Junior Ponders the Future Effects Of His Facebook

The vicious campaign ad airs frequently now that November approaches.

With the senate elections of 2034 coming up, Kansas needs a poised, intelligent and dignified leader, a deep-voiced man recites optimistically. Then, his voice sinks into a dark tone. As he continues, strategically awkward pictures of my face fill the TV screen. Ian Wiseman is NOT the man this state needs.

Suddenly, the photos give way to a homemade video displaying a porch-view shot of a side-street. Darting up the road is a boy adorned in an inflatable sumo suit with a pink tie wrapped around his skull and waving an airsoft gun. Another boy, also armed, hollers for the supposed “criminal” to halt. The wild flailing of arms and plastic toys slow-motions, the shot zooms in toward the latter boy and the deep-voiced man continues in an impending tone: Do you really want THIS man representing the whole state of Kansas?

I want to explain to the ad’s viewers that I was only twelve, that, given a camcorder and the appropriate amount of free time, middle-schoolers are bound to make fools of themselves. That we were delirious when we uploaded the video to Youtube. But the clip could have been filmed last spring for all anyone cares, for excuses don’t matter when stacked against proof that I am everything but “poised, intelligent and dignified.”

I stare at the screen as the younger version of myself beats the criminal with a plastic scythe.

I wish I could beat myself into unconsciousness with it instead.

***

Ignorance is bliss.

Indians knew not of Europe. Adam and Eve were clueless about sin. Tom hadn’t yet met Jerry.

Then occurred a shift. Whether it arrived as a colony, an apple or a missing Salisbury steak, it abolished the era of bliss and launched one of chaos.

For our generation, that ominous shift lies in technology.

Technology, for example, that permits anyone from Prairie Village to Bangkok to view my home-made version of COPS.

That video is indeed real. The fear of its potential is even more so.

Granted, the law and I rarely quarrel, for that film is the most incriminating evidence police can use against me. Still, inside us all exists a demon—adolescence. For many generations, an ongoing struggle of parents was trying to conceal evidence of these yesteryears; stowed away in shoeboxes on the top shelves of closets were coffee-stained letters, black-and-white yearbook photos and sentimental knickknacks.

But technology let loose the monsters of our generation. Escaping the confines of my brain, my demon bought a condo in cyberspace and opened the blinds so it could beam at the world. After all, how do I hide the plethora of self-alarming pictures, songs, texts, videos and chat histories that storm the web in a shoebox? The global phenomenon we call the Internet will mock the ancient practice of concealing adolescent mishaps. Though letters fade and knickknacks go amiss, these omnipresent Internet liabilities will only accumulate over time, haunting our generation far beyond our youthful days.

***

“Daddy, what does fml mean?”

I about choke on my spaghetti. The seven-year-old gazes up from her meal with big, curious eyes.

“Where did you hear that phrase?” I demand. She immediately dives into a tale of a school project about family, mommy saying it was OK to look on my Facebook for old pictures and the encounter of one three-letter phrase.

“Never say those letters in that order again,” I reply, offering her no further explanation.

A crease forms across her forehead as she crosses her arms. “But you did! You said it underneath your picture.”

I sit up from the table and begin loading the dishes. That will buy me some time to concoct an argument worthy of defeating this grade-schooler. As I shut the dishwasher, she continues.

“Oh, and who is Charlie the Unicorn?”

***

My understanding of my mom’s childhood boils down to nothing more than a catalog of vignettes, often echoed on a repeating cycle, and a blurry photo of her and her four siblings arranged by height in front of a Ford station-wagon. Based on oldies 94.9 and her playlist selection when hosting cocktail parties, growing up she listened to The Beatles and James Taylor. In essence my dad’s background is just as alien to me, for the most accurate evidence of youth that I can obtain is a collage of baby pictures.

Here lies the heart of parents’ credibility. Never did my parents sneak out to meet a friend, nor did they drink, nor cheat, nor fight with their siblings. No, they were too occupied ogling over James Taylor and finishing their homework and positioning themselves by height in orderly, clean-cut lines.

After all, mishmashes of yearbook clippings and pictures—which are as difficult to snoop out as Waldo—reveal only my parents’ fashion senses, so how can I possibly argue otherwise? Ninety-nine percent of my knowledge thus derives from their indisputable word, and that word informs me that they cupped their ears and yelled, “La la la, I can’t hear you!” during the glorious 70s stream of sexually explicit lyrics.

They shrouded their demons with their word; that is one luxury I will never obtain.

“Parents know best,” but when technology allows pictures and videos to outweigh words, parents merely become grown-up teenagers. After all, how does one reprimand his toddler for uttering new vocabulary learned on daddy’s iTunes? How can a concerned parent expect her teenager to take heed of her preachings of common sense and good judgment when photos reveal her competing in beer pong at a frat party? With what words can a child be convinced to try harder in school if her dad’s online grade report revealed that he failed chemistry?

Ignorance is bliss. We can reasonably assume many of our parents let slide a few non-g-rated phrases in their time, just as we can infer they struggled in a high school course; however, claims and accusations fall short without proof.

The next generation will know that proof, and with knowledge of our demons they will wreak havoc on the ancient belief of parental superiority. But for now we coast blissfully along the road of youth, unaware that every ticket, every misstep, is documented with frightening 24/7 surveillance. Technology ensures the demon’s inevitable escape. After all, who’s going to trade in a computer for a shoebox?