DRAFT: Back to the Future

Back to the Future: A Non-Traditional Student

When I returned as a “non-traditional” student this year after an 18-year absence, I didn’t expect to feel particularly advantaged. I’d logged a lot of time in the small-business and business writing world, so I knew I wasn’t arriving entirely unprepared. The fascinating fun part is the sudden view that has opened for me: a crystal-clear contrast of my own digital “then-and-now” is unmistakable in a student context. In every other life aspect, the gradual, thorough digital saturation has been so steady and uninterrupted that it feels seamless. In school, today becomes juxtaposed with how I did it before—and the chasm is revealed.

Thankfully, business (as well as my own interests) has kept me technologically engaged, so I haven’t struggled to bridge a basic skills gap. I have a theory that the only way we get out-moded is by being so attached to how we are used to doing something that we forfeit the opportunity to explore anything else—new things and old alike. They say the old railroad owners went bankrupt because they believed they were in the railroad business, but they had customers because they were in the transportation business. They were unwilling to evolve as a transportation industry. But I wonder if out-moding can go either way: an unwillingness to move forward surely stymies us, but discarding an earlier human skill-set because we think we’ve “evolved” beyond needing it may be just as treacherous. My first child is almost old enough to be my classmate, so it’s interesting for me to hear young adults talk about their grandparents sympathetically, that it’s sad how they have no life, given how severely digital-communication-impaired they are. I’ve often been reminded of a great quotation I once read: When I was a youth, I was impressed by people who are clever. I am older now, and I’m impressed by people who are kind. [cite speaker] (complete this thought.)

Of course, I’ve had a couple of Back to the Future moments, like when a student employee noticed that I’d written down an office location incorrectly. She helpfully explained, “Um, FYI, I’m pretty sure there’s no building on campus called the ELWC.” I told her that when she was in pre-K, the WSC was the ELWC. And BTW, BYU used to be in the WAC, before it was the MWC. But that was even before the MOA was TBA.

I’m not usually unsettled by change, but for nostalgic reasons, it was still fun to discover that some things are the same: the carillon bells, the Tuesday devotionals and the bookstore candy counter remain as constant as planetary fixtures. Other things have changed so much they are almost unrecognizable. The re-engineered Harold B. Lee Library is remarkable in every way, but the most notable difference in the HBLL since 1991 is easy to spot: Today, it has about 350 more computers available for student use.

My first season at BYU was from 1988 to 1991, on the cusp of the digital tide. We were just beginning to glimpse that new communication technologies would soon become an all-access party, but even then, the idea of universally connected communication seemed destined for entirely practical purposes—people and organizations doing business more efficiently with each other. Entertainment and social interaction of any kind was solidly in another category. You had a computer because you were a student; you had a Nintendo because you needed a break. There were plenty of computers on campus—but 99.9% of them were for faculty and administration purposes. The only people I knew who used e-mail were executives with tech companies and university professors. My dad was a professor at BYU at the time, and he got a big kick out of exchanging electronic mail with his brother in Logan, a professor at USU.

The computer lab in the library, to my memory, offered maybe a dozen PCs and 3 or 4 Macs. You had to pay to use a computer in 15 minute increments, so most students didn’t do any real writing there; they’d bring their work to the lab on a floppy disk just for printing. Most students still didn’t own a computer, and many who did hadn’t invested in a printer yet. Before my husband was even my fiancé, he bought his first PC and dot-matrix printer—an Epson 8088 with a 20 MB hard drive. (My iPhone stores about 400 times that much.) His father, a CPA and investment advisor, was alarmed at this ridiculous extravagance. What kind of a student needs to have his very own computer? Not every student apartment had even one computer, so there was a lot of borrowing and bribing going on.

Being the token almost-40-year-old in some of my classes presents an interesting mixed bag of perceptions about the digital literacy of “older” people. Overall, assumptions from young students seem to be roughly divided into two categories: (1) patience and compassion for this mom, who is probably doing something that’s totally new and hard for her, or (2) over-crediting and respect for this woman, who has probably been doing this for years and is just making it official now. Both are partly true.

I’m a prolific texter. I have two teenage sons with a full roster of extra-curricular activities, and family texting keeps the wheels on the train. But I am aware that this is not (yet) totally typical for mothers. In one of my summer classes, we were divided into groups to create oral presentations. In arranging for collaborative time, we exchanged contact info and I asked one male student, “Do you text?” He said he does, and then using his best Eagle Scout manners, he politely offered to teach me how to text on my phone. I laughed, and without thinking, said, “I’m guessing your mom only uses her phone for actual calls.” I apologized and thanked him for the offer, but assured him I already knew how.

My dad retired five years ago, but before then, there was no point in trying to reach him on his cell phone. It was never on. Church callings have kept him busier since his retirement than he was before it—a fact that I believe has contributed to his being fully conversant with cell phones. Before, Mom and Dad would head out for a destination with the plan to meet up with grandkids later, cheerfully calling over their shoulders, “We’ve got the phone with us.” And I’d holler back, “Remember it only works when you turn it ON!”

This little point of discussion got a lot of airtime: Dad didn’t see why the phone should be turned on when he’s not using it. Answer: So we can reach you. But he knows when we’ll be trying to reach him, and he’ll turn it on then. Besides, it wastes the battery. It’s like idling your car. When I told him it consumes a great deal less energy than idling your car, he said fine—it’s like a flashlight, then. Why would he turn on a flashlight and then put it in his pocket? I needed another angle. Dad’s a fisherman; maybe that tortured metaphor will make more sense: Keeping your phone ON is like having your fishing line out, even when you aren’t hungry. Something nice might happen!

Shortly after the flashlight exchange, I overhead my younger son’s scout leaders (one newly married) talking about a similar frustration with their mothers. “You have to turn the phone ON, mom!” He laughed. “Old people are funny about cell phones!” I almost started to share the flashlight story when he turned to me and said, “Oh—sorry—I hope you weren’t offended that I said that.” (Um, I wasn’t—but I might be now!)

[conclusion]