THE THREAD | The Noble Basement

My childhood friend’s father, Mr. Noble, was an early adopter of home security systems. I had long suspected him of being a covert CIA agent. His slicked-back dark hair, his Top Gun shades, his concealing grin – all dead giveaways. So when he installed cameras around the perimeter of his house as well as inside, my suspicions were confirmed. He was on the lookout. For what?

During the summer of seventh grade, my friends and I would swim at the neighborhood pool, wander the streets, and end up back at someone’s house. At the Nobles’ house we would head to the basement, eat snacks, watch My So Called Life or The Real World while sitting co-ed on the couches, flirting and goofing off, inching closer to each other. At some point my friend would get up from the couch, grab a small cardboard box, and walk to the corner of the room where one of the security cameras gazed downward on the scene where our teenage bodies moved in all of our awkward glory. In what I considered then to be a radical act of defiance against her father, she raised the box above her head and placed it over the camera. For a while, the surveillance ceased. We were free.

A couple weeks ago I had plans to meet my wife for lunch. I left my studio on McGee and walked west through the Crossroads toward Main Street. As I approached the restaurant on Main, I could hear from somewhere, overhead and nearby, a voice over a loudspeaker, static and monotone. I listened closely. I could hear the words: “. . . under surveillance . . . Caution . . . you are under surveillance . . .”

In that moment I remembered that summer, those basement cameras spying on us. I can’t detach the word “surveillance” from that odd childhood memory. And I’ve been thinking about it since. I imagine Mr. Noble would be proud of the way his vision for his children’s future has played out, how none of us can escape the camera’s gaze. Or would he be proud? Was he intending to restrict our freedoms under the guise of keeping us safe? Was he so worried about intruders breaking in that he didn’t notice that we were all being watched, increasingly desensitized to the presence of cameras and screens to the point where we not only permit but embrace their presence?

What is the difference between being watched and being seen?

What options, if any, remain for us to drop small boxes over the cameras so that we might taste a different freedom?

Who are we when no one is watching?

What I’m currently reading: Leif Enger’s I Cheerfully Refuse, Wendell Berry’s The Unsettling of America, The Atlantic’s “The Anti-Social Century”

What I’m listening to: Jeremiah Fraites’ Piano Piano 1 & 2, Tom Petty’s Wildflowers & All the Rest, Lucinda Williams’ Essence, The New Pornographers’ Twin Cinema

(IMAGE: Surveillance Secure)