Communication By Keyboard

The first love letter I ever wrote was to a boy that sat behind me in my 10th grade trigonometry. I was terrified to reveal my true feelings; so rather than pass a note to him in class or ask a friend to tell him, I decided to send him an anonymous message. Late one afternoon, when no one was looking, I went up to his locker, took a pencil out of my bag and wrote right on the locker door: I like you. And then, for added drama and flourish, I drew a heart around my errant communiqué. My silly high jinx caused quite a stir among our friends, including the boy, who spent hours trying to figure out who could have left the mysterious message. My opinion was sought out on the matter, which was actually rather unfortunate, as no one considered me the possible culprit. Needless to say, I never revealed my authorship to anyone.

Since then, most of my sentimental gestures have been more forthright and any pronouncements sent in return have been meticulously treasured. I have kept many of the love letters of my youth, tucked away in fabric boxes. I also have kept a long list of other tidings including birthday greetings, postcards from foreign countries, the badly designed leaflets that come attached to bouquets of flowers and even dog-eared ticket stubs of shows and concerts and sports events. I even managed to keep the first paper phone message taken by a receptionist at a job I had in 1987 from the man who eventually became my first husband. In fact, the message lasted longer than the marriage.

But whether it be letter writing or cave drawings or smoke signals or Morse code or paper phone messages, I believe that people have an innate and nearly involuntary need to communicate with each other. We need to share stories and reveal secrets and compare notes and mark time.

The philosopher Ferdinand de Saussure stated that spoken language is an expression of thought, and that written language is purely a supplement to the spoken one. He believed that writing was to be regarded as secondary and that speech alone held the center of human attention. But as technology has become the centerpiece of our daily lives and with the increased dominance of the media, signs and symbols have begun to take over the place that language has had in our culture. Linguists believe that speech is due a semiotic shift, and that language will no longer occupy the center of our attention as writing takes the spotlight, with its sign-based symbolism. So while our prehistoric ancestors lived in a physical universe, we now inhabit a more symbolic universe. Language, myth, art and religion are now all part of this universe and have become threads weaving together a symbolic net of our shared human experience.

This shared human experience is manifesting itself in bold new ways. Not long ago I sat in a meeting to review some design work that two young women had created for a pro-bono community project. I sat in a conference room with the designers and members of the organization's marketing team evaluating the work. Before either woman responded to any of the comments made, they seemed to be conferring with something that was under the table. It took about fifteen minutes to realize what they were doing, and when I did I was astounded. As they sat there together in this conference room full of people, as they sat there separated by a large boardroom table, they were secretly text messaging each other in order to be able to communicate without anyone knowing.

Recent studies of text messaging actually describe the experience as expressive and creative. Teenagers, in particular, put enormous effort into composing short messages that convey what they feel. The constraints of the medium and their desire to express themselves make text messaging very personal for them. They collect significant messages to evoke the moment they were received, to recall, and reminisce. Some are reluctant to give up their old phones for newer models because the old phone holds messages that are dear to them. A downloaded or handwritten version would not do. This is the enchantment of the technology, and a prosaic experience for the sentimental recipient.

I, too, understand this prosaic experience. Last Christmas, a good friend text messaged that he had just gotten engaged, and 13 months later, I still have that message saved in my cell phone. I keep every single email from my friends Sue and Katharine and Marian and Emily. I feel a certain pride in this accumulation; again it is proof of tangible shared experience. And truth be told, I love the immediacy and lack of self-consciousness in most of these connections.

As much as I covet this accumulation, I wonder what the cognitive effect is of this mode of communication. The love affair our culture has with communicating by keyboard has drastically reduced the amount we write by hand, so much so that the New York Times recently reported that the skill, "like an unused muscle," is pretty much dead by the time we are in High School. High School!

What are the ramifications of losing our hand made muscle? Our ability to communicate now is certainly collectively beneficial to the culture, but what does it mean for us individually? Throughout time, we have used our hands to satisfy our needs--whether spiritual or down-to-earth. The creation of meaning from nothing may be our greatest achievement. They bear witness to the artist—and the human—in all of us. And while computers might set type in flawlessly accurate columns, things that are made by hand are beautiful by virtue of their irregularity and their soul. What resonates in these objects is an inherent authenticity and honesty. Like a fingerprint, the visual language of these messages provides an indelible imprint. What is contained in these objects is enduring. The intent is more obvious and it is harder to take back. And no matter how well written a text message, it is nowhere near as alluring as leaving an anonymous love letter handwritten on the door of the locker of your first high school crush.