Added: Trudy Chasse - Date: 20.02.2022 07:51 - Views: 15136 - Clicks: 1867
Not because I was alone with my thoughts, but because I was alone with my phone. The usual questions: When was the last time technology was only an accessory to my life? When was I not constantly thinking about all the ways I am surveilled? When was technology just… fun?
I retraced the lineage of devices I used before my smartphone: the Razr flip, the iPod, the Discman, the Walkman, the Tamagotchi, the robot dog, the Game Boy, the — hold up. I had a robot dog? Somewhere on the Connecticut highway, the memories came rushing back.
I got Tekno the Robotic Puppy as a gift from my mother inwhen I was nine.
I carried his plastic bone so that he never went hungry. I brought him to show and tell and felt sheepish from all the attention we got. I had my cousins, but I would still wander off alone, in search of the sorts of adventures that always knocked at the doors of the protagonists in all my favorite books.
These are the sort of things I, a precocious youngster, pondered aloud to Tekno — I never gave him another name — as he became my confidante. He was both dream journal and personal diary, the imaginary black box inside him that stored all my secrets — from which Tom or Nick or Mike I crushed on that week, to my dreams about getting lost in the forest, the sky indigo and all my fingernails gone.
I was a walking Harlow experimentonly instead of a wired mom I had a wired best friend. It walked, barked, ate, slept, and mimicked emotions. It could be taught voice and visual commands and was even responsive to its environment.
And yet, until now, I had somehow completely repressed its entire existence. As kids, my younger sister and I always asked our parents for a real dog.
Its shadow still lives in the psyche of the diaspora. Every Lebanese family has their stories. When the militias approached my father's village, Rin Tin Tin would alert the neighborhood. My grandfather found Rin Tin Tin bleeding out on his doorstep. That wasbut my family tells the story like it happened last week.
I read this poem to my mother in our kitchen as she chopped parsley, the knife hitting the chopping board at the end of each line. We had that in common. She was nine years old the first time she was jumped by a stray. I only heard about their violence. I only heard their howls at night. I reminded her about her childhood cat, which I also heard about all the time growing up. For a year, my mother and her siblings fed the cat, bathed her, sang to her, confided in her, and put her to bed in an old baby bed. My mother still believed the cat somehow made its way back to the village eventually.
Turns out that history repeated itself many years later, when I was 10 years old and my mother put my Tekno in a trash bag and whisked him away from me.
I pointed out this parallel to my mother. She looked up from the filo dough she was spreading over a tray. I was getting invited to birthday parties.
I was speaking up in class. I was showing my writing to people. A fake best friend was definitely less essential. He walked, he barked. I liked his bark. He had eyes, so he had feelings. It was actually so cute. A lot! As she settled on a small stuffed elephant, the toddler pulled on her ear to reprimand her. He reasoned with her in animated gibberish. He handed her a different toy, only to snatch it away at the last second, hugging her neck instead.
She barked and licked his face. Later, he chased her around the house, trying to pull her tail. This was all closer to Calvin and Hobbes than to Harlow. I took my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture. Which is to say, there are also people. Sneakers Apparel Luxury See All. How to's Hacks See All.A girl and her dog game
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