On a recent trip to NYC, I was aghast at how many people walked around Manhattan staring at their phones. More than once, I nearly tripped over someone who stopped short to look down at their phone. As a former resident of New York, the experience was unsettling. As I dodged another commuter whose eyeballs seemed surgically attached to their device, I tried to recall what it was like when we lived there.
Walking like it’s 1999
The first time we lived in New York, I had just landed a job on Nickelodeon’s Blue’s Clues. Fresh out of milquetoast Phoenix and new to the wicked streets of NYC, I spent much of my early commutes getting acquainted with the sights, sounds, and smells of New Amsterdam.
It didn’t take long for the city and me to become BFFs. Once we were familiar, my trip from Astoria to Times Square was much like every other worker’s in New York. Purposeful. Quick, yet not hurried. Plotted, but open to secret detours for dodging toddling tourists.
In 1999, Mp3 players were becoming more affordable, and my Rio player was always close by. 32MB of tracks got me door to door. I joined the ranks of multiple New Yorkers who breezed around town with headphones firmly affixed in our ear canals. It seemed so innocent. After all, I still strode along looking up—because how else do you cross the street without waiting for the light?
Skip ahead to 2004, and we had left and returned to NYC. This time, a new element joined my cross-town commute: the cell phone. My fast-paced, high-stress job required me to carry one at all times, though during my 25-minute walk to work it usually stayed in my pocket. Urgent matters would sometimes pop up before 8:30 AM, but since I would be in the office in a few minutes, there was no point in walking around with a phone pressed to my ear. That didn’t stop many of my fellow commuters from doing exactly that.
Even then I didn’t understand it. No judgment, because who was I to say what pressing matters took place in someone else’s world? Walking down Madison Avenue, I couldn’t help but make up little private stories about each one. She’s a doctor, talking her surgical team through prep on an emergency brain operation. That guy’s talking to his mother in Spain because it’s the only time the zones sync up for them. This guy he… well, he’s laughing loudly at his own raunchy joke, and I’m guessing it’s not his mother on the other end. Oh well.
In 2004, we were getting more distracted. But we were still looking up.
What’s so important, anyway?
Here we are in the age of the smartphone and all of the distractions they bring. It’s not only NYC. Sitting in traffic in my little Chicago suburb, I constantly marvel at the number of drivers who, if they’re not texting while driving, can’t wait for their car to stop at a light before dropping their heads back to their smartphones. And yes, back in New York, the masses of walkers are looking down rather than up at what’s in front of them.
The question that keeps looping in my head is: What could possibly be so important?
The irony is that I frequently hear people complain about not being able to get away from their jobs. Their bosses are constantly asking them to stay late for “just one more thing.” They’re pressured to work even after they leave the office. I get it. I’ve been there. But it seems to me that those people would welcome—nay, crave—the bliss of not focusing on their device for even a few brief minutes. Even on planes we now have wifi, so the peace of a flight disconnected from a chaotic world is gone.
It reminds me of a scene in Night at the Museum where Paul Rudd’s character walks into the kitchen wearing multiple pagers and phones on his belt. One rings, and before picking up, he complains to Ben Stiller, “Oh God, leave me alone, amiright?”
What the hell are we doing?
Shaking my fist at the sky?
Perhaps I’m just shaking my fist at the sky. I do have the insight to consider that maybe I’m simply out of touch. But I can’t help it. As tech progresses, every new device promises it will make us more efficient. Less work. More downtime. But what seems to be bearing out is the exact opposite. The more connected we are digitally, the less we’re connected physically—to each other and the world in front of us.
A more gratifying part of our trip was noticing how often our 19-year-old looked around and pointed out things on our walks through Manhattan. For the most part, he kept his phone in his pocket. I remain hopeful for our youth.
People of every age lament the loss of simpler times. In twenty years, Gen Z will probably complain that nobody walks on the ground anymore; they’ll all be hovering in their drone shoes. Or something like that.
I realize that I can only manage my own choices. I can choose to put my phone away on the train and gaze out the window or read a book. When everyone is safe at home at bedtime, I can silence my notifications. I can watch the concert instead of recording the whole thing. I’m not perfect; I’m not always successful.
The one thing I try to remind myself every day: Look up.
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