I.

I live in an era where identity is digital. The Mark of the Beast is not a tattoo or chip, but rather the credit card I extend from my right hand to cover all financial transactions. Smart mobile telephones sync all social networks, messaging systems, and electronic mail, though the call functions are seldom utilized. Engineers develop methods to link brainwaves and computer function so as to robotize the human mind. Post-Humanism lingers in the not-too-distant future. Those who can afford it seem to welcome the blending of man and machine. Banking is all online and purely theoretical; most personal computers are portable and generally smaller than a student’s 3-ring binder and so memories are saved to the software. This is why I purchase records.

I began my vinyl collection in high school. I bought John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel records for $1, although I wasn’t really a fan. Now I spend $20 on albums such as Dark Side of the Moon and Here Comes the Bullocks. When we were young I associated records primarily with marijuana. Southern California stoners played the tunes of their parent’s Flower Power glory days. And because I usually had the munchies I ate it up. Back then I fell into the music, sinking head first into the melodies, harmonies, tempo, and bass of a record. Now I just fall for its tangibility. I can hold the music in my hands rather than clicking a button to play the mp3. Wiping the dust off a record is now so retro. The records are antiques. The past is steadily slipping away from us. And even what was pertinent 30 years ago is becoming a mystery. 

The past is forgotten, and it doesn’t seem to be a problem. Maybe that’s why we are repeating ourselves. I keep looking backwards like the Sankofa bird, but I have no insight into what is/was truth. The textbooks I read have obvious bias and set agendas. The movies I watch are funded by entertainment companies whose priority is profit. The news, the radio, the internet blogs; oh who can trust the media? I should ask my elders. I wanted to ask my Grandmother, but I am hesitant to pick up the phone. Why are we afraid to speak? A friend of mine tells me that really we just don’t want to listen. Talking, like a two-way street, is just too uncomfortable. So we say, “just text me,” or “hit me on facebook.” But Grandma can’t tell me the stories of her Jim Crow past through wall posts and text messages. We need to sit down and talk, push through the inconvenience and discomfort, with knees folded, buttocks to the Earth, to remember who we are.