How Phone’s Most Annoying Feature can Save your Life – Guide
Like my most annoying Phone Feature saved my life
My cousin left this message for me three months after my freshman year of college. His Chicago accent was so harsh I had to repeat it over and over again: aye cuz, answer yo phone, he said. I talked to my mom, she told me you were doing this. We were kids walking through Hyde Park, dreaming of everything we wanted to do, and you were there doing it. I am very proud of you because. I love you because you are true to yourself. You’re my inspiration. Voicemail has a bad reputation. Old fashioned and irritating, it can easily be forgotten and taken up a lot of phone storage and is a hassle if you have a long-winded relative; Most of us have abandoned it in favor of a more immediate connection. But until that day I didn’t realize what my inbox had become. My cousin’s voice reminded me of walking down 53rd Street, eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos soaked in melted nacho cheese while sweat ran down our backs. And after picking up the lemon pepper-soaked catfish nuggets from J&J Fish & Chicken, spend the day rummaging through Powell’s books. Your words – “I’m so proud of you” and “You are my inspiration” – reverberated inside my head. A few months before receiving this message, I moved to Wellesley, Massachusetts, to pursue a BA in African Studies. The admissions office, my uncle, and everyone else didn’t know I was fleeing a city that had the same rhythm as my cousin’s voice. People always joke that we black Chicagoans are Mississippi in coats, and living in Massachusetts forced me to take into account my own demons and the feeling that somehow I was living on borrowed time because of the deterioration. of my mental health. He was. I couldn’t interact with anyone for more than five seconds and believed that if the people I loved knew what I was doing inside, somehow Will, unknowingly, would persuade me to love less. I love myself less. So I ran. And although I consciously decided to leave Chicago, I couldn’t help the shock and discomfort that came with learning the sounds of another city. I felt so far away from everything and everyone I knew. My mind went to so many dark places that I found it difficult to sleep at night and I succumbed to drugs and alcohol. All the while, I’ve driven away the people I love the most. Soon they started leaving me messages that pretty much remained untouched, a little blue dot next to each one as they piled into my phone, waiting to be taken advantage of. I don’t know why I was forced to listen to my cousin’s message when I finally did – why did I touch someone else’s blue dot? But when I did, after his voice connected me to a younger, sometimes happier version of myself, I decided to keep listening. There were ten-second notes from my father, sometimes telling me about the oxtail he was cooking for dinner in his canton, miss, accent, other times just checking: I love you, my beautiful daughter. It’s your daddy. Talk to you later. Goodbye. A minute of message from my mother, asking her god to protect me from the wrath of despair, worried that her youngest child would somehow slip from her fingers: Good morning, beautiful, today is going to be a terrible day, she said. God is giving you one more day to go on – don’t let anything get in the way. You will have everything you need! I’m claiming it in the mighty name of Jesus! There were 50-second messages from my sister singing R&B. Stop songs to put a smile on my face and 30 seconds asking my nieces and nephews to beg for $20. The messages did what my family expected: they allowed me to slowly come out of my self-imposed sadness and isolation. Whenever I hear them, I’m taken back to Chicago – to my mother’s warm embrace, to blast Chief Keef’s “Almighty” late at night as we ride Lake Shore Drive And to my family’s struggle stories. Now I keep my voicemail like little pieces of gold. Lately, I’ve started to do something probably more old school than leaving these messages in the first place: I’ve started copying them onto CDs that I keep in a vault. The last note I kept was left with me by my grandmother a few weeks before she died of greed. In it, she asked me to face her so she could show me her new hair color, saying it made her look 25. As I processed my anger and sadness toward a short life, I heard her message over and over, hearing the way I her laugh made me feel, hey, Renee Pooh. I shared the message with family members who, like me, had a hard time accepting the fact that she was suddenly gone for good. But these recordings are endless. I have a collection of timeless audios that allow me to experience memory as many times as I want. The voice of my loved ones will always be with me. Ready to play. Ready to make sure I’m never alone. And so on.
Final note
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