The porch light switch

I have the unique opportunity this semester to teach a class of non-traditional students, some of them in their sixties and seventies. The class is on Artificial Intelligence, and we were discussing the notions of binary mathematics and digital systems. In making the point that humans are analog beings trapped in a digital World, I typically use the example of an electric switch to illustrate the notion of binary mathematics and the resulting digital system. I explain how a switch is a passive thing that controls the absence or presence of current in an electrical circuit - thus representing void (0) and life (1). A switch is a simple thing. It waits on the wall, ignored until a hand reaches for it. One flick, and light floods the room. Another flick, and darkness returns. The switch itself does not decide when it is remembered or when it is forgotten - it exists at the mercy of the user or the rules (algorithm) established by the user. That illustration begs an analogy with a fundamental human condition - presence of absence of companionship, presence of absence of a friend, acknowledgment or disregard of a relationship. For example, the result of treating a friend as a switch - summoned in moments of darkness and dismissed in times of light - can have debilitating effects on a relationship. In that scenario, friends are called upon during a moment of darkness, when there is no other light. But once the luminance of new relationships lights up the room, or the room fills with the brightness of laughter and distraction, that light – and the switch - is quietly turned off. In that void of energy, the friend becomes binary - reduced to a cipher. They vanish into the background, not because they lack value, but because the one who holds the switch no longer feels the need for the light. This is when the metaphor shows its sharpest edge: when the world of the one holding the switch is already ablaze with other lights the vital switch can be turned off. The switch is not broken; it is simply redundant - just like the person who is cast aside. Why reach for the familiar current when there are brighter, more exciting sources of energy now available? The switch is turned on during dark sleepless nights of despair but left aside during bright moments of newfound incandescence. It is needed when darkness engulfs the room but forgotten in the illumination brought forth by new admirers. The switch still works, but it is sidelined - eclipsed by what feels more important, more desirable - brighter. In those moments, as a backup, the switch is kept waiting just in case it gets dark again. It is the trick of half-truths: a sprinkling of kind words, a vague declaration of importance, a polished phrase about respect. These are not signs of real connection; they are levers to keep the switch in place, patient and ready. The words flatter just enough to mask the truth: you are not a friend; you are a fallback. And as long as you believe the words, you will stay on the wall, waiting for the next flick of need. The one who accepts this role feels the erosion slowly. At first, it feels good to be the one chosen in moments of darkness. But over time, the pattern becomes undeniable: joy is shared elsewhere, abundance is celebrated with others, presence is never reciprocal, when there is light elsewhere the old room remains dark. What looks like friendship in the dark, collapses in the light. And no friendship survives when it exists only as a contingency. But there is another electric metaphor that tells the truth about friendship. A real friend is not a switch, but a porch light. The porch light glows steadily, guiding the way home whether or not anyone notices it. It does not wait to be flicked on and off at whim - it simply shines. And in this kind of friendship, the other person tends to the light. They send a message on an ordinary Tuesday, just to say, “You crossed my mind.” They celebrate the switch, even when they are surrounded by others who might seem brighter companions. They ask - not to fill silence - but because they remember. They make space in their crowded calendars to share a meal, a walk, a conversation. They also notice the quieter things: the silence when you disappear from a group, when the room goes dark, the hesitation in your voice when you say you’re fine. They offer a coffee when they sense distance creeping in. They stand by you even when other people gather closer and offer the newfound glow. They guard the friendship not with dramatic words but with small, regular acts that say: you are not forgotten, even when the world is bright. Yet, that is rare, being treated as a porch light is a rare fortune. In reality, the tragedy of the switch becomes commonplace: it eventually wears down with the long waits and the endless flicking on and off. One day, the hand reaches for the switch, but no current flows. The light does not return. The promise of the porch light is different. It is not about being used, but about being sustained, of being lit forever and tended with care. It reminds us that true friendship is built on steady care: one shining, the other tending. And in that rhythm of light and care, companionship endures - not as convenience, but as constant source of illumination. But the on/off switch, when turned off, can only say what Green Day said in their song: "I hope you had the time of your life." When the switch was turned off. We are indeed analog beings caught in the binary world of conditionally needed (1) OR redundant (0).