Welcome to the Hive

On my daily commutes, I am joined by businessmen/women, children, tourists and, increasingly, the Borg. The drones from the collective that Star Trek introduced are out in full-force. We've all seen them, looking part-human and part-machine: white IPod wires dangling from their heads or a blinking light going on and off from the phone clipped over an ear while fingers furiously click away on a Blackberry.

Last week, as I stood on a crowded train, I counted the number of people I could see from my vantage point and looked at how many were connected to a machine in some way. I could see a total of twenty-one people. Seventeen had been, in Borg language, assimilated. I'm not a big fan of all these technogadgets and, at the risk of sounding like an aging curmudgeon, I resent the way they've crept into our lives.

Technology was suuposed to make life easier: cell phones, voicemail systems, email, Blackberries, etc. but it doesn't feel that way. Life simply feels more disconnected. Face to face conversations have been replaced by techno-conversations: instant messaging, texting, emailing. People purposely call other people when they know they'll get a voicemail. And many walk down the street oblivious to the world going on around them because they're listening to their downloaded music.

In a few years, someone will probably discover a way to place a small chip into our brains and actually make us part machine. And I won't be surprised if in the not-too-distant future, people will have a small computer/television screen that's worn directly in front of one eye.

Personally, I'd prefer something else.

About a year ago, I was on the train in Chicago. As usual, everyone was sitting and looking straight ahead, only paying attention to either their Ipods and cell phones or to nothing at all. At one stop, a young man got on carrying an armload of newspapers. He sat down, pulled out a sheet of newspaper, folded it into a hat and placed it on his head. No one dared look at him. We all thought he was crazy. So, people either turned up their IPod or played with their cell phones. The man pulled out another sheet of newspaper, folded it into another hat and then held it out for the woman seated across from him. She didn't move and she certainly wouldn't take it. Instead, she turned her body away and pretended not to notice the hat he was offering her. Undaunted, he continued to hold it out until she snatched it from him so he would leave her alone. She didn't wear it, she held it in her lap.

Then, he made another hat and held it out to someone else. This person, possibly fearing some type of retribution from the hat-man, took it and placed it on his head. The man made another hat and held it out. Another passenger took it and wore it. Another hat, another head. Another hat, another head again. And again and again and again until about a dozen or so were wearing his hats. Even the first woman took her hat from her lap and put it on. You could actually feel the shift in mood on that train. People were relaxing and smiling. Many were now reaching out their hands and asking for a hat. When he got to me, I took the hat, thanked him and gladly placed it on my head. Soon, more than half the people on that train were wearing paper hats. And when the hat-man got up at his stop to leave the train, we all broke into applause.

I know it won't happen, but I would really love to see something different tomorrow morning when I head to work. It would be great to get on that train and not see seventeen people attached to machines. Instead, I'd like to be greeted by a sea of paper hats, all proudly worn by a smiling group of strangers that have turned their machines off and let their guard down. It would be one way of knowing that resistance isn't futile at all.