Communication Casualties

I value good communication. It was a key factor in my scientific career a few decades ago. If I didn't communicate clearly with fellow researchers or our sponsors, I could soon find myself out of work. The results of my findings had to be passed on to others, or else my career ground to a halt.

I no longer do scientific research. My communication these days is mostly on a personal basis, with friends, family, and various organizations. I find that effective communication is often lacking in these exchanges. I find myself frequently wondering, for example, why I have received no response to a message I've sent.

A big part of my disconnect with others, I believe, is that I'm rather old fashioned. I'm just not “with the program.” A few decades ago I mostly communicated with others (when not using the telephone) via what now is dubbed as “snail mail.” I'd send a missive in the form of a card or letter. I had confidence that the postal service would deliver my mail. I knew that my recipient would then have something tangible in hand (a letter) that would be placed on their desk, to remind them over the ensuing days to respond. I did not expect a quick response; after all, this was snail mail! Most every time, I'd sooner or later get a reply, but in the meantime, I didn't hold my breath.

Then email entered the communication arena. We now compose a message, and at the speed of light it is delivered. If the recipient happens to be at the computer (or now, smart phone) when the missive arrives, I may get a reply within minutes. So much faster! We have come to expect speedy responses.

But there's a couple of major differences between snail mail and email, that dramatically changed the game. First, my recipient's email box may contain dozens, if not a few hundred messages, bedsides mine. Thus mine can easily get lost in the crowd—as it no longer sits conspicuously and singularly on their desk, demanding attention. Second, I cannot have as much confidence that my email message will arrive and be acknowledged, as I could in the old, snail-mail days. Email is simply not as reliable. Some emails vanish in the ether. Some get sent to my recipient's junk mail box—after having been selected by some algorithm as being rubbish, with no knowledge of this action on either of our parts. We are at the mercy of algorithms!

And now many people live in the world of text messages. They make email look slow. Texts must be brief, thus they can be composed in a few moments. Send a text and people expect a response within matter of a couple of minutes.

My snail mail experiences have become virtually obsolete. My preferred means of communication are vanishing. It feels more and more as if people no longer communicate very well at all—despite all the available social media. There is a mistaken assumption that speed and frequency promote communication, when in fact, like the juggler who has put too many balls in the air, a few are bound to be dropped. The quantity of messages does not imply quality.

Forget to Forgive?

An Oxford University professor of internet studies had an article in the Washington Post on 11/25/12 titled “Can We Forgive if We Can’t Forget?” Viktor Mayer-Schönberger makes the point that we tend to forgive each other for our transgressions when we—over time—gradually forget what the other person said or did to us. Our memories fade away in time, unless we specifically and repeatedly bring them back up and lock them in, or if some kind of external record exists, such as a written account.

It’s necessary for us to forget many things that happen to us, otherwise our minds would become overloaded with details that get in the way of our dealing effectively with the present. So the loss of some things from memory is important for a healthy life.

Mayer-Schönberger is concerned that our digital social tools—emails, Facebook, tweets—can be a problem, because they do not allow us to forget transgressions that occur between us and friends or loved ones. They become part of the cloud’s permanent record.

For example, a snide comment that Fred made to you in an email—something you’d otherwise let go of in time—gets indefinitely preserved and reminds you of it, every time you open Fred’s email (when you may simply be looking for his address). These hurts do not fade away, as they could if Fred had said that directly to you, with nothing permanently recording his unkind comment. As another example, you fired off a smart-ass tweet to Sally last year. You wish you’d not been so quick to do that. You’d just as soon she forget it, but both you and she know that the nasty comment is frozen in time in the digital world.

I feel that Mayer-Schönberger has some good points. He recommends that we find a way to let old emails and Facebook comments slowly fade away over time. That could help. But I also think that he’s focusing on dealing with what to do, after you’ve opened the barn door and the transgressive horse has already escaped. It strikes me that we could better deal with the problem by keeping the damned door shut in the first place. That is, keep our mouth shut… or more appropriately to the subject, keep our vengeful fingers off the keyboard until we cool down.

Where we once talked to each other face-to-face or over the phone, we now hastily fire off emails and tweets. It only takes a few seconds and, hey, aren’t we all too busy to pause and allow ourselves a moment in which to reconsider our actions? Aren’t we all in a rush to complete three other things we’re also attempting to do simultaneously? So we dump down a fast rejoinder and hit the “Send” button.

At the least, the one who opens our message may be confused at what we meant, or more likely, hurt. Our sloppiness, our transgression, is now history. It’s permanently stored in the ether. The problem is not the inability to forget the offense—it’s our lack of control, consideration, and attention in the first place. Our uncouth, shoot-from-the-hip, rash response is now a permanent part of the cloud… waiting to keep reminding the other person, every time she opens that page on her computer.