hype surrounding this book / movie, and I had heard an NPR story that presented it as an anti-war allegory. So I decided to read it on this trip and got well into the first book of the trilogy before we arrived.

Then, one night, snuggled down in our nice cottage at the coast, I had a really awful dream about fear (terror, really) and betrayal and a sense of inescapable danger. I didn’t dare go back to sleep, and spent the next couple of hours trying to figure it out—in the shower, walking on the beach. It finally made sense to me in the context of the book and our earlier discussion of death. The story line of the book was the story line of my dream—not the details, not the characters, not even the events. But the feelings. And that story line shared a feeling left over from our earlier conversation about death and its inevitability.

I won't be finishing that trilogy. Partly because I think it's an awful story, made worse by at the fact of its incredibly positive reception and large following. But the larger reason is that it touched something so terror-stricken that to return to it would be insane.

Clearly, I don't feel so casual and intellectually distant from death and its inevitably—or its approach. But I sure don't need to encounter the stark reality of it through a story that's so disturbing in its own right. Instead, let me sort it through in the company of friends.

The rest of our time at the coast was wonderful, full of walks between raindrops, good food, and interesting conversations, capped off by dinner at a restaurant with an amazing view where Charlize Theron once filmed a movie scene.

I’ll definitely be back—to the Oregon coast and my gull, Mildred, that is. Not to The Hunger Games.