Most of the people in my generation complain of the rapid pace of progress in technology. On my new laptop, there seems to be 13 updates in one day, and then 14 the next, for instance. But as someone Deaf-blind, I find the effort to keep up with the racing changes daunting.
Until this past Monday, my new laptop was the enemy in the household. It sat on a table beside my old desktop, mocking me. And since it has the software to speak, it taunted me, day and night. Windows 7, Word 10, JAWS 13, Open Book 8 or 9, IE 400—they all said, “Just try to conquer me.”
Once from downstairs I heard the thing talking and carrying on in my third floor office, when I was sure I’d turned it off the night before. I approached it warily, hit some keys gingerly, and it fell silent.
“Okay,” I thought. “My kids pulled this years ago. Don’t think you’re so clever!”
I’d call, “Nap time,” and they’d go into hiding. I found my 10-month old standing in his closet, his shoulders to his ears, tensed to keep any muscle from making a sound. My daughter used to take her shoes with bells through the laces off.
“My guide dog even did it to avoid punishment,” I told the laptop. “So this is an overused weapon, a cliché.”
It did the HP version of a hiccup.
“Ha! Gotcha!” I pushed the keystrokes to shut it down.
It rattled of in rapid fire verbiage, ridiculing me once again.
“Don’t make me have to push your button,” I warned.
I pushed. It spouted more techie jargon. I freaked, pushed every key I knew, and finally searched for a hammer.
Then I heard the familiar mournful sigh of the shutting down for bed, the percussion that means it’s brushing its teeth, and then the blessed silence. Good night.
But on Monday I made progress, “progress” I repeat, so the laptop can hear. “From now on, you will not rule me! I will prevail.”