At the outset of this tale, I will acknowledge, and with only minimal shame, that I am of a certain generation for whom our current computer technology controlled society was once the stuff of science fiction. In short, I am a dinosaur in a robe, waistcoat, winged collar, and tabs. I get that. However, even dinosaurs continued to function at some level until they were obliterated.
And it is not that I reject out of hand all new technology. Certainly not...when I die, Amazon will have to downwardly adjust its profit projections. No, what drives me to again check the Criminal Code to confirm that it really would be a crime to throw my computer under a train is the capriciousness of how I am treated by computers and their programmes.
Recently, I attempted to sign into my bank account. I have successfully signed into this bank account hundreds of times in the past. I can do it almost as easily as my creditors do. However, on this particular morning, though I used the same User name and password as I had on countless other occasions, the computer screen told me that one of them was WRONG. Though I am aware that no less a genius than Einstein said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results”, I wish to point out that he never had to deal with on-line banking. So, I tried a few more times using what I knew to be the correct User name and password. Given that the apex of computer repair knowledge is encapsulated in the advice “turn off the computer, wait a minute, and turn it on again”, my approach of blind repetition did not seem so silly. However, the computer continued to insist that what I had typed in was wrong, inaccurate, and generally an offence against nature.
I don’t know how a computer can do it, but when it rejects a sign-in attempt, it has a way of conveying both the rejection, and a strong implication that you have been caught in an act of fraud second only to those of the infamous Carlo Ponzi. Having been brought up in a profession which frowns on fraud, and which reacts with righteous indignation when unfair and unfounded accusations are lobbed at the innocent, being told that I have wickedly transgressed against the rules governing computer usage deeply wounds me. Worse yet, I am used to a system in which one has a chance to confront accusations and put one’s own case in rebuttal (well, at least at the office; that process is a bit more hit and miss at home). So, when the computer accuses, tries, convicts, and sentences me without a nanobyte of due process, I begin to understand road rage on the cyber-highway.
As it turned out, there was a telephone number to call (how quaint) if I was experiencing “difficulty” in signing-in. In the best traditions of the golden rule of statutory interpretation, and taking a purposive approach, I concluded that “difficulty” in matters of signing-in included an appeal process for wrongful conviction, and called what was amusingly named a “help line”.
I actually spoke to a human being...a person on this planet (cannot vouch for which continent). She said she could assist me in changing my password which would have been lovely if that is what I had wanted to do. However, it soon became evident that “assisting me in changing my password” was the only thing on offer; it was either that, or be cast back into what Dante, had he possessed a computer, would have called the tenth circle of hell.
Fine, let’s change my password. First, she said, I must answer a security question. Fine, ask away. She did; I answered. Should be no problem there since long ago I had made up the question, and the answer was very personal to me. There was a long pause. She asked the question again. I answered the question...again. The implication of fraud dripped from the telephone receiver. Finally, she spoke (perhaps deciding that anyone who needed the “help” line wasn’t smart enough to be dishonest), and told me we would now re-set my password, and she would stay on the line with me as I did this.
First, she gave me a temporary numerical password to use on the “change password” page. She told me to type in that password and all the other information the page demanded. I am sure I heard the drumming of fingers as I began to type in the necessary information: account number, new temporary password, the proposed new password, the proposed new password again, and a new security question (too bad, because my old security question was so good). I hit “submit”...rejected. My new proposed password was too close to my old password (that would be the password the rejection of which when I tried to sign in originally had led me to this process of having to change my password...odd how they can now recognize it and use it as the basis for yet another indictment). So, back to square one. I chose yet another password, and began again to type in all that information. Well, creating new words and new security questions and typing all that stuff while SHE waits on the other end of the line is very stressful and puts a guy under heavy pressure. A guy cannot perform under such pressure; it’s like filling a specimen bottle on command. After a couple more failed attempts at typing accurately (honest, lady, this has never happened to me before!), I finally got the password changed, and obtained access to my account
Too bad that by then I couldn’t remember why I had wanted into the account in the first place.
The Honourable Judge A.A. Fradsham is a Provincial Court Judge with the Criminal Court in Calgary. His column "A View From the Bench" has been a highlight in Canadian Bar Association newsletters for over 15 years.