Growing up, I was an Allen Iverson stan. I had multiple jerseys, the shoes, (my mother wasn’t with the braids so I did what any rebellious teen did…. I just faked it with a du rag and headband. Cuz black mama). I had just missed the Jordan era, he was the dude from Space Jam who you had to create in video games cuz he was too good for them. AI was my Jordan and I wasn’t hearing otherwise. As time has gone on, analytics and advanced stats gave the real tea on AI: he was a very inefficient scorer, turnover prone, one of the worse defenders in the league, was really bout 5’9 1/2, wasn’t a great 3 point shooter but he threw them up anyway, may not start for most teams let alone be the face of a franchise. Fuck them numbers, B. Iverson is a blind spot where I could be blissfully ignorant enjoying what I was watching without knowing too much. It was a simpler time.
These days, perhaps we have too much information. You may not be here if your parents could send subliminal tweets to each other during a fight, Barack and Michelle were able to fall in love because he never had to experience being left on “read”, I could be married to my college sweetheart if she never found my Twitter. (No, I wouldn’t. ) It could also be for the better; you can search his @ name and “bitches”, “black women” or “females” and see what’s he’s really bout, you may find out on Facebook she wasn’t as single as she let on, you see every too damn friendly comment left by others on their pictures or just learn early that they ain’t really bout shit. Why waste precious time and energy when you can learn all about someone with a few clicks. But what’s the fun in that? Isn’t life about learning things the hard way, experiencing the ups and downs…I guess? Yet, at the same time, we millennials. (well I have no idea who is a millennial is anymore, it feels like the goalposts keep moving.) I guess I’m wondering aloud if maybe we just know too much.
Then there’s me. I have a kinda almost weekly semi-autobiographical blog. A far more intimate setting than even my social media accounts. Here, I just say whatever is on my mind without much thought about who (hi sweetie?) may or may not be reading. Well, mostly. I’ve learned there’s still plenty I should keep to myself. I often wonder if SFW is maybe too much information. Every doubt, every thought, every feeling doesn’t need to be articulated… publicly. Yet we millennials overshare to the point of exhaustion. I’ve said before that I couldn’t date another writer, we’re too neurotic, too analytical, project too much (There’s only room for one me in the relationship and I’m already me). You’d think everything is good and next thing you know you’re being dragged on Harper’s Bazaar because your wife finds it emotionally draining to speak to you directly. I’ve seen followers literally thread every detail of their day and as a follower I’m mildly amused but if I was a love interest I would run for the hills.
I guess I enjoy a blissful ignorance. I want to be able to ask about your day and actually not know the answer already because you made 36 snaps. I want to watch AI highlights and not know he could’ve made a higher percentage shot if he passed it earlier. I don’t need to know what her homegirl thinks about me (unless she’s taking my side), or that she saw that text an hour before she decided to answer it. That’s not the same as being blindly naive to cheating and otherwise disrespectful behavior, it’s I’m going into this as objectively and open as possible.