We rush through checkout lines clutching our phones, eyes glued to glowing rectangles, while the person scanning our items—a human being—might as well be furniture. When did invisibility become the price of a service job?
I noticed this yesterday when the cashier made a small joke about the weather. I almost missed it, already rehearsing my next task in my mind. But I stopped. I looked up. We exchanged perhaps thirty seconds of genuine human contact. Nothing profound was said, yet something shifted. Two people briefly acknowledged each other's existence in a world increasingly designed to make such moments unnecessary.
This isn't about being polite—politeness can be performed robotically. It's about the philosophical question of recognition. When we automate away interactions, when we treat humans as mere instruments toward our convenience, we don't just diminish them. We diminish ourselves. We practice a kind of solipsism where other minds become theoretical rather than felt.