To keep the memories, put down the phone
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Illustration: Sarah Grillo/Axios. Stock: Getty Images
No one snapped footage of my daughter Ava's first home run. I was umpiring behind the plate and couldn't ethically take out my iPhone to capture that moment in the New Mexico desert.
Why it matters: The home run doesn't exist in the cloud, but my mind recorded every detail. It will never be erased as long as I am me. That's the beauty of a memory created when we put the smartphone away.
- I can replay it anytime: the hard slap past third base, a 10-year-old's dash around the bases while holding her helmet, her teammates sprinting from the dugout, our quick smiles at each other as she crossed the plate.
- Had I recorded it on my phone, we'd have watched it a few times that night. Then it would have disappeared into the maze of "important" moments in our digital archives that we infrequently revisit.
The big picture: We're programmed to pull out our phones at crucial — often milestone — moments: weddings, piano recitals, kids' basketball games, award presentations, birthday serenades and graduations.
- We'll rarely rewatch them. And as we stare into a screen, we lose out on being present.
- We are missing opportunities to load up our minds with shared events and images that can't be deleted or repeated. Our brains have more space than we use — and don't charge a storage fee.
The test: I recently took a sabbatical and tried to put the phone down more.
- I took walks in the desert mesa with my dog Chaco and watched sunsets across the Sandia Mountains, streaked watermelon red.
- I watched my daughter Elena blow out birthday candles while announcing her last year in single digits. "My little girl years are almost gone," she proudly declared.
- I saw a lowrider cruise his pink Impala along Route 66 in downtown Albuquerque as a homeless man yelled, "Beautiful car. Ima get mine one day, too!" The driver raised his fist, as if saying, I'm rooting for you.
- I stared down a rattlesnake during a confrontation on a desert dirt road. "I know who sent you, but I'm not going with you right now," I said. The snake swirled away behind the juniper, and I stood there, alone.
Between the lines: My mind has a lot of space to fill and not much time.
- My family has a history of Alzheimer's, which came for my grandfather Carlos, and his siblings.
- I may have the gene, but I'm more worried I'll be left with the bad memories if I don't load up on the good soon.
A few of my bad ones took place before I set foot in kindergarten. I can't delete the footage, no matter how hard I try. I'm 52.
- I'm 3 or 4 years old. I walk into a room where Tommy, an infant my mother is babysitting, is lying. He's cold. My mom comes in to wake him up but he's lifeless, a victim of sudden infant death syndrome.
- Same age: My neighborhood in Houston is in flames. There's a riot outside over the police killing of 23-year-old Joe Campos Torres. It's the fire this time.
- There's a domestic dispute in my home. The police are called and I'm carried away, my toddler arms swinging at an officer.
Zoom out: "Don't mind dyin', but don't wanna die alone," bluesman Marcus King sings. Nah, I know little Tommy will be there somewhere in that room when it's my time.
The bottom line: I want better memories waiting for me at the end.
- I want to recall Ava's swing, her turn around second, the crowd screams and her smiling gaze at me right before she touches the plate. Right before I go home.
