EAT. MORE. PHONE.
It was a dimly lit street lined with cobblestones and bustling with handsome, linen-clad men. As they usually are in Europe. “Let’s go in here,” my friend Ellé said. We met the lively bar eagerly, vines protruding across the ceiling edges, and in the corner of my eye sterile lighting teased the bathroom. The world was ours to dance in and feel free.
“I have to yak,” Ellé groaned. For the first time all night, my focus was solely on her. While being a good friend to Ellé, I was also dealing with what many would consider their worst nightmare: a stolen phone while travelling.
And /there I was/, suddenly awakened from a deep slumber that had quietly progressed over many years. I had been a literal robo-zombie. Without my phone, however, I learned how to feel again. For the first time in years, I heard the world without the deafening drone of constant digital interaction. I saw my surroundings from a perspective untouched by current reels or media algorithms. I was changed.
This shift led me to a concept defined by the Chicago Architecture Centre in their article “FAÇADE:” “facading.” In architectural terms, a façade refers to the exterior face or frontage of a building. It serves both aesthetic and functional purposes, shaping a building’s visual identity while contributing to the cityscape’s overall character while housing the structural reality within.
The ‘robo-zombie culture’ of UofT students aligns with this idea. On the surface, our visual identity is composed of stylized choices inherited from social media. We chase ‘vintage’ aesthetic and functionality without adhering to the same morals or principles of the past.
Environmental Health News actually published an article describing this phenomenon as “nostalgiacore,” the anxious response to the growing climate crisis through nostalgia-driven resurgence like Y2K gadgets, retro fashion, and vintage media. As Britt Wray, director of Stanford’s CIRCLE initiative, noted: “whether people are doing it consciously or unconsciously, [nostalgiacore] is partly a form of yearning for temporary relief from the affective experience of living in dangerous and complicated times.”
In many ways, we as students live a contradiction. Our generation takes comfort behind the façade of loving vintage things—from film cameras and digital point-and-shoots to retro art. Behind this public face lies a simpler truth: crippling feelings of anxiety and an impulse to conform to social trends.
The façade is our most prominent side: it is what we control and present to the world. Through what we wear, buy, and post, we build a carefully curated visual identity. We claim to value real-world connection, yet we spend hours on social media curating a profile, desperate to be seen.
As for our structural integrity? We are barely fragments. We are robo-zombies living in a dystopian movie about a technological takeover, trapped in an exhausting cycle of doomscrolling and constant screen engagement, even in lecture halls.
Yet simultaneously, we romanticize an era when people spoke to each other before lectures began. We long for a time before dating apps, when connections happened naturally and strangers weren’t afraid to say hello. We crave that simplicity because we bear heavy burdens inherited from previous generations: an uncertain job market competing against AI, an ongoing climate crisis, and a desensitization to violence pushed by profit-driven technology.
Ultimately, it is our duty to question what we contribute to our collective environment. The qualities we bring as students in this specific moment are becoming increasingly rare. We are among the last to experience high school before generative AI became embedded in daily life. We carry a fundamental responsibility, not only to ourselves but to future generations, to embody the values we like to project. The system works against us, so we must actively work against the system to develop true character rather than a hollow, thoughtless exterior. We sit at a critical junction where we can either lose our humanity or take charge of our destiny.
Six years ago, philosopher Nick Bostrom warned that humanity risks reaching a technological breakthrough that could destroy us all. Where are we now? We remain the world’s hope for a human-centred future. As UofT students, we are /most definitely/ capable of making a meaningful breakthrough.
First, we have to tear down the façade.