I’m not old, but I’m also not young. I look 18 sometimes but feel 62. I’m 31. For half my life, I didn’t have a phone. I never thought I would need one. I grew up on a farm. We’d run through the swamps and fields and orchards. I don’t have proof because no photos were taken and nothing was posted to social media. In this part of my life a phone would have represented supervision and I believed that I had my own supervision; and that I could look out for myself. A phone would have felt a lot like a leash – I would have lost some of my pivotal life experiences if I had a phone to worry about. I wouldn’t risk testing the ice on the pond if I had a 1,000-dollar piece of equipment in my pocket. I wasn’t afraid to drown, but I was afraid of my dad finding out I cost him a couple of paychecks.
When I graduated high school I moved around a good deal. My friends and I thought it would be cool to be migrant farmers. We worked all over the country for the better part of a year, hitchhiking for rides from place to place – sleeping in the woods and parks. I didn’t have a phone then either, but my friends did. I used to call my mom and lie to her about how things were going. “Good,” I’d say when she asked me about anything, and each time I said that it felt good. It felt good to know that she didn’t know what I was doing, who I was meeting, and what messes I struggled in and out of. That my life was my own and not shared with anyone but myself and the few people I was with. This was my chapter of rebellion, my chapter of self-actualization. I didn’t want a phone. I didn’t want to be suspended in the futuristic cloud of information that trapped people in the shackles of credit card debt – trying to keep up with the latest trends. Seeking “likes” from pictures on social media was not a priority to me. It dulled my experience. I could have had a phone. At this point, my parents would have paid for one, but I refused. I was too busy romanticizing my life – too busy staring into the sun as it faded and into the stars and the moon through the trees. I was sure of the beauty of my life during a time of uncertainty. I had a picture of my-now wife in my wallet, and when I took it out, only she blotted out the sun and the stars.
When I was 21, I joined the US Air Force. I had a phone then. For a few months, they took it away. I used my phone to talk to Kristyn, the same girl whose picture I carried before and the same girl I married later. I talked to my dad a lot too. I remember a few times in Texas when the conversations he and I had were wildly important to me. I moved to California and stopped using my phone to talk to the people I loved. It inevitably became a portal to Pornhub and Amazon. I had a lot of testosterone and a lot of running shoes. I didn’t use my phone for work, but I was expected to answer any call at any time from any form of leadership. I also answered peers and lower-ranking Airmen because you never knew what kind of situations people were going through. Some people didn’t have the same support systems I did.
Although, I definitely missed calls deliberately at times. This was a time of unlearning. It reshaped my morals and standards. I began to sheepishly subscribe to what everyone else was doing. I did what I was told – the first time. As society changed, phones became more prevalent, and the expectations of my accessibility heightened. There was still something in me that was trying to be unseen. I went running sometimes, so far and for so long, that my wife would get worried about where I was or if I got hurt. I would refuse to use a phone even though she asked me. My only excuse was there is something precious about being alone.
Now I own my own business and can’t put the phone down. From the second I wake up I’m checking availability, weather, boat landings, inventory, paying bills, and creating invoices, all from my phone. I can’t be without it. Even when I’m not on it and haven’t seen a text or call in a while, I still check in on things. This is cool because I don’t have to be in the store to know everything that’s happening. However, it’s also wild to hear your daughter say “Dad, why aren’t you paying attention to me?” My inner child is strong, and my connection with my daughter is airtight. When we’re together my inner child comes out, and it’s like she and I are two rebellious children, living in the moment. I want to explore the world again through screenless eyes. I want to be back on the farm getting itchy, running free. And my daughter wants me to be the kid that I was.
In retrospect, phones are for the dying. They take us away from what’s real. They force us to walk past signs and fall into a hole. They make us walk by our best friend’s mom at the store. They make us run red lights. When you stop and think about it, you’re missing something every time you look at a meme or watch a reel. Live your life. Be present. Live a real life – not a reel life. •
Photo: Hitchhiking Mike
