DEEDED INTEREST
Defining two-factor authenticity
Aspen Times | May 26, 2024
McLean and I were finally settling in for the night. It had been a busy day for us both. Bridger was down, dogs peed and lights out downstairs. We decided to watch something mindless and funny together on YouTube. So, we propped up the pillows, got cozy under the covers, and clicked on the TV. But after hitting the corresponding icon, instead of serving up the home screen, I was asked to log-in.
OK, no biggie, that happens when you don’t use a certain set as often as others. I recalled the password and dictated it to the remote. I hit enter but again, no joy. More action was required to allow me to proceed. A message had been sent to either my wife’s iPad or to my iPhone, where my electronic interrogation and proof of life would continue.
Neither device was in reach as I don’t keep the blower by the bed, so I cursed, threw off the bedsheets, walked downstairs, turned on the kitchen lights and fumbled for my phone. Wouldn’t ya know it? No notification to be found there. Phone back on charger, lights off again, upstairs for the wife’s iPad hiding in plain sight. By the time access was granted, we either forgot what it was we wanted to see or were too irritated and tired to bother.
In this modern, tech-burdensome age, we’ve become numb to these endless sign-ups, sign-ins and multi-factor verifications. No doubt they present a common inconvenience but are mandatory for entry to a concert, securing a seat on an airplane or to every dollar we have in the bank.
I think we can all agree these layers of protection are compulsory for our safety, finances, transportation and online info. To complain about something as miniscule as signing in to a streaming app might seem absurd, but the more I think about it, the more significant I believe it to be.
By requiring I prove to an artificial intelligence bot I was not an imposter or pirate, I lost 15 minutes of needed nothing time with my wife. A brain break, rather than recalling what tasks remained unfinished as well as tomorrow’s to-dos, and a laugh or two before drifting off to sleep was what we needed.
Think about how many times a day we are asked to verify our identity; prove to cyberspace who we are via uppercase, lowercase, numbers and symbols no less than seven characters in length. It occurs to me there’s an element in this repetitive process that literally dehumanizes us, one password, one facial scan at a time. It’s an exhausting routine when you stop to think about it.
The unwavering requirement for identification can also be isolating. Often, our face-to-face or telephonic exchanges begin with our social security number and trusted phrase, rather than a friendly salutation followed by “nice to see you” or “good to hear your voice.” And in its ugliest form, it’s used as an excuse to exclude and restrict rather than rely on our instincts to determine if a person or persons should be granted admission. “We Card Everyone Under 50” is proof we prefer to ignore our God-given common sense in favor of what we instinctively know to be true.
Obviously, there’s a component of fear and mistrust to acknowledge here as well. What’s the worst thing that can happen if we fail to verify? In my business wire fraud is one, identity theft another, terrorists flying planes into towers is yet another, and one that brought us to our knees. But in less critical circumstances, isn’t it amazing when we find grace rather than admonition after forgetting our credit card, or familiarity rather than indifference just by stating our name to a peace officer, or recognition rather than rejection by the teller at the bank or agent at the airport?
Other than the natural beauty, one of the most amazing things about living in our valley is the sense of community here and eventually the familiarity and trust that go along with it. When encountered, it feels like a warm hug. “That’s OK, sweetie. I know you’re good for it.” Or, “I know you’ll get me on the other side,” are not uncommon exchanges in these parts. It’s as if you’ve become part of a special club, even if you’ve never been asked to join one before.
And even better, we don’t have to know who you are. So long as you subscribe to the idea of looking out for your neighbors and doing no harm to the environment, you’ve got a pass.
Here you are free to reinvent yourself, start a new chapter, or tell a different story. There’s a beauty to anonymity here.
We won’t card you at the door, and if you’re ultimate desire is to disappear into the wilderness, there’s no password for that either.