Cell Phones
Read on Minnesota Public Radio
By Nanci Olesen
I have to be really careful how I say this.
I miss you. I miss you all. It's summer,
and we are all out at the lakes, on the
sidewalk, on the bike paths, at a bookstore,
and I miss you. We used to talk. Remember
how if I was pushing a stroller with a baby
in it and you were pushing a stroller with
a baby in it and we passed, you might say
hi or ask me how old my kid was? Remember
how if I was holding a book and you would
walk up behind me you used to say "Have
you read her other one? Is this as good
as that one?" and we might chat? Remember
how if you were straddling your bike at
a kiosk and I was filling my water bottle
at the drinking fountain you would say "Nice
day. Hey, does this path go all the way
to Hopkins?"
But we don't talk anymore. Well, you talk.
You talk to your mom, to your sister, to
your wife, to your business partner. You
let loose the most intimate details of
your
life right there in the bookstore at conversational
volume. But you're not talking to me, or
to anyone right there. You're on the
phone.
And I just miss you. You don't ask me
the time, cause you can just flick open
the
little screen on your phone and see the
time. You can tell your friend who you're
sitting with at the restaurant about what
your phone does: movies, camera, palm
pilot,
email. Or I can think that you're leaning
your head on your hand at that restaurant
when you're still waiting for your friend
to arrive, and I approach as your waitress
to start chatting about the soup, the specials,
what you want to drink, whether it's going
to rain later, but OOPS! You're checking
your voicemail! SORRY! I'll come back
later. When your friend arrives, I swoop
in to take your order. You both have your
phones on the table, ready for whoever
might want to interrupt you at that moment.
Is
it your kid, wanting to know how to download
the latest movie? Is it your wife, in
traffic,
telling you something you need to do before
you come home?
Remember when if you were lost on your
way to your book group and were swerving
around in some residential neighborhood
you used to just lean out the window and
ask which way Van Buren was? Remember how
if you were gonna be late to book club,
you just were late? And when you GOT there
you said "I'm late because thus and
so happened." But now you call four
or five times, for directions, to tell
about
your lateness, to commiserate about how
busy you are... and I want to say that "it's
not FAIR!" The rules have all
changed but you didn't ask me if I
wanted
them to. You just expect me to adjust to
constant communication about the most
mundane
matters.
But I miss you. I just want eye contact,
spontaneity, less interruptions. If I'm
telling you some story about my son, I want
you to listen all the way through and not
JUMP when the phone on the table rings and
smile that eerie smile to me that says "just
a second. Hold that thought. I'll be right
back with you." What am I supposed
to do? And why do I want to sit there and
listen to your side of the conversation
with someone I don't know? It makes me lonely
and frustrated and sad.
And I still go to the store, and when
I get there I think, did Steve want me
to
get vanilla or chocolate? And because I
can't remember I just guess and
go home. It didn't really matter that
much anyway and Steve was out in the garden
picking raspberries and he didn't
want to be interrupted.
So we just sit on the deck, eating vanilla
ice cream and raspberries, talking. And
you
all are walking by, talking. On your phones.
I know it will never go away. I know this
is how it is now, but, I miss you.
—Nanci Olesen
producer and host, MOMbo: 1990-2007 |
