Nobody panic 

A philosophical meditation on social media and our kids

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  • Published 20250506
  • ISBN: 978-1-923213-07-4
  • Extent: 196 pp
  • Paperback, ebook, PDF

I REACHED ADOLESCENCE in the mid ’90s, when all there was to do was ride our bikes to Blockbuster, rent videos and eat pizza. At birthday parties we summoned the dead with homemade ouija boards and played Murder in the Dark. It was a time for backyard bonfires and going to the movies with a boy you liked and sitting in coffee shops pretending you were Ross or Rachel or Phoebe or Joey. The internet was a baby – a magical thing you used on the family computer, waiting through trills and pings for a connection, only to send a one-line email to your friend Kate who wouldn’t be able to reply because her brother was playing Minesweeper or her sister was on the telephone. It was innocent and wholesome and slow and fibrous, and still our parents found things to panic about. 

Our childhood was disappearing at an alarming rate due to the satanic music of Marilyn Manson. When we weren’t at risk of abduction, we were watching too much television, rotting our brains. Ecstasy and speed were killing us. Mortal Kombat. South Park. Rap, for Godssakes. My mother had a particular vendetta against low-cut jeans and Courtney Love, and a lingering suspicion of Kylie Minogue. I was never, ever allowed to watch The Simpsons. It was a wonderful time to be alive. 

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When I was a little girl, my parents would scold me with scripture. ‘Sita,’ my mother would say, ‘where there is love, nothing is too much trouble and there is always time,’ which was her way of telling me to stop whining. If my brother and I would fight, she would say: ‘So powerful is the light of unity, that it can illuminate the whole Earth,’ as though our altercation over the TV remote was the reason for ethnic tensions in Kosovo. My father was the same, always on about justice and mercy and truth. The Most Great Sin in our house was backbiting and gossip. ‘Thou shalt see with thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others,’ he would say, ‘and shalt know of thine own knowledge and not through the knowledge of thy neighbour.’ Needless to say, my breaking news – that Jessie Stevens told me Marjory Klimt was pregnant to Scotty Graft and her parents were making her drop out of school – was not welcome at our dinner table.

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