By someone nostalgic for a time before texts ruled the world.
There’s a certain irony in reflecting on communication when we live in an age where it's never been easier to connect, yet we seem more disconnected than ever. I grew up in a time when the cell phone wasn’t even a figment of science fiction, and the household phone—our solitary lifeline—was either anchored to the wall or tethered by a 25-foot cord. That cord was your privacy shield, stretching just far enough for you to duck into a room, heart pounding, summoning every ounce of courage to call a girl. The stakes were high, the embarrassment inevitable, but the lessons in communication were invaluable.
We learned to talk to each other. Not just to exchange words, but to truly communicate—interpreting tones, pauses, and inflections. The voice on the other end of the line could reveal a thousand subtleties that no text or emoji ever could. Telemarketers were rare interruptions, not the constant background noise they are today.
In college, phones were still a communal affair. There was a shared line in the dorm hallway or the fraternity house, and conversations were naturally public. You sat, you talked, and you were heard—unless, of course, your mother commandeered the call to lecture you about your long hair and the lurking threat of hippie-dom. (Yes, my hair was long for a time, but it didn’t stop us from talking.)
Then came the technological revolution, inching forward one bulky device at a time. First, the suitcase cell phone—a behemoth I lugged around during my residency, primarily to take emergency on calls. Next, the car phone, an extravagant luxury that cost more to install than the car itself. Slowly, cell phones shrank in size but grew in ubiquity, and we still used them to talk.
But then, something shifted. When my daughters got their first cell phones—ostensibly for safety—these devices turned into dreaded text machines. I vividly remember the day I opened a phone bill riddled with charges from hundreds of texts, as though each keystroke carried a price tag. I reined it in, but the damage was done. Something fundamental was lost: the art of speaking, of hearing, of being truly present in conversation.
Texting was hailed as modern, efficient, hip. But to me, it felt cold and impersonal, a shadow of real communication. The language of abbreviations—"LOL," "BRB," "TTYL"—erased nuance. The beauty of a voice, with all its subtle cues, was traded for stark brevity.
Fast forward to today, where telemarketers clog our phones with pitches for everything from vacation condos to pain management. We rarely pick up a random call anymore. Email has become a chore. And texting, despite its convenience, has solidified itself as the dominant mode of interaction.
I miss hearing a voice. I miss the depth and richness of a phone call, where the smallest tremor in someone’s tone could tell you more than any string of emojis ever could. Life doesn’t have to be reduced to impersonal texts and bullet-point exchanges.
So here’s my plea: Pick up the phone. Call a friend. Speak to your family. There’s more to life than the quick, impersonal convenience of texting. Call me old-fashioned, but this is my boundary. Communication isn’t just about transmitting information; it’s about connection. Let’s not forget that.
