Before Wi-Fi, We Had Wooden Spoons

Before Wi-Fi, We Had Wooden Spoons

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Let me just say this real plain, so there’s no confusion:

We are in trouble. And I don’t mean end-of-times trouble like you hear on the late-night church channel. I mean real-life, real-time, we-are-raising-a-generation-who-thinks-the-dishwasher-loads-itself kind of trouble.

We’ve got kids who can unlock an iPhone faster than they can sweep a porch. Kids who know how to upload a TikTok dance but don’t know the difference between Windex and bleach. Children out here ordering $400 sneakers on Afterpay while their laundry smells like gym socks and broken dreams.

And let’s not act brand-new adults are just as bad. We’ve got grown folks watching four-hour YouTube rabbit holes on conspiracy theories about pyramids on Mars, but ask them to read one chapter of a spiritual book or help clean the backyard suddenly they’re tired, busy, or “mentally drained.” You ain’t mentally drained. You're digitally lazy.

Technology done made us too cute for hard work. But let me take y’all back.

When I was coming up, back in the golden days before Siri, Alexa, or that voice on Google Maps that sounds like she judging your every turn we had something far more powerful:

Celestine.

My grandmother.

A woman with the voice of a prayer and the hands of discipline.

Now Celestine didn’t play. She was the original GPS, Google, Alexa, Uber, and Amazon Prime all rolled into one. If you needed it, she had it if you didn’t need it, she made you earn it. You wanted breakfast? Cool you better be up before the rooster’s third warning. And Lord help you if you walked in her kitchen without washing your hands. That was a direct ticket to Judgment Day.

We didn’t have technology; we had tasks. And responsibilities. And chores that made you reconsider your whole childhood contract. Cooking, cleaning, folding clothes so sharp they could slice bread, ironing bedsheets (don’t ask me why just do it!), and making frozen cups with that mysterious red juice that never had a name but tasted like summer and diabetes.

Oh and we made groceries.

We didn’t shop for groceries. That’s what us folks in New Orleans say. We made groceries. And we walked. In the heat. With exact change and a warning not to touch that cold drink until we got back. “That’s for the house,” Celestine would say. “Not for your little greedy self.” If I had a dollar for every time she said that, I’d be on a yacht with a plaque that says “Celestine Raised Me Right.”

Kids today don’t even go outside unless it’s to take an Instagram picture in natural lighting. Back then, going outside wasn’t a suggestion it was survival. You got one warning: “Don’t come in and out my house letting out my good air.” And if you did go in and out? That door lock clicked like prison time. You’d be outside with the bugs, the heat, and your thoughts wondering how long your banishment would last.

And that hose water? That was the fountain of youth. Cold, metallic, and tasting slightly of the garden hose itself. It cured everything thirst, sunstroke, and sometimes heartbreak. And you better not even think about wasting that water by playing in it. Celestine would look at you like, “You must be ready to meet Jesus today.”

Now listen if we had cell phones, location sharing, Ring cameras, and Life360 apps back then?

I. WOULD. NOT. BE. HERE.

Celestine would’ve tracked me at the levee, FaceTimed me mid-sin, screenshot it for church, and grounded me into a fossil. She didn’t need an app she had the Holy Spirit, neighborhood informants, and that sixth grandmother sense. She knew everything.

I swear she had angels stationed on every corner. “Didn’t I see you walking with that fast little girl from across the tracks?”

“Wait, how you know “Don’t worry about it, the Lord showed me.”

No, ma’am. Ms. Bernadette across the street showed you. And her binoculars.

We were raised with structure, not strategy. We had systems that built character, not shortcuts that built entitlement. We learned to work before we learned to rest. We learned to speak respectfully before we learned to text. We learned to mop a floor before we learned to stream a movie.

Responsibility wasn’t punishment it was purpose.

Celestine used to say, “Idle hands are the devil’s joyride. So put them hands to work before they start itching for nonsense.”

And she meant it. There was no such thing as “I don’t feel like it.” What you felt like didn’t matter unless you were sick enough to miss church and even then, you better be half-dead. Because unless you had a fever of biblical proportions, you were going to sweep something, mop something, peel something, or clean a baseboard with an old toothbrush and vinegar.

And you know what? That built something in us. It built gratitude. It built awareness. It built an understanding that doing for your household was part of loving your family not just a “task.” We knew we were needed. We had a role. And whether that role was folding laundry or making frozen cups for 25 cents, we did it with a sense of duty and, okay, a little grumbling.

Now contrast that with today:

You ask a kid to take out the trash, and they act like you just asked them to climb Mount Everest barefoot.

You tell them to vacuum and they’re like, “Isn’t there a robot for that?”

Yes, child, it’s called YOU.

These kids can build a Roblox universe but can’t build a sandwich.

Let me say this in love, but with my voice raised like Celestine when the beans were burning:

We gotta bring back the broom.

We gotta bring back the garden hose.

We gotta bring back the understanding that you don’t live in this house for free not spiritually, emotionally, or practically.

If you don’t give your children responsibility, they will grow into soft adults who crumble when life doesn’t offer them a tutorial or a skip button. And when their Wi-Fi cuts out, they’ll sit in the dark confused, shaking, and calling tech support for directions on how to sweep.

And parents? Don’t be slick. We’ve got to lead by example. You can’t expect your child to unplug when you’re scrolling while talking to them. You can’t tell them to go outside when you ain’t seen fresh air since Obama’s first term. We are the blueprint. If we model digital dependency, they’ll copy it with interest.

This is more than nostalgia this is sacred wisdom.

Our Creator gave us hearts that thrive through connection. Not bandwidth, but brotherhood. Not apps, but accountability. Not filters, but faith.

We weren’t raised to survive off dopamine hits and Wi-Fi passwords. We were raised to endure, to love hard, to sweat with purpose, and to keep going even when tired, even when poor, even when nobody noticed but God.

So let’s remind our children who they are.

Let’s give them more than gadgets let’s give them grit.

Let’s bring back chores, conversation, eye contact, and quiet moments with no screen in sight.

And for goodness’ sake, bring back the frozen cups.