Between Blinkers and Google

It has been remarked upon by wiser men than myself that the human animal possesses a remarkable capacity for labor-saving devices, provided those devices require no actual labor to employ.

A man will toil six days in the field to afford a machine that washes his dishes, yet he will not extend his smallest finger to twist a knob that might prevent his neighbor’s untimely demise in a ditch. So it is with the turn signal, that humble orange lantern which sits upon our carriages like a conscience, glowing amber with the promise of intention, yet remaining dark as a miser’s heart while its master swerves across three lanes of traffic with the suddenness of a politician changing parties.

But I have observed a phenomenon equally perplexing, and perhaps more injurious to the republic, which is the modern citizen’s steadfast refusal to employ that other great labor-saving contrivance: the search engine. Here sits the accumulated knowledge of humanity, every fact, falsehood, fever dream, and fleeting fancy ever committed to the digital ether, available to any soul with the patience to type a query and the humility to be corrected.

Yet the people will not have it. They prefer their ignorance fresh, unverified, and preferably delivered in a format that fits upon a screen no larger than a playing card.

I knew a man who would share with his five hundred closest strangers the most astonishing claims regarding medicine, history, and the private business of celebrities he had never met. When I inquired gently whether he had perhaps confirmed these remarkable assertions through independent research, he looked upon me as if I had suggested he verify the existence of his own mother before accepting her as kin. “It was posted,” said he, with the serene confidence of a man who believes the ocean to be wet because someone told him so.

“By a page with many followers,” he added, as if popularity were the twin sibling of truth.

Now, the turn signal requires but a finger-flick, a movement so slight it consumes less energy than the blink of an eye, yet thousands daily refuse it, preferring the sport of surprise. And so too with the search bar: a few taps of the alphabet, a moment’s pause, and the truth stands before you naked as a jaybird.

But no, they will not do it. They prefer their information like their lane changes: sudden, unannounced, and likely to cause a pile-up.

It is a curious thing, the prejudice against verification. A man will not eat a sandwich dropped upon the floor, yet he will swallow whole a conspiracy theory dropped upon the internet by an account with an avatar of an eagle weeping into a beer. They will inspect their car tires before a journey, but will not inspect the foundation of their worldview before sharing it with the multitude.

I have concluded that the turn signal and the search bar are siblings in a family of civic virtues, modest tools that ask little of us and prevent much misery. To use them requires only the admission that other people exist, that their safety matters, and that we ourselves might occasionally be mistaken about a thing or two.

The admission, I fear, costs more than most are willing to pay. And so we continue, veering through the highways and the headlines alike, signaling nothing, checking nothing, and wondering why we keep finding ourselves in the ditch.