October 4, 2020
Dear Jen,
Did you know that when I first left home to go to college, your grandmother sent me a case of powdered milk? Bear in mind that in the early 90s sending someone a case of powdered milk involved going to a store and then standing in line at a post office. You couldn’t impulse-click a case of powdered milk. Can you impulse-click a case of powdered milk? Hang on.
You can, though it’s not so much a case as a small box. Use it to make cream of potato soup or something. Do not—I repeat, do not—reconstitute it and pour it on cereal and expect it to taste like milk.
When the powdered milk arrived I had the good manners to call my mother and say thank you. But I didn’t have the insight to also say, “I know your oldest child has moved half a continent away and you want that to be good for her and you want to be helpful but you’re not sure how.” I probably said, “You know they have milk in Boston, right?”
I think I’ll call your grandmother tonight.
You’ll have already found the box of stationery and postage stamps I sent along with this letter. And oh, I guess the powdered milk will have arrived before you get this. You’ll have to tell me which is more helpful.
I hope you’re settling in at school okay. It looks like it, based on what I see in my feed. I suspect, even hope, there are posts I don’t see. I’d like to think you have a sophisticated privacy model that keeps your data away from marketers as well as your mother.
This morning I got an unnecessary reminder that your birthday is in a month. The algorithm included a list of presents you’d like. I know it’s pretty reliable but let me know what you really want, okay? Apart from a birthday that doesn’t miss eligibility to vote in a presidential election by two hours.
I wish I could get you a time machine. I would use it for so, so many things, but right now I’d probably start with late October 2002. I’d try jumping jacks, pineapple, raspberry leaf tea, Pitocin, a C-section if it came to it, though I do get the impression that I’m more upset about this than you are. Anyway, I’m sorry you can’t vote next month. I hope the country gives you a better present than they did when you turned fourteen.
Oh, before I forget: I know you think you escaped tech support (ha ha ha there is no escape), but do you know how I can get access to season two of Lilith’s Brood without having to sign up for a viewing tracker? I’d ask Sarah, but she’d just play dumb—she doesn’t want me to know just how tech-savvy she really is. I know the episodes will trickle down eventually, but that season one finale is still on my mind. And don’t tell me to just sign up for a tracker and stop worrying about it because they anonymize the data they collect. They creep me out. It’s like they’re watching me back. Okay, fine, it’s not like that…it is that. And it’s creepy.
I remember the first time an ad for a burger chain included the location of the nearest one in unobtrusive text at the bottom of the screen while your father and I were streaming a show. We knew it wouldn’t be long before our names got pulled into the ad, too. It wasn’t a matter of when it would become technologically possible, because it already was. It was when it became socially possible, when it would get a positive reaction. You never seemed to mind those ads when they started appearing, so eerily tailored to you, but they still bother me.
I guess it’s all about what you’re used to.
Do you remember when your father opted into fitness data sharing with the insurance company? It saved us a fortune on premiums. Then he lost the device and they threatened to raise the rates unless he got a new one. So he did, but now he’s lost it again. This time they’re offering to pay for the implanted one. Your dad is actually considering it. He says he likes the data but not the device. And he thinks since he exercises so much it should be fine. Of course your sister jumped in and told him that sounds like people who justify militarized police by saying if you’re not a criminal you don’t have anything to worry about. He said she was overreacting. So Sarah said he should tell that to all the people who…well, you know what Sarah thinks. I’m sorry—you’ve finally achieved some peace and quiet by going off to college and here I am relaying the latest shouting match.
Have you and Sarah spoken since you left? I see a bit of interaction in your feeds, but not much. Not that either of you are inclined to chat in public. I just hope you two are talking.
Sarah’s been angry for a long time, and I don’t know what to do because there really is so much to be angry about. Something happened at school yesterday. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, but she was upset enough to say things I think she wished she hadn’t, about how if we can’t get our data back, we should fill it up with enough false detail to make it useless, worthless. She stopped and went to her room when I looked too interested. Maybe she was just ranting. I kind of hope she wasn’t.
How did we end up accepting all this? How did we get so disconnected from the actual mechanisms of power that choosing toothpaste at random feels like a viable act of rebellion?
I never made a big deal about it, but I was surprised when the school only took you on the condition that you majored in Business Administration. They said the data showed that was your best chance of success. You could have gone to your second choice and majored in whatever you wanted, but you told us you were struggling to decide between business and sociology anyway. So off you went to your first choice. You seem happy. You’re only a month in, but I already imagine you’ll be recruited into a job with one of the Big Three consulting firms before graduation, because the data will say you’ll do well. And you would do well, I know you would, but not because the data says so.
After you chose your school I noticed you played your violin less often, and by the time you left home you’d stopped altogether. I half expected you to leave it at home and was relieved when you took it with you. Are you playing at all now? I know you were always frustrated when your performance fell short of your perfectionism. But you were good, and as long as you were playing, you were getting better.
I don’t know what I’m asking for here. Do I want you to be less satisfied? More discontented now so you’ll be less discontented later? Do I want you to be angry, like your sister? Why would a parent wish that on their child?
I miss you, sweetheart.
Please keep playing the violin. Please choose random toothpaste. Please call your sister.
And don’t be tempted to drink the powdered milk.
Love always,
Mom