David Kubicek

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Shape of the Future


On July 16, I attended my 45-year Lincoln Northeast High School reunion. One hundred and ten former classmates came—not bad, this late in the day, for a class of around 600. Some were scattered too far across the country to make it, others had dropped off the radar and couldn’t be reached, and sadly a few—probably more than I know about—are no longer with us. I’ve attended every reunion since our 20th, but this is the first time I’ve gone without my wife, Cheryl, who passed away last November.

A nostalgic thread seems to connect us all to high school. We all had varying high school experiences, some good, some not so good. But even for those who thrived in high school, I doubt that it was the best, the happiest time in their lives—at least I hope not, considering they’ve been collecting life experiences for 45 years since graduation. But high school was the beginning of our adulthood—or at least our transition to adulthood—and I believe that is why we feel a special connection.

Friends and experiences we shared in high school keep drawing us back every five to 10 years to catch up and to see how much we’ve grown—and how much the world has changed around us—as we’ve followed our life’s journeys.

Here are a few things that come to mind as I think about the time that has passed since high school:

  • When I started high school, no one had yet walked on the moon.
  • There is more technology in a smart phone today than there was in the command module that took the first Americans to the moon.
  • I learned to type on a rather odd piece of equipment called a typewriter, and my first published stories and articles where written on that ancient device.
  • When I was in high school, Lincoln Northeast acquired a forerunner to what would later be known as a desktop computer, and we were taken in small groups down to the office to look at it.
  • I wrote my first book (or more accurately ghost-wrote it) on a computer with a five-megabyte hard drive (by comparison, flash drives can store 16 or more gigabytes, and I believe that hard drives are now into terabytes).
  • I used to spend lots of time haunting libraries to do research, but the internet has sped up the process considerably, and e-mail is an easier and faster way to communicate.

My son Sean, who will turn 21 on August 31, is a child of technology. He had his first computer when he was four—it was one of our old ones after we bought new equipment. We got our first laptop when Sean was in the third grade, and he taught me how to use it; it seems that his teacher had one, so he knew all about laptops. And throughout middle school and high school Sean did his homework on a laptop.

Today Sean has two laptops—a bigger, badder one especially built for gaming, and a standard laptop to do other things on. And he is using his smart phone, in addition to texting and going online, to catch Pokemon. We got into a discussion recently on the changes he will see over the next 45 years. He couldn’t conceive of what kind of changes there might be. What else could possibly be invented? Surely, we have reached the pinnacle of our technological capability.

I told him that our minds are too rooted in the present to conceive of what marvels the future has in store. Even science fiction writers, whose business it is to speculate about the future, missed predicting two things that define our current culture—the digital revolution and cell phones. But whatever technological advancements may come over the next 45 years will be seriously cool. Sean will see them, and I’d like to see them, too, because they will be, as I have said, seriously cool.

Unfortunately, my best chance of seeing that brave new world rests on the discovery, before my ultimate deterioration, of how to transfer our minds into robot bodies. I know this was the topic of a The Big Bang Theory episode, but the idea has been kicking around for decades. But I inherited longevity genes from my parents, so I have a good chance of surviving until such a discovery is made—unless something happens to me or I get an incurable disease.

Oh well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

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