Suspended Reality

When I lived in Portugal, life was beautiful. Sparkling beaches, white-stoned monuments, soaring cathedrals with brilliant stained glass windows. I couldn’t get enough of the cobblestone, and there was something inexplicably fairytale-like about the laundry hanging out of the windows, waving slightly in the breeze. It was real life, don’t get me wrong—I pinched myself multiple times to make sure, but at the same time I knew it wasn’t maintainable reality. You can’t make a living strolling the streets and eating pastries.

I remember serving in Sacavém and being exposed to harsh reality. There was the well-to-do part of the city, and then there was the other side. We had to walk down the street from our house, follow a little alley that led to a well-beaten path through a gloomy tunnel under the overpasses, then walk through a field before finally emerging into another alley crowded by weeds. The houses were run down and smaller than my bedroom at home, yet whole families somehow fit inside. The roofs were caving in, the plaster peeling off the front, and the doors were crooked—you were lucky if you got a door that hadn’t already been broken open multiple times. To my naïve 19-year-old self, it was horrifying. How could people live this way?

Continuing up the alleyway, the road broadened and split off into other side streets. Following one to the left, we eventually found ourselves at a dead end with weeds all around and a crooked apartment building that looked like it was about to crumble. We pushed the door open (the key hole had been forced too many times), climbed up the stairs in the darkness (the light didn’t work), and knocked loudly on the door (the doorbell was broken). Our friend Suaila, a young mother of three, opened the door and let us in. Just around the corner we could see all of the kids practically bouncing off the walls with too much energy for a too tired mom. They had runny noses and the nine-month-old was lying on a bare mattress on the floor as his three-year-old and five-year-old siblings tumbled about. And then there was Suaila’s husband—in front of the TV, completely tuned out from the chaos all around him. The paint was peeling from the walls, the bare bulb barely gave enough light to see, and the couches were covered in holes. But they had a large flat screen television, a TV service with a wide variety of channels, and smartphones. All while their house was practically falling in on itself and there was hardly any food in the cupboard.

I left their house that night confused. How had the necessities of life become so twisted? No longer was it food and shelter and love that mattered, but TV channels and internet and social media.

My time in Portugal ended and I came back to my studies at BYU. A few days ago I was on campus finishing up some homework for the night. My nose was buried in Persuasion as I drank in Jane Austen’s beautiful critique of life and love and social class and family matters. I looked up at the clock and realized that over an hour had gone by. I glanced to my right. To my surprise, I saw a boy sitting there, half off of the couch, his eyes glued to the computer screen that was balanced precariously on his knees, his fingers dancing across a video game controller. Why in the world did he bring that with him to campus?

I looked to the left, and sitting on another couch was a girl dressed in sophisticated button-up with a stylish blazer. She appeared professional until I saw her smart phone screen as she scrolled through Instagram.

I had seen both of them walk in over a half an hour before, but then my mind had gone back to England and I became absorbed with Anne and her adventures in Uppercross. When I resurfaced again, I realized that these two other young adults were completely enthralled by their false realities behind glass screens and pixels. How could they be so numb to the world around them? Where was reality?

Granted, I had been suspended in a different reality as well. My mind was completely in the romantic era, exploring the winding country lanes in a careening buggy driven by Admiral Croft. Yet I argue that there is a difference between a reality of pixels and reality of ink—one is in search of a release while the other is attempting to educate oneself, to further understand the real world rather than trying to escape from it. The suspension of reality depends a great deal upon the intention of the pursuer.

Though these two experiences happened oceans apart, they taught me the same thing. As humans, we try to suspend reality. We get distracted. We allow ourselves to forget what is actually important. As pop culture tells our generation, “Reality is a lovely place, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” We forget that our value doesn’t depend on how many friendship requests we receive on Facebook or how many channels our TV gets. Our actions shouldn’t be determined by how the actors on reality TV shows behave. Our lives shouldn’t be ruled by a five-inch screen—or a five foot-screen. Our adventures shouldn’t depend on how we plan on portraying them in our next Instagram post, and our houses shouldn’t become a Pintrest board. Life is too precious to be wasted submerged in virtual realities.

If we know it's not real, then why do we waste countless hours scrolling through fake lives on Facebook and Instagram and Pinterest and Twitter and who knows how many other channels of social media? Can our lives not be raw and real, unburdened with unrealistic expectations and supposed social norms? Why do we insist on this filtered existence, this suspension of reality?