Every day it happens.
Every day I walk on campus, and every day I say hello to someone, and
every day they stare straight ahead into the distance like I don’t even
exist. That’s when I notice the little
white pieces of plastic stuck in their ears, and I realize that, even though
we’re
standing right next to each other, we’re on opposite shores of a
technology ocean. They’re listening to
music, or staring at some stupid video on Instagram, or scrolling through endless
messages searching for a sign of love or friendship or just maybe something
that will help them forget that if they don’t hurry up some teacher will count
them tardy.
It wasn’t always this way.
Phones and screens didn’t always dominate or make us feel alone even in
the middle of a crowd. People were more
important. The simple pleasures of life
were more important.
Ray Bradbury knew this and he worried about what might
happen if tools and toys continued to isolate us. He didn’t live to see the rise of the smart
phone, but he did see people isolate themselves in metal boxes (cars) instead
of taking buses, trains, or subways together, and he saw how people retreated
from their own neighborhoods to shelter in the dark in front of their
televisions.
Bradbury didn’t want that life. He didn’t drive. In the evenings, he walked the streets near
his house. That’s a healthy thing—pick
up any magazine that emphasizes self-improvement, or sports, or creativity, or
business success, and you’re likely to find an article about how taking a walk
can help you physically, mentally, and even spiritually. The only thing weird about walking is the
fact that so many of us don’t do it when we don’t have somewhere to go.
But our communities are no longer built for walking. Everything is so spread out, and the
connecting tissues aren’t sidewalks but streets wide enough to make you feel
lucky to get to the other side without getting killed on the way. Traffic deaths are down, but bicyclist and
pedestrian deaths are up. I used to ride
hundreds of miles on my road bike every month, but it’s been in the garage for
years because I’m terrified of drivers who are distracted by their screens in
their speeding metal boxes.
Some people wonder why anyone would go for a walk. One night, when Bradbury was enjoying an
evening stroll, the police rolled up and asked him what he was doing. Bradbury said, “I’m putting one foot in front
of the other.” The officer didn’t like
that reply and the conversation became intense.
It can be intimidating to face a person in authority who
confronts us, especially when we feel like we’re right and we’re powerless to
call out the injustice. I imagine that
Bradbury felt afraid, frustrated, and angry.
When he got home, I picture him shaking with rage as the numbness wore
off and the adrenaline kicked in.
That’s when he sat down and wrote “The Pedestrian.”
When you read “The Pedestrian” you come away with a lot of
ideas. This is a major accomplishment,
because the plot itself couldn’t be simpler: a guy goes for a walk and gets
questioned by a police car, which arrests him and drives off. If you’re taking an English class I suppose
you could analyze this in terms of exposition (8:00 P.M. on a cold November
evening in 2053 A.D.), the inciting incident (the car turns a corner and shines
a light on Leonard Mead), rising action (the interrogation), climax (he gets
arrested), falling action (the car drives off past Leonard’s house), and
resolution (there isn’t one).
The thing is, Bradbury weaves his themes of humanity,
technology, and authority with a vivid description of setting and dialogue that
creates sympathy for the protagonist and a sense of tone throughout the story.
[Stopped here to teach Second Period]
INSTALLMENT TWO
In my learning community we know that technology comes from the
ancient Greek word “techne” – cleverness. Unfortunately, many people aren’t very clever
in using tools. They don’t know how
their phone works or even what the internet actually is. Have you ever walked into a dark room where
someone is watching TV? They just sit
there, slumped on soft furniture, slack-jawed, staring emptily at the screen. They only notice you if you get in the way.
As Leonard Mead walks past the houses in his neighborhood,
he imagines the people inside, staring blankly at screens full of comedies, dramas,
and murders. How can a human being watch
a murder and not be affected by the brutality and the tragedy? Bradbury’s
description – the cold stillness, the soulless blue flickers in “tomb-like”
houses – makes us realize that our focus on entertainment interferes with our
presence in reality. We are losing our
humanity and our connection to each other.
We begin to feel like Leonard Mead is the only thinking, feeling, living
soul in the city, which suddenly becomes sad when Bradbury mentions the three
million people who live there and drive around every day.
Because of this contrast, Leonard (who otherwise seems like
a pretty ordinary guy) stands out as beautifully human. He truthfully answers every question he’s
asked. He doesn’t get upset when he says
he’s a writer and the car insults him by saying “no profession.” We sympathize with Leonard when the car asks
if he’s married and he says, “No one wanted me.” It’s so deeply human and so vulnerable;
everyone wants love and secretly wonders if they deserve it.
Not only does the car not respond to this, when Leonard is
told to get in, he walks around and confirms his suspicion – there is no one in
the car. These days, that idea isn’t too
farfetched. I can “drive” my Tesla even
if I’m standing 50 feet away from it.
But Ray Bradbury wrote this story nearly 70 years ago, and the idea that
a car could show up with no one inside it was total science fiction. And poor Leonard: to whom could he
appeal? There was no one there. No one to reason with, argue with, laugh
with, or learn from. No one even to
fight with. Just a cold, metallic
threat.
[Stopped here to teach Fourth Period]
INSTALLMENT THREE
As readers in 2019, we experience a version of this impersonal
society every day. Maybe we sit on hold
while an automated recording tells us to “listen carefully because the options
have changed” (yeah, right). Maybe we
sit in fluorescent-lit boxes while teachers tell us what page in the textbook
or what to do if someone comes to shoot us.
Maybe we have to run across five lanes of traffic and pray some idiot
looks up from her text in time.
Ray Bradbury was a visionary. He wasn’t a rebel for taking a walk; he was
doing what has come naturally to human beings for thousands of years! He was, however, an effective storyteller,
and in that way, now he seems like a spokesman for humanity in a society that
increasingly focuses on material things and obedience.
The tone of “The Pedestrian” is lonely and sad. Bradbury’s setting and dialogue leave no
doubt that his attitude about our society is concerned. It’s clear that Bradbury believes we have
forgotten some very important things about what makes us human, and what makes
us humans able to coexist with each other.
Besides caring as individuals and connecting with each other
in public spaces, our relationship with technology and authority has
changed. Many of us no longer use our
tools; our tools use us. Studies suggest
that we check our phones more than 70 times each day. If we forget, push notifications demand that
we serve these tiny masters.
Our relationship with authority has also changed. The side of every LAPD patrol car says, “to
protect and to serve,” but many people understandably don’t feel that way about
the police anymore.
In “The Pedestrian” there was only police car left in the
whole city—not because people were nicer or less inclined to commit crimes, but
because they were off the streets, sitting alone in their houses. That’s confinement, not freedom. Bradbury’s vision of the city seems like a
massive, open-air prison where every house is a cell. The police car wasn’t there to protect or to
serve. Its only purpose in the story was
to judge the last free man for walking instead of staying inside and watching
TV. Its only purpose was to control
Leonard Mead and to get him off the street.
As you get to the end of this essay and go back to living
your life, you will make choices about technology that will determine your
future and your relationship with your community. “The Pedestrian” was a warning. If we succumb to the influence of our devices
(phones, computers, self-driving cars) or the influence of authority figures
(which include police, but also educators, religious leaders, peers, social
media influencers and others), we give up our free will. We become willing slaves.
# # # #
[Finished at 12:54]
No comments:
Post a Comment