I don’t have an iPhone. I don’t have a smartphone. And, shocker: It hasn’t really been a problem.

True, I’ll probably never get to a Masters and Meatballs—that sign-up fills fast. True, I’ve gotten lost walking home from the ICA. And true, if I stay put while technology keeps advancing, I’ll probably lose all my friends in three years when Words with Friends upgrades from a game to a virtual universe.

But I’m happy with my little red flip phone, and I’ve gotten good at pithy explanations as to why. It hasn’t broken yet, so no point in replacing it. Touch keyboards are dangerous for people who have ham fingers. Same goes for easily fumble-able—and breakable—screens.  I don’t want to feel compelled to take over an expensive data plan once my parents cut me off (estimated date: June 2014). I don’t want to ever feel compelled to play Angry Birds.

But my problems with smartphones go deeper than that. No matter how much I mock Yahoo! Shine articles about unplugging, they have a real point: We are addicted to technology. It scares me that I have to fight the urge to check my email every 10 minutes while I’m doing work. It scares me that I’m dependent on a device to hold all my thoughts, as well as all music, bank records, and interactions with friends. And when that access becomes pocket-sized rather than merely portable, it becomes even more consuming than it already, terrifyingly is.

With iPhones, the flow of information does not—cannot—stop. Rather than just the crowded voices of friends and family—and, okay, a few rounds of Snake—smartphones guarantee that the noise of the entire internet is always with us. With that much information available, we are obligated to always be on top of it. After all, there is a whole world out there, and it’s more important than the path between Boylston and Sever. And especially here at Harvard, there’s a sense of shame or lost opportunity in not being fully informed about current events or when Matt Damon tickets go on sale. A covert check of the iPhone, a scan of your emails as you head to class, and you’re ready to fulfill the Harvard stereotype, casually knowing everyone and everything.

It is important to stay informed about the world as a whole, but it’s coming at the expense of being informed about our world as a home. I’m impressed by how much my classmates know about the Syrian “Red Line” when some know so little about the Boston Red Line. Because that’s the other problem with iPhones—they store so much of our knowledge that it is always accessible, but never internalized. And then suddenly the train is however many feet below ground, all service is lost, and there’s nothing but a defective map (nice, Apple), a downloaded edition of “The Odyssey,” and our own wits to keep us from ending up in Mattapan. And everyone else in the train is too engrossed in their own devices or mumblings to actually help out.

Even if we don’t end up stranded in the subterranean, addiction does make us sink to new lows. People used to joke about Crackberries, and there’s definitely some self-deprecation about iPhone dependence. But I don’t think we really realize how addicted we are. And unlike most addictions, where you at least get a rush, iPhone use seems more like a struggle to participate than a pleasure in itself. As we saw a few weeks ago, we expect news to keep up with our addiction to the point that we end up creating the news, via Twitter and Reddit and blog comments, while we continue to watch the same five witnesses saying the same five stories. A lack of knowledge that would once have made us feel frustrated now leaves us frantic and powerless.

Even with just my flip phone, I’m an addict too. I make plans with one person while sitting with another. I let my eyes wander to my open computer when I really should listen to a friend. And I can’t stop checking that email.  Forgoing the iPhone is one of the few self-imposed checks I’ve managed to construct, so that at least, sometimes, I have radio silence—which, of course, I fill with the deepest reflections and most ground-breaking conclusions rather than speculations about which professor would be the best windsurfer.

But, praise be, at least I don’t have to Snapchat. Just because that picture is going to be deleted in 10 seconds doesn’t mean that I don’t see you making that face in section.

Leah J. Schulson ’14, a Crimson editorial writer, is a history concentrator in Eliot House.