Is Any of This Real?

How many times have I heard my sister say, “I need to touch it”? Whether we were shopping at the mall, appreciating a friend’s new dress, or entertaining my kids, the words have invariably crossed her lips. She says it with a giggle and generally follows it up with, “You know I have to touch it, Cher.” Yes. I know she has to touch it. It’s just something about her that I’ve found both amusing and annoying, but I never appreciated why she might feel compelled to, well, feel everything.

Perhaps I’m beginning to understand.

I buy and read real books. My husband is perfectly content with electronic ones, but I’ve never been. I chalk it up to feeling rushed whenever I’m looking at a computer screen. I don’t think I really started using the Internet until I was pregnant with the second of my six children, so when I sat down at a computer to do anything, I knew I wouldn’t be there long. If my toddler was asleep, I’d have dishes to wash, laundry to fold, or maybe even a cup of tea to enjoy with a book before he awoke. If he were out or being entertained by his father, I’d have dishes to wash, laundry to fold, or maybe even a cup of tea to enjoy.

Since those early days, my screen time has varied widely, but as it stands now, I avoid the computer throughout the day and think about checking in with a few sites after dinner, sometimes even doing it. Posting to Twitter and Instagram is now a rarity for me, and while you might find my phone in a black Faraday bag on my desk or in my purse, you’ll seldom find it in my hand. Remember television? I don’t even know how to turn ours on.

What is real? Those videos showing the latest presidential slip-up, the talking heads on the network news delivering the lines of the script being used by all the talking heads on all the networks, the headlines warning us about the latest and greatest danger? Are people in Tiktok videos real? Are the fluids and membranes inside a Kardashian real, as in organic to a human body?

What is real? The narratives we learned as children, the rewritten stuff being pushed now, or the history that shows itself only when an intrepid and curious questioner has gone digging? The way school children relate to one another, the way they relate to adults? Is the food I eat real? I know it exists, that I can touch it and taste it, but is it real food: something that body was designed to digest and process and turn into energy?

Maybe I’ll step away from this computer, go find the three of my kids who are home now, and give each of them a kiss on the cheek. Then I’ll sit next to my husband and hold his hand, reassuring myself that he is really there.