“Mom, you know there's a screen right there, right?" Connor is shaking his head as I fling my right arm across his chest, craning my neck to peer through the back windshield like I'm navigating a covered wagon.
"I see it," I say, not looking at the helpful little screen that's showing me exactly where Connor's truck, my flower beds, and the cluster of magnolia trees are. Instead, I'm doing a full-body swivel, using my son as a makeshift armrest while I reverse out of the Treehouse garage.
Beep... beep... beep. The backup camera is literally telling me I have plenty of clearance.
I ignore it completely.
"What if I'm in a car without a backup camera?" I counter, still twisted around like an owl.
"When would that ever happen?"
"During an apocalypse," I say matter-of-factly, straightening as we clear the driveway.
He stares at me. "You think during an apocalypse you'll be... backing out of driveways?"
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Call Me Techno-Skeptical.
Connor has never driven a car without a backup camera. Or GPS. Or Bluetooth. He probably doesn't even remember when headphones had wires. To him, I'm performing some mystifying ritual from the dark ages, like churning butter or navigating by the stars.
But I keep my wired earphones in a world gone wireless. I check my monthly budget using both my banking app AND a blank piece of paper and pen, breaking it down with my own hieroglyphic system of arrows and circles. I take three books every trip, even though I know trading them out for a kindle would be better for my back. I pick up my physical newspapers every Saturday at the Safeway.
I would say that when there’s a choice, I’ll go analog every time. However… I am currently writing this on my iPad, which I adore. By some miracle, it snuck past my techno-skeptical defenses to become my go-to for writing, researching, and internet surfing.
So if I’m not a luddite in the literal sense, why the resistance to the backup camera? What defines which technology I embrace and which I avoid with the determination of a nineteenth-century settler?
Last year, when I was starting to outline Do Loss, I spent two weeks trying to build the perfect digital note-taking system. Notion, Obsidian, trial accounts, YouTube tutorials. But for some reason using the note-taking apps, instead of putting pen to paper, felt like a strange torture. Two weeks later I was back to my coffee-stained notebook with its illegible margin notes and sticky tabs hanging off at odd angles.
That felt like a thoughtful choice. I tried something, it didn't work for me, I went back to what did.
But then why do I refuse to even try the backup camera?
The Two Sues.
Eventually during a convo with my editor Leona, it clicked. I've been lumping together two completely different impulses.
There’s a part of me — we’ll call her Centered Sue — who genuinely prefers the feel of pen on paper, who likes the spatial awareness that comes from turning around to look through the back windshield, who enjoys doing things with her own brain instead of outsourcing them to a screen. She's not avoiding technology out of fear or stubbornness, she's choosing what brings her satisfaction.
And then… there’s Belligerent Sue. She hears “you should really use the backup camera” and immediately bristles. “I'm perfectly fine as is, thank you very much.” Her heels dig in not because she's thought it out, but because her autonomy feels threatened.
Same techno-skepticism, totally different reasons. One feels like contentment, the other feels like fear.
Centered Sue is brimming with interest — she likes learning what other people are getting out of new tech, even if she has no plans of using it herself. Belligerent Sue is less interested in learning, more interested in proving to herself and everyone around her that she’s just fine the way she is.
And when Ms. Belligerent takes over… I can be so busy proving I don't need help that I miss out on actual improvements. That backup camera isn't trying to replace my spatial reasoning, it's trying to give me information I can't see on my own. Those sensors aren't making me helpless; they're making me safer.
So last week, I watched Kendall pull out of a tight parking spot at the mall. Her eyes never left that little screen. Beep, beep, beep. Smooth as silk, perfectly calibrated, zero drama. If I had been driving, I would have done my full circus act — arm flung, head twisted, probably asking her to “help me watch for that SUV,” even though the car was literally telling us exactly where the SUV was.
"You make it look so easy," I told her.
"Because it is easy, Mom. The car does all the work."
For the first time I wondered what it would be like to trust that little screen, rather than pretending it didn’t exist.
Then Pigs Flew.
The next time I backed out of the Treehouse driveway, Connor in his usual passenger-seat position, instead of immediately going into my arm-flinging routine, I glanced at the backup camera screen first.
There were the magnolia trees, perfectly framed. Connor's truck, exactly where I knew it was. My flower beds, safe and sound. All of it displayed with mathematical precision.
Then I did my usual turn-around check — arm across Connor's shoulder, full visual sweep of the actual driveway.
"Wait," Connor said, watching me. "Did you just look at the backup camera?"
"Maybe," I said, completing my hybrid maneuver.
"Huh. Old dog, new tricks."
I don't need to force myself to be an early tech adopter. I just need to stay curious about which version of myself is making the choice. Am I avoiding the backup camera because I genuinely prefer my own spatial awareness? Or because someone suggested I should use it and my inner teenager immediately said "make me"?
Most of the time, it's probably a little of both. And that's fine. I'm allowed to be human, to be occasionally belligerent, to keep my wired headphones and my chaotic notebook.
I just want to notice — am I choosing what works or just proving I don't need help?
Turns out there's a difference between contentment and being a stick in the mud. They may look identical from my driveway, but they feel completely different from the driver’s seat.
To paying attention,
Sue
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