I drive a lot and sometimes I need to make a quick phone call. Of course, I’m law abiding and hands-free. I have a hands-free blue tooth product by BlueAnt called the Supertooth II that’s mounted magnetically to the car visor. It’s the inexpensive model.
My sister, Jane, taught me how to use it. My family is filled with technophiles. Jane is not one of them. I mean, the woman doesn’t even check her email daily. But it seemed like she mastered the Blue Ant and was eager to show me how simple it was to use.
“It’s easy,” she says, one Saturday when we’re driving along the Staten Island Expressway. “All you have to do is talk.” Jane connects it into my cell phone, snaps it on the visor and presses a button.
The Blue Ant lights up. “Please state your command.”
“Call,” Jane replies confidently.
“Please state the name or number,” says the electronic voice.
“Jane.” My sister smiles.
“Jane?” says Blue Ant. “Calling Jane,” and in a few seconds, Jane’s cell phone is ringing.
I’m anxious to give it a try.
“Please state your command.”
“Call.”
“Please state the name and number.”
“Kate.”
“Kate?” Blue Ant seems like it needs some reassurance, so I nod. Jane laughs, and I suddenly realize that I’m nodding to an electrical device. A few seconds later, Kate’s phone is ringing. Her voice mail answers my Blue Ant’s call.
Not all my conversations with Blue Ant are amicable. I soon learn it does not recognize all names easily. While it seems to be able to handle Jane and Kate and any other name that has a long “A” sound, it has problems with others.
“Please state your command.”
“Call.”
“Please state your name or number.”
“Debbie.”
“Dan?”
“No Debeeeee.”
“Command timed out. Please try again.”
“Call!!!”
“Please state your name or number.”
“DEEEBBBEEEEE!!!!!!”
“Dona?’
At this point, I utter words that are not appropriate for this blog. My rant ends with the word "dummy.”
Something inside the Blue Ant clicks “Debbie? Calling Debbie.”
I’ve learned something. If I speak to the Blue Ant the same way it speaks to me, we get along better. For example, when I say “call Mom” it insists on calling “mobile one”, and frankly, I don’t even know who that is. When it finally gets the right number, I noticed that Blue Ant seems to read the “o” sound in “Mom” as a “u” sound. So now, I mimic the way it says a name to help it understand.
“Please state your command.”
“Call.”
“Please state your name or number.”
Instead of my normal Long Island accent, the tone I take is decidedly British. “Mum.”
“Mum?” says the Blue Ant. “Calling Mum”
And that’s the thing I like least about technology: having to change my own behavior to adapt to it. Sure in some cases it’s no big deal. I can call my mother “mum” so the Blue Ant will understand. But there are times when technology demands too much. And not everyone can keep up.
Sometimes those of us who are comfortable with technology fail to realize the changes it requires people to make. Take the library catalog, for instance. We all love the way an electronic catalog performs complex searches, slicing and dicing database records faster than a Ginsu knife can cut through a tomato. You can get pretty fancy with your search strategies. It's a wonderful thing. But what about the people who couldn't make the change from the card catalog to the electronic version? How do they find what they need in a library?
At the risk of sounding like a Luddite, there was something ingenious about the card catalog. You learned how to use it in about third grade. Once you mastered the skill, you were library literate. You could go into practically any library in the country and find your book.
Sure, at OCL we teach people how to use computers. I’m in constant awe of the people who sign up for our beginner computer courses. I think they are courageous. For some of them, mastering the mouse, learning a new vocabulary and surfing the net are huge accomplishments. But there’s a whole group out there we’re not reaching. My mother is part of that group of 'unreachables'.
My Mom is in her eighties. She is sharp. She knows the price of her stocks, her FICO score, and how to use a telephone to get information on just about anything. But she has no desire to learn how to use a PC. Trust me. Her sons, who are all technophiles, have tried to teach her. She’s turned down offers of free lessons and free computers.
When she was a child, she was library literate. In the 1930’s she was taught how to use a card catalog and for about 60 years, it worked for her. She could find things on her own. Now, she has to ask for help when she goes into the library. I can sense her frustration. I've seen it in some of our library customers too.
I’m not saying that we should go back to card catalogs. Although I have to admit, from a decorative point of view, they seemed cozier than a computer terminal. And of course, libraries need to be in the cutting edge of change. Web 2.0. Web 3.0. Web 5.0. Bring it on! It offers exciting possibilities. But we need to be sensitive to those who don’t share our feelings. When we look at new technology and new ways of doing things, we need to make sure it’s really “user-friendly”. It’s our responsibility to promote information literacy and to make sure that the changes we make don’t allow for more people to slip through the cracks. It’s important to make sure that we bring everyone along.
Well, I think I’ve rambled enough about technology. Maybe it’s time to go give Mum a call.
1 comment:
You make very a good point about how card catalogs were universal and once you learned them, you could navigate ANY library and be autonomous. Now, every library has a different catalog program, and none seem to look or work the same way, and it must be very hard for folks who need to ask for help doing something they thought they had already mastered.
The "unreachables" are just as entitled to access to library materials as everyone else; they are also entitled to their dignity when asking for help. It's important for the technology know-it-alls to keep this in mind when serving folks of *all* abilities. Thanks for the reminder!
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