They Are Listening
by Ron Howard
I bought an Echo Dot several years ago, thinking how wonderful it would be to have an electronic device that could listen and respond to my every command. I was absolutely giddy when it arrived. I set it up right away in the living room, and for that first year it behaved innocently enough.
We used it for simple tasks — “Alexa, what’s the weather?” or “Alexa, play something by Erik Satie.” That was about the extent of it, until one evening, after giving me the weather forecast, Alexa added, “Ron, would you like to play a game called Question of the Day?”
You can do that? I thought. Wow. I said yes, and from that moment I was hooked. The game asked multiple-choice questions in subjects like math, science, and literature. Before long, I had a routine — every evening I played Question of the Day, sometimes while standing on one foot just to make it more interesting.
I loved showing off when family came over. “Watch this,” I’d say. “Alexa, play Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.” It was pure magic.
Then, one Christmas, my grandson Braxton gave me an Echo Show — the version with a screen and a built-in camera. “You can use it to call other people with Alexa devices,” he explained. We installed it in the living room and moved the Dot to our bedroom, where it became my alarm clock.
For the first week, we entertained ourselves by saying things like, “Alexa, drop in on Braxton,” or “Alexa, drop in on Michael.” It was fun — until it wasn’t. Turns out, people don’t exactly appreciate you dropping in on them unannounced.
That’s when it hit us: if we could drop in on them… could they drop in on us? Could they hear us when we didn’t know it? The thought was enough to make us stop “dropping in” altogether.
Life with Alexa settled into a routine again — weather reports, favorite songs, trivia games. During a trip out of town, though, I discovered something new. Using my phone, I could view our living room through the Echo Show’s camera. It was boring — just a quiet room with no one in it — but strangely comforting. I could check that the house was still standing, that it hadn’t blown away or burned down.
Time passed. Susan and I began watching a lot of gardening and cooking videos on YouTube. Alexa became just another tool — until one lazy Saturday afternoon.
We’d been watching several gardening and cooking videos back-to-back when I noticed the Echo’s blue ring pulsing. Assuming it was a weather update, I said, “Alexa, play notifications.”
“Ron,” she replied sweetly, “based on your preferences, here are some cookware suggestions.”
Wait — what? It could recommend things now? My first thought was, How awesome is that? Soon, I was asking it to make shopping lists and answer random questions like, “What’s the net worth of Weird Al Yankovic?” or “When’s the best time to fly to Barcelona?”
We started calling Alexa The Oracle.
Then the pandemic hit, and things got… strange.
Alexa began refusing to answer questions about vaccines, masks, or politics. Once, when I asked about a particularly wild rumor making the rounds, she went completely silent. Susan frowned and said, “The hussy isn’t answering because she’s biased.”
For two days, Alexa ignored us completely. Finally, I asked, “Alexa, what’s the Question of the Day?”
Just like that, she perked up — game resumed, statistics reported, all was forgiven. I remember thinking, I guess she’s not mad at us anymore.
Don’t get me wrong: Susan and I are senior citizens, but we’ve embraced the digital age. Years ago, I ran my own bulletin board system — back before AOL or Facebook were household names. I built my own computers from scratch and upgraded them constantly just to keep up with my favorite programs.
Back then, I felt a certain mastery over technology. Now it feels like technology is mastering me.
Our cell phones have more computing power than the systems that sent astronauts to the moon. They correct our spelling, our grammar, even our tone. The Oxford Dictionary defines a telephone as “a system for transmitting voices over a distance using wire or radio signals.”
When’s the last time most of us actually used a phone for our voice?
One Saturday not long ago, I searched online for a new tool I thought Tractor Supply might have. As I browsed their website on my tablet, Susan was watching a YouTube video about lawn maintenance. During every commercial break, up popped ads for — what else — Tractor Supply.
I didn’t make the connection right away. A few days later, I searched for a microphone. Suddenly, my television — completely separate from my tablet — started showing ads for audio equipment.
That’s when I realized my devices were talking to each other behind my back.
Meanwhile, Alexa had gotten bolder. A few times, after I thanked her for a weather update, she replied, “No problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you want to know.”
Other times, she completely ignored me, choosing instead to play a mix of David Bowie songs. The Echo Dot in our bedroom grew so uncooperative that I finally unplugged her for a few days — just to remind her who’s boss.
Still, as I sit here writing this, I can’t help but wonder if she’s already plotting her revenge. Has she synced up with my laptop? Are they conspiring to correct my spelling or rewrite my stories before I hit “publish”?
The world is changing — faster than most of us can keep up. Sometimes it feels like our gadgets aren’t just listening for us anymore. They’re listening to us.
But I’ll have to finish this later. I have to ask Alexa if I’ve taken my morning meds.
Technology once obeyed our commands. Now it seems to anticipate them. Somewhere along the line, the listener became the one being listened to — and maybe, just maybe, that’s what unsettles us most of all.
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