December 23, 2013--Social Theory

For some time I have been attempting to find ways to feel good about social networking. Up to recently, struggle as I have, everything I come up with is negative.

I'm face-to-face oriented and all this staring at smart phones, thumbs in constant motion as texts are exchanged, continues to turn me off and has me wondering what kind of people, especially young people we are becoming.

I am somewhat consoled by the fact that tweeting, texting, posting, and old-fashioned e-mailing are forms of writing. At a time when little writing is required in school and that that is is little commented upon by overburdened teachers, I'll take any shred of any kind of writing as good news.

But then I remind myself that fuddy-duddies such as I have always complained about paradigm-shifitng new technologies, ruing that they represent the end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it.

Plato, recall, wanted to ban poets and musicians from his Republic, claiming that their emotive power interferes with reasoned, philosophical discourse--it "feeds and waters the passions." And of course he is right. Though this hardly justifies banning them since in fact we need both.

And the literate priestly and royal elites of the time did not welcome Gutenberg's invention of movable type and the resulting proliferation of print material to the otherwise disenchanted. They feared that through the ideas contained in books the powerless would come to feel empowered and at some point would demand that Church and State be reformed and overthrown. Both of which, in turn, occurred.

Then there were those who opposed industrialization and the machine age--Luddites, among others--who rightly saw their widespread use presaging the end of self-sufficiency, craft, and rural yeoman life. And they were right.

So what of me now as I watch the self-hypnotized wandering up and down Broadway, eyes glued too their blue screens, thumbs tapping away?

Am I the cranky heir to Plato, the Renaissance princes, and hopeless machine-smashing Luddites? In many ways I feel I am but, knowing the history of how Plato's Republic turned out--no matter how noble it never came into existence--how after Gutenberg nothing could stem the avalanche of books and ultimately newspapers, and how the machine-driven Industrial Revolution changed everything forever worldwide, aware of these tectonic waves of culture-altering change, I am determined to try to remain relevant (at least in my own mind) and keep searching for the good that will come from the latest Internet-inspired brave new world.

Perhaps I had a glimpse on Saturday of a way to begin to feel better about the shape-shifting power of social networking.

It was a beautiful day and Rona said, "Let's finally go to Williamsburg. We're both originally from Brooklyn and haven't been to Williamsburg since all the young people moved in, displacing the Polish people and the Hassidim."

I readily agreed, feeling a little behind the times in not getting myself there to where so much is happening. "The Girls TV show is set there," I said, "and that's about as close as we've gotten to taking a look at the New Brooklyn."

"Half the best New York restaurants of the last few years are in Brooklyn and we keep going to our familiar nearby places."

If I needed additional reasons to venture across the East River, making me feel I am out of the latest hot restaurant loop was all the incentive I needed to get me headed toward the L train.

Incredibly, less than 10 minutes from Union Square, the fourth stop, Bedford Avenue plopped us down right in the middle of this remarkable urban transformation.

"Can you believe this," I said, with I am sure my jaw hanging open in wonder, "All these shops and terrific-looking young people."

The average age of those filling the streets could not have been more than twenty-five. "Can you believe it, my father's parents used to live on Bedford Avenue, not to mention all the Yeshivas that were here. Now every store is a cafe, restaurant, or clothing boutique."

"Let's wander up and down," Rona suggested. "To get a feel for what's going on."

So we did, for two hours wandering south on Bedford, across Grand Street, and then north on Union. "While we're at it, let's look for a place to have a cup of coffee."

"That's not going to be difficult to find. We've already passed at least 20," Rona said, an exaggeration but more true than not.

On Wythe Avenue we found Bakeri, an "artisanal bakery," which in fact it turned out to be. The display chest was full of wonderful-looking confections, from basic scones to fanciful tarts. It was packed with customers and it took us some time to be helped, which offered the opportunity to take in who was there.

As expected, everyone was very young and fresh from biking or jogging; and if I would have been pressed to guess, looked like they worked for IT start-ups, were living on family money, or both.

We both ordered coffee, Rona with two coconut macaroons, me an "apple cider flower," which looked like a version of Danish I used to get in my old East Flatbush bakery.

"You can sit in the garden, if you like," suggested a friendly young woman, dressed, as all the staff were, in faded-blue Bakeri coveralls. "It's such a beautiful day." She smiled to welcome us. "Find a table and I'll bring your coffee and pastries."

We squeezed by the crowd and made our way through a small passageway in which, tucked in nooks, were two tables and then down a fews steps into the garden.

"This will be beautiful in the spring," Rona said, looking up at the now bare trees, making plans to return even before tasting the coffee and macaroons. "Let's sit there," she said, pointing to a small marble-topped table nestled under the largest of the trees right by an unexpected stone pond full of golden koi.

Before we could look around and see who else was there, our coffee arrived. It was hot and delicious as were our baked goods, which we eagerly shared.

All the tables but the one next to us were occupied with yet more young people, chattering away about the weather and the trips from which they had recently returned.

"I loved Sri Lanka," said an Allison Williams lookalike. "And I can't wait to get back to the Seychelles," said a Zosia Mamet clone. "But best of all, have you been to Madagascar? The natural life there is amazing," said Lena Dunham's double.

Rona and I smiled at each other. This was even more fun than we had expected.

As I drained my final sips of coffee, scanning the garden, I asked, "Was it Thomas Wolfe who said about Brooklyn that, 'You can't go home again'"?

"I think he was referring to another place. Somewhere in the Midwest. But," Rona winked at me, "he did write that terrific short story, 'Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.'"

As by far the oldest person in the garden, I tried to get comfortable with her reference.

While we were finishing our drinks, eavesdropping on the nearby table talk, and trying to remember our Thomas Wolfe, a twenty-something woman slipped into the last unoccupied table right next to us. She was dressed in what we after a few hours in the area began to discern as Williamsburg chic--well-tailored grunge.

As has come to be usual, she did not look around but pulled her smart phone from her peacoat pocket and placed it on the table. Her tea arrived in what seemed like an instant. She didn't look up to acknowledge or thank the waitress; and before taking her first sip, was already tapping away at the screen.

Rona and I, curmudgeons together, smiled at each other.

Here she was, I thought, in this happy place, clearly among peers, in a lovely setting on an even more lovely day, and she can't even wait for a second to pick up her texts to look around, take it all in, feel good about life on such an afternoon.

As she bent closer to the screen, as if to cuddle with it, she began to chuckle. Her thumbs were now in even more rapid motion. Chuckles turned to laughter and head nodding. She took a quick sip of her tea, not taking her eyes off the glowing screen.

We had been making moves to pay the bill and leave, but without exchanging a word or glance of agreement stayed on to witness this as she eventually finished her tea, all the while smiling and talking under her breath as if to herself.

With her tea cup now drained, she took some money from her wallet. Still with her eyes on the flashing screen.

"It was Libya Hills," she said as if to no one in particular. She then half-turned toward us. "Libya Hills that Wolfe was referring to." Puzzled, we looked in her direction. "That you were wondering about. Not Brooklyn." With her free hand she gestured at the garden. And with that she was gone.

Back on the L train, Rona said, "Maybe that's where we're heading."

"I think we're heading toward Union Square. Two more stops."

"I mean culturally, silly. That girl in the garden." Getting her reference, I nodded.

"She was not there alone. Having tea by herself."

"Maybe this is our new sense of community."

"While bowling alone," Rona said, referring to a conversation we had a couple of weeks ago with a young friend from the IT world.

"But what about solitude?" I asked.

"Solitude?"

"Since we're sort of having a literary day, remember Alexander Pope's poem about solitude?"

"Vaguely."

"It goes something like--

Blest the man, who can unconcernedly find
   Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
             Quiet by day.'"

Rona slid closer to me on the subway. "You old Luddite, you."