An Unplugged Existence

I can see you gasping already. The way people react to this disclosure is shocking—it gets more of a response than when I tell people I go to Harvard (another “defining” characteristic that I try not to bring up in a normal—read: off-campus—social setting.)

I wasn’t always bereft of the essential American accessory. Until I was nine years old, my three younger siblings and I were as blissfully plugged in as all the other kids in our Seattle neighborhood. We watched TV after school, we watched Saturday morning cartoons, we snuck behind the couch past our Thursday night bedtimes to sneak peeks of Seinfeld—all pretty standard behavior. But it was enough for my parents to worry, as they told us countless times, that our brains were turning to mush. Once when my mother came home from a long day at work and found us vegged out in front of the tube, she broke down in exasperated tears. In retrospect, this seems exceedingly dramatic. Was there really something so wrong with “Darkwing Duck” and “3-2-1 Contact?”

Apparently so. But the admonitions and restrictions imposed upon us—30 minutes per day ONLY after practicing the piano—were not enough to keep us away. We became pros at sneaking that extra half-hour: just for today; I’ll clean my room; no Mom, it’s a special double episode; Channel 9 is okay because it’s educational!

So when we spent one summer living in a rented house while ours was remodeled, my parents were overjoyed to see that our temporary quarters did not have TV. So overjoyed, in fact, that they were inspired to continue the practice once we moved back home three months later.

Thus ended the reception of television in the Kennelly household. I say reception because we still possessed the immoral box itself. We could watch movies and later DVDs, and in a moment of parental weakness acquired a much-cherished Playstation. But primetime? Cable? DirecTV? Forget it.

I was cut off at the tender age of nine, which is, in my opinion, a worse fate than never having had TV at all. To quote my roommate’s shocked initial response, “It’s like giving someone heroin for two weeks and then taking it away.”

Her reaction is not in any way atypical. Because while the consequences of missing out on ten years of “Cheers” reruns may have done little to affect me at a basic functional level, they have had far-reaching and undeniable significance on my social interactions. You’d be surprised how often TV shows come up in everyday conversation—and not just the simple water-cooler conversation about which Survivor got kicked off last night. We are required on a daily basis to draw from a vast store of television lore. The third season of “The Real World?” Nope. “90210?” Nada. The entire network lineup of the WB? Okay, maybe I’m not missing much there.

But it’s not just the lack of background, which I can always play off by smiling in appreciative ignorance and then swiftly changing the subject. There is always the fear that I won’t be able to lurk in my safe disguise of head-bobbing silence and that my true nature will be exposed. Then I’m screwed.

For one, the initial reaction to the statement that I don’t have TV at home inevitably brings the conversation to an abrupt halt, combined with a dropped jaw or two. People often act offended, as if it’s personally injurious to them that this freak had to ruin the seemingly innocuous prime time-themed discussion. Then come the questions, demands that I explain myself. My reason for not having TV is not straightforward; it can’t be chalked up to religion or a hermetic lifestyle. Finally, my companions’ dissatisfaction with my explanation produces an awkward silence. People look at me like I’ve said too much, as though I’ve revealed some sordid personal information that should remain private. Conversation killer, their eyes seem to say. Go back to the Amish village from whence you came.

Occasionally, in an attempt to empathize, people will say, “Well, I never watch TV any more anyway. I don’t know why I even keep it around!” This is a patent lie. Sure, they say they’ve never seen Must-See TV. But they’ll jump eagerly into the debate over what the next episode of “Alias” will reveal about Sidney’s amnesia. Or they’ll feign ignorance about last night’s “The West Wing,” but laugh before the punch line. Their false compassion is hopelessly transparent.

I wish I could say that not having TV throughout those years of junior and senior high made me smarter, or that at some point I saw the light and realized my parents were right all along. It’s true that while once I was physically incapable of ignoring a turned-on set, I now believe that most programming is asinine, unoriginal and often unnecessary. And if I ever have children, I probably won’t have a TV in the house.

But due to the scorn that arises from my confession, I cannot act aloof about the fact that I might retain a few dozen more brain cells than my cable-enhanced companions. While I suppose I could be proud of my eccentricity, I have learned from experience that revealing this fun fact about myself is simply not in the same category as double-jointedness or coming from Guam. Unlike an entertaining personal anecdote or funky physical feature, TV-lessness brands you as a black hole in the universe of normal social interaction.

So my recourse has been to become a pop culture imposter. Through shows caught at a friend’s house, through tidbits garnered from overheard conversations, and through—God praise it—People magazine, I have cobbled together a false personal television history. I can smile and nod at the appropriate times. I can chuckle at the proper jokes. If I’m feeling really savvy, I can toss in the odd Friends reference. I become, in essence, a laugh track.

“So, you catch Will and Grace last night?”

“No, but wanna see my eleventh toe?”

Lisa J. Kennelly ’06 is a history and literature concentrator in Eliot House. She does not have eleven toes; however, she is newly obsessed with “American Idol.”