“These Coronials…” (A Speculative Piece of Original Flash Fiction)
The “Coronial Generation” was recently defined as the next population surge from the predicted boom of babies born in between December 2020 and the early months of 2021 amidst the prevalence of stay-at-home couples during the current Covid-19 pandemic. Here’s a speculative look on how these kids may turn out in 20-something years in the future, in the form of flash fiction (my first try on this writing genre)
“It’s 7:00 PM, Ananya! Time for dinner.”, I say to my nineteen-year daughter who’s deeply mesmerized in her virtual slash augmented reality glasses, watching a VR lecture.
She’s in her third year at LinkedIn University, working hard to finish an accelerated program in medical robotics to get her LinkedIn profile instantly updated and certified so that she can quickly get herself into an entry level job as a virtual social care specialist, a growing segment of healthcare professionals that’s specialized in caring for the massive population of elderly infirm through remotely-controlled humanoid robots.
Just like many of her friends, Ananya wants to rack up a couple of years worth of early practical experience by the time she turns 21, before she enters a formal medical school, with plans to eventually become a virtual surgeon.
“Yeah, yeah. Coming dad!”, she responds in annoyance.
She stands up from her cushy leather armchair and hastily walks toward the dining table where I’m waiting with a small feast of vat-grown steak and vegetables I picked fresh from the balcony garden. She sits on the chair across me, still looking mesmerized in her virtual world.
I notice that her headset is on AR mode, the glass screen slightly transparent, except from small blocks of light, projections of whatever application windows her wandering eyes are interacting with.
“I keep telling you, no electronics at the dinner table!”, I say to her, as her hands are doing a series of deliberate typing gestures on an invisible keyboard in the air.
“Hold on dad. I’m just passing along some notes to my classmates. Okay, there. Done!”, she replies, takes off her headset and starts to shovel a mouthful of food.
For a few minutes, both of us sit in peace until her rushed pace of eating starts to get bothersome, pushing me to break the silence.
“So, is schoolwork stressing you out?”
“No. Um. I guess a little bit. We just have a big group presentation due tomorrow, and me and the project lead have a bit of a disagreement.”
“You know, back in the day, any disagreements I had with colleagues or school mates, I’d hash it out on a conference call? Or better yet, we’d meet in person and discuss into wee hours of the morning just to get things done.”
She gives me a puzzled look as she swallows a huge morsel of beef.
“Really? You’d want me to fly from Manila to Ho Chi Minh City to catch up with our project lead to have a debate in person on what constitutes as moral accountability in AI’s making autonomous decisions? C’mon dad, this is the 2040s. Many people are taking their classes on VR nowadays.”, she says in annoyance.
“Duh! I know all your classmates are in other countries right now. I’m just saying, it won’t hurt to have a live conversation with them on video call, or something. Gauge what they’re saying and the tone of their voice in real time so you can respond accordingly, instead of simply passing on messages on chat. There are more to conversations than what’s being said, such as how it’s being said, and what’s not being said.”
“Well dad. On chat, we don’t miss out on details. They’re all in black in white for easy reference. It’s particularly important in highly technical courses like the one I’m taking.”, she replies.
She finally finishes her plate, while I’m only halfway through mine. And I’m feeling the urge to keep her at the dinner table.
“Listen, Ananya. I’m just worried that you’re burning out. Maybe you should take a breather. What do you say to getting some almond milk chocolate ice cream after I finish my dinner?”
Again, she gives me a confused look, as if going outside at night is some bizarre new activity to her. Sadly, two pandemics in the past two decades since Covid-19 didn’t offer her an outgoing childhood compared to mine.
“Dad…I’m sorry. I just have so much to do tonight.”
For a second, I notice a look of guilt in her face, brows furled, eyes heavy with exaustion, mouth in a slight frown.
Nonetheless, without remorse, she stands up from her seat, picks up her headset and goes back into her armchair. Her glasses turn into a dark opaque shade of gray, as she goes back into her VR trance. While I’m left at the dinner table to finish my food, alone.
That was probably the longest conversation we’ve had in weeks. But as I said, there’s more to conversations than what’s being said, such as how it’s being said and what’s not being said.
And what I’m not saying to her right now is that I don’t think she’s qualified to offer emotional support to senior citizens if she can’t even offer me, her own father, a bit of a connection.
What I’m not saying to her right now is that I’m sorry that I raised her in such a sheltered way that you grew up to be so disengaged with the world of real human interactions.
What I’m not saying right now is “#FML”.
I’d probably be posting that on Twitter, if it still exists today.
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This is part of a series of posts I’ve started a few weeks back on my musings around the effects the Covid-19 outbreak, today and in the future. Expect some more as this crisis continues. For now, check out my past articles:
