jesse curran

A Farewell to My Flip Phone

I called you my nineteenth century phone though you were purely a late twentieth century invention. A device I didn’t fall into until about 2004, when I graduated college and found myself on the road in my little brother’s old Honda LIX hatchback, a car we lovingly called the hoop-dee. You were a way of telling friends, I’m coming. A way of connecting beyond the hardline confines of the corded phone on the kitchen wall. Like the hoop-dee, you were a small dose of young adult liberty.

What you gave me: a private line.

Still, there was something about you that felt rather nineteenth century to me. The way you asked me to move through the world was so radically different from the sea of smartphone dominance that has flooded us. The way you echoed the beat of a drummer that haunted me through my doctoral studies on Dickinson and Thoreau. You were a rhythm of your own, a technology that stood still. You were Thoreau saying, “We do not ride upon the railroad; it rides upon us.” You didn’t ride upon me. You were a raft rather than a rail, helping to keep my eyes on the stars rather than the screen.

What you gave me: the need to ask another human being for directions.

I stuck with you all these years, and you stood by me with your long battery life. With your denial of emojis. With your stock ringtone. With your lack of internet access and your contentment in the world of 3G. Over time, my allegiance to you became about other causes, especially a refusal to pay big bucks to Verizon or the Apple Store. You became a symbol of my contradictory capitalist critique. You were planned obsolescence that I refused to see go obsolete. And so I adapted to you, and together we made our small statement on our times.

What you taught me: to swim against the current.

I remained with you until my thirty-ninth year. You were bundled on my parents’ family plan. They generously shared their minutes with me through the years, though most of those minutes were used in dialogue with them. I have a mortgage in my name and Subaru I recently paid off, but when it came to the phone, I was tethered to my family. Like the spiral cord of a landline phone reaching down the hall from the kitchen and smooshed in my bedroom door. You became a way to refuse, to deny, to be stubborn. You became a means of opting out. An investment in my solitude.

What you gave me: extra cash for books, for wine, for travel.

Recently, due to your 3G, you stopped receiving regular service, so I made a switch to the world’s smallest smartphone, marketed as “credit card size,” with a three-inch display. Small enough to make it impossible to do much, save for calling my mom. In truth, I made the upgrade because my job upgraded me and I wanted to be able to receive a text from my supervisor if need be. Oh, yes, and the world of 3G is fading away.

What you gave me: the atlas in the glove box of my car.

My students, who were first millennials and are now gen Z-ers, have long been amused by you. But often the amusement mixes just a tad bit with awe. One student called me a gem when I showed you to the class. She was the first and only person to have ever called me a gem. I have to admit, I felt proud.

What you taught me: to keep my eye on the sun’s motion through the sky.

When I traveled, you couldn’t adapt, so you were left at home and exchanged for a wrist watch. I became acquainted with phone booths and cappuccinos that enabled me to log on to the computer in the corner of the café. I took guidebooks out from the library and wrote down notes and numbers in my journal to help me find my way.

What you showed me: a view of the landscape through the train window.

But the world continues to insist on smartphones. The checkout clerk at Whole Foods says I can get the discount if I show her my account info: You can just pull it up on your phone. To which I say, Well, no I can’t. How many times did I get to explain, I’m sorry I don’t have a smartphone. To which the clerk often looked confused. You made me increasingly mindful of technological inclusivity. Why should one need such an expensive device to get the discount or to function in the world? What type of world have we made?

What you gave me: space for meditation.

For twenty years, I take my SLR camera with me when I think I’ll want to take a picture. About a decade ago, I moved from film to digital when I decided I would be my own wedding photographer and didn’t want to spend the afternoon reloading film. Even though my pocketbook isn’t filled with rolls, I still get to look through viewfinder and turn the lens to focus and frame. I revel in the definitive snap. I don’t want to lose writing by hand, the SLR, the little paperback in my purse. But since they’ve been there these twenty years, and I treasure them so, I don’t believe I will. Now that I’m on my way to forty, I feel a bit set in certain ways.

What you taught me: manual focus, shutter speed, and apertures; how to open to the light.

This isn’t to say that I’m not addicted. To my little MacBook and to checking my email and doom scrolling through my Twitter feed, full of poets and historians and public health personalities. Even so, I often leave the laptop at home. I leave it when I leave. I can’t use it in the car or when I’m waiting at the checkout line at the store. I still spend a lot of time just looking around. I still spend time just breathing and being.

What you gave me: the excuse to study my surroundings.

It’s been about a mouth now and my new tiny smartphone remains largely quiet. Everyone knows not to text me. Email is better for composing sentences. And paper and pen are better yet. These days, where everything moves so swiftly, where some wild motion pushes us through the week like Nor’easter wind, I think a lot about what it takes to slow down.

What you taught me: not to be afraid to moralize.

I think of Thoreau just about every day. About being a sleeper, drowning in the sand that the rails ride on top of. Thoreau didn’t shy away from bold statements and the deeds that match them. He reminds us to recognize that the mindfulness—and mindlessness—of our consumption becomes an ethic we live by and with. Thoreau wanted us to wake up, which is perhaps the same as looking up.

What you gave me: a reason for gratitude.

And so, thank you, my nineteenth century phone, for teaching me how to hold what I now carry with me. Thank you for teaching me how to sit on the bench. Thank you for helping me to look up.