May 18, 2018 4 min read

So I’m sitting in the back seat of the production crew car, hearing a conversation about, I’m guessing, digital camera lenses.

“If we use the 24-30, will we need the backup PL adaptor?” said Paul, the driver.

“Only if we’ll be using the slider,” said Zak, riding shotgun.

“But for the wider angle, I like to use the DSLR,” said Paul.

“Then we should bring both the J-40 and the gimpel,” said Zak.

(I pause here to apologize to photographers. I was not taking notes and almost certainly quoted them incorrectly.)

The crew and I were on our way to our first day filming a new documentary for public television. I, in the back seat, am the writer and producer. They, in the front seat, are the photographers and editors. They were talking about the camera equipment they will need to capture the wilderness.

They might as well have been speaking Arabic. The conversation landed on my ears like a foreign language.

For miles, they talked of lenses and batteries and dollies- their sentences a jumble of letters and numbers. At the start of the drive, I tried to follow along; I considered interrupting them and asking them to slow down and to identify some of the gear they were referencing.

But I didn’t, and the talk soared over my head like a camera drone, which, I learned, they’ll be buying a special lens for, to get a really clear picture.

“The MG-12 will make all the difference from the highest points when we’re above the tree canopy,” said Paul.

I’ve been producing documentaries for a long time, but never have I felt so disconnected from the technical side of things. Starting out in TV as a young reporter, I knew what all the pieces were: camera, videotape, tripod, microphone, recorder, battery. If the photographer asked me to fetch something from the trunk of the news car, I always returned with the correct item.

But digital technology has run away from me. The pieces are smaller now and more specific. I don’t understand it, but I appreciate that the pictures are sharp and the colors bright.

As I sat there riding behind my talented crew, I felt inferior, and then competitive. What expertise do I have that would create a conversation they would find baffling and over their heads? Could I talk about the intricacies of writing – the correct use of reflexive pronouns, or why adverbs are lazy? If another producer/writer were in the back seat with me, what conversation could we have that would impress Paul and Zak with our elevated expertise?

Maybe we could talk about how dangling participles are rampant in television writing. Or the benefits of narration over natural sound in storytelling?

But that wouldn’t impress them. I’ve read their writing, and it’s always spot on. As are their photography and editing.

As we drove along, I thought about how young people’s brains are different from mine. Their brains were wired in the digital age, their synapses built while looking at digital screens. All that tech talk comes naturally to them, in a way it never will for me.

The conversation had me feeling inferior, and left out. Until Paul said this.

“We should order walkie-talkies, to coordinate the crew when we have the drone in the air,” he said.

Finally. Something I understand.

“Yes, walkie-talkies!” I said, almost shouting with glee.

There was silence from the front seat.

“And I agree that the M-12 lens on the drone is the best way to go,” I said, leaning forward for emphasis. I had no idea what I was saying, but for the first time in many miles, I felt like I belonged.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.