KNOWING YOUR ROLE
When it comes to family, often we all fall into certain archetypes. What happens when a digital assistant comes into the mix?
Shakespeare famously wrote: “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts” ( As You Like It).
This applies to families too — no matter how large or small, we all have a role to play.
My sons have been perfecting their respective roles for years. Mustafa is the stoic older brother, the one who never needs to be reminded to finish his homework, or get forms signed. He is calm and unruffled, a homebody who devours candy, loves video games and funny books. He has a sarcastic sense of humour, and a mischievous streak that never dips into mean. Ibrahim is the family practical joker, a budding artist just as comfortable sketching manga characters as he is designing costumes out of cardboard boxes. He hides behind my bed and yells “boo” when I enter the room, cackling when I jump. He reads five books at once, daydreams, flits around the house checking up on everyone.
My husband is the tech guy, but really he’s the problem solver. He’s the one who knows how to troubleshoot my fancy cranky coffee maker. Everyone asks his advice when they are thinking of buying a new TV, gaming console, cellphone or computer gear.
His mission this Black Friday is to find me some sort of iPhone, preferably in pink. When we visit my parent’s house, there is a special son-inlaw “honey-do” list waiting, amply prepaid in advance by meals and babysitting. Last week, my mom needed help importing contacts from her old cellphone. The week before that it was figuring out how to get the HD antennae to work.
Except my husband’s recent tech-toy purchase has him re-evaluating his role in the family. He bought one of those virtual voice assistants that seem to be popping up in people’s homes, thinking it would be fun to ask it about the weather, or how many pairs of running shoes a teenage boy really needs (according to Mustafa: infinite).
A side corollary of this purchase has been the unintended comedy.
When my husband tried to convince the virtual voice assistant to play a favourite tune, it replied with: “I didn’t quite catch that.”
He repeated his request, at gradually increasing volumes, until the mini-machine finally grew tired of toying with him and answered: “I don’t have that but here’s something else you might like.” And played a popular song the exact opposite of his obscure requested track.
I always thought my husband had unconventional taste in music; it appears the World Wide Web concurs.
Still, his role in the family is the fixer, the tech guy, the one who never gives up. He tried again in the car, activating the voice assistant and then requesting it to play another, slightly more well known song.
“Sorry, I don’t understand,” the assistant chirped. If it was animate, it would have been smirking.
He gripped the steering wheel, and asked details about the weather.
“Abraham Lincoln’s inaugural address …” the virtual assistant began, and his knuckles grew white on the wheel.
Ibrahim called out from the back seat, repeating the request about the weather.
The virtual assistant cheerily responded, with no hesitation.
I grabbed my husband’s hand, lest he feel the urge to fling his phone out the window.
I knew my role, and in this particular instance it was to remind him that technology might be wilful, but it was also expensive.
Lately, I’ve noticed that the at-home assistant is not called on to play music anymore, obscure or otherwise. Also, my husband has decided to stick to his honey-do list — winterizing, sealing vents, troubleshooting cellphone contact lists.
I am relieved the part he has chosen to play no longer includes verbal sparring with inanimate objects.
Ibrahim, however, is disappointed. He had been planning to catch the next instalment on video.