1982: Human-Paper-Human-Computer Interfaces

This is the first in a short series of articles around my 4-decade+ career in software development — for your amusement, edification, and to capture a bit of computing history. They also bring back some memories for me, fond and otherwise.

I attended the University of Maryland in College Park starting in 1982. For my freshman enrollment, I showed up in a large hall (perhaps a gymnasium) in the Armory building. Tables adorned with signs indicating their department — history, computer science, etc. — surrounded the room.

I filled out numerous half-sheet preprinted paper forms with my interests:

Name:                  Jeff Langr

Class:                 CMSC 110P
  Add                    ☒
  Drop                   ☐

Preferred schedule     Tue-Thu 8:30am

I then waited in line. Once I got to the head of the line, the friendly department representative marked up my choices in a fat printout, and I let the paper request fall to the floor.

Thousands of drop/add slips littered the floor. It was a bit of a party. (See photo, courtesy the UMd Alumni Association, which appears to be from the halcyon 1970s.) The room buzzed, occasionally noisily so. Some folks were anxious about getting into classes, some were exuberant when they did, and some like me amused and a little intimidated.

Amused? Yes, this was the modern world of 1982, and it seemed silly to be using paper and pen to enroll — particularly since my high school had been more technologically advanced than a 40,000-student university. It was a heck of a lot of fun, though.

The following year, things had improved… well, maybe just “had modernized.” The school had purchased a pile of terminals in the interim. (My first-year comp sci programming work was slated to have been done using punch cards, but the university made us all happy enough to stay by installing dozens of terminals before the start of my second week.)

On this second seemingly-annual trip to the Armory, a different mood prevailed. Things were quieter, there were no paper slips patchwork-blanketing the floor, and only a handful of very long lines snaked around the hall. Students looked bored and cowed. The lines were identified with signs; I spotted a very long Add line and a shorter Drop line among them.

I waited perhaps 40 minutes in the Add line. Upon reaching the front, I told someone sitting at a computer what I wanted to add. That human proxy then translated what I just told them into the computer (shades of GalaxyQuest).

“Oh, you are wait-listed for one of your courses,” Gwen(?) told me. “You’ll need to go stand in the waitlist line every day to see if you got into the class. If you don’t show up, you will be removed from the waitlist.” I looked at the waitlist line. It appeared to similarly represent 40 minutes of lost time. If only I were able to time-transport my iPhone to 40 years prior.

Sure enough, I had to rush to the armory during my sole hour-long break between classes, wait my 40 minutes for someone to check a box, then rush to the next class. On the third day of waiting and after my obligatory 40 minutes, I was given good news.

“Congrats, you’re in the class.” OK, great! I started to walk off. “Wait… you need to wait in the Add line again. Here, you’ll need this slip of paper to prove you’re no longer waitlisted.”

What? I just waited 40 minutes. You can’t just add me right here? No, they could only support checking you off for showing up that day.

I’ve only thrown a handful of fits in my adult life, and none to that point in time. I’m pretty laid back… but every rare once in a while, I realize it might be the only way to get results.

“That’s ridiculous.” I ranted for a minute, and kept ranting as an older woman (apparently the person in charge of the thing) walked up. You mean to tell me because your software is incapable of adding me at this workstation, I’m going to have to spend another 40 minutes in line today? I have a job, blah blah, I realize all these other kids don’t really care because their parents pay for this, but I do, blah blah, I’m at a university and this is the best system they can come up with?, blah blah.

My embarrassing rant succeeded. She hissed, “Here! I’ll add you,” and marched me to another terminal. (It was clear she knew enough to be embarrassed about how abusive the whole process was.) At which point, I turned off the rants and became a bit apologetic, but darn if I was going to wait in line one more time. The hissy fit had worked, and I snuck out the back, avoiding the eyes of other students glaring at me.

Next year things were a little less abusive but still a little silly — I made an appointment, showed up at a cubicle, and someone took all my information. I subsequently had to show up for a quick check each day to see if I was added. Yay technology.

Lessons?

• Don’t tolerate abusive tech or processes.
• Do make sure you’re not abusing the people who are saddled with supporting them. Sorry, Gwen.
• Enjoy seemingly archaic processes. You may someday find nostalgia in them. And sometimes their more-modern replacements are worse.
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  Yes, some of these posts are going to reveal some things that I’m not terribly proud of. I suppose that’s part of the point of my navel gazing.