Mine and Society's Relationship With Technology

The juxtaposition of the 1964 Futurama video with the melancholic “Mad World” cover creates a powerful commentary on our technological expectations versus reality. As I watched these contrasting visions—one optimistic, one cynical—I found myself reflecting on my own complex relationship with technology and its impact on both my personal life and our broader society.

As a political science major in my junior year, I’ve become increasingly interested in how technology shapes democratic institutions and social behaviors. The concept of technological determinism—the idea that technology drives historical change and shapes social structures—has significantly influenced how I view our technological landscape.

The utopian promises presented in the 1964 World’s Fair footage—underwater cities, climate control systems, and efficient urban planning—represent a distinct vision of progress that differs greatly from our current reality.

Instead of these grand infrastructural innovations, we’ve developed an intricate web of social media platforms and digital communication tools that have transformed human interaction in ways those futurists never anticipated.

My personal relationship with technology remains complicated. There have been countless nights when I’ve intended to research electoral systems for a paper but found myself inadvertently consumed by social media for hours.

During midterms last semester, I attempted to delete certain apps from my phone, only to reinstall them within days. The longest period I’ve managed without social media was an unintentional hiatus during senior year during midterm season.

Surprisingly, after the initial withdrawal symptoms subsided, I experienced an unexpected sense of mental clarity and focus that allowed me to finish reading a book by Pope John Paul II (the Saint my school was named after) after my English teacher, Mr. Corley, suggested it to me.

My friends’ technological usage varies considerably. My best friend Bridget is constantly digital multitasking, simultaneously engaging in FaceTime calls, consuming content, and completing assignments. 

In contrast, my former classmate Will deliberately minimizes his digital presence, often arranging in-person meetings rather than maintaining extensive online communications. His approach initially struck me as somewhat pretentious, but I’ve grown to appreciate his perspective, mainly as I’ve observed the effects of constant connectivity on my own concentration.

After participating in several protests, technology’s impact on activism has become particularly relevant to me. I’ve noticed a troubling pattern where substantial activism gets reduced to performative online gestures—posting a symbolic black square for Blackout Tuesday or sharing an infographic without engaging in meaningful advocacy work.

At one protest against police brutality in 2020, I was struck by how many attendees seemed more focused on capturing content for their social media than engaging with the speakers and organizers. This digital substitution for tangible engagement represents a concerning trend in how technology shapes political participation.

My approach to my digital footprint has been heavily influenced by an incident from my high school years. A classmate had her college acceptance revoked due to offensive content she had posted years earlier.

This cautionary tale, combined with my mother’s professional experience in administration and human resources, instilled in me a heightened awareness of online permanence. When I Google myself, the results display a carefully curated professional presence—my periodically updated LinkedIn profile, my Instagram featuring primarily campus events and occasional travel photos, and a dormant Facebook account maintained largely for family connections.

The concept of technological “unintended consequences” feels increasingly relevant to my generation. Social media platforms designed to connect individuals have paradoxically contributed to widespread feelings of isolation and inadequacy.

I’ve experienced those moments of comparison-induced distress when confronted with the curated highlights of others’ lives, knowing intellectually but struggling to remember emotionally that these representations are selective and often misleading.

The verification methods we were taught in middle school—evaluating URLs, identifying authors, checking publication credentials—appear increasingly inadequate against sophisticated misinformation techniques. Between AI-generated content, convincing deepfakes, and algorithmically targeted distribution, distinguishing reliable information becomes progressively more difficult.

Despite these concerns, I maintain that technology offers substantial benefits. Last year, during a period of personal difficulty related to processing childhood trauma, I found tremendous support through an online community that provided resources and understanding I might not have accessed otherwise.

These positive experiences remind me that technology itself is neutral—it’s the application and surrounding structures that determine outcomes.

Moving forward, I believe the key lies in developing more intentional relationships with technology. This includes personal habits like implementing focused study periods with digital distractions disabled, engaging in unmediated social interactions, and deliberately seeking diverse information sources.

While these individual actions may seem minor, collectively they represent a reclamation of agency in our technological environment.