Back when I had a phone that was underachieving (we shouldn’t say that phones are not smart–they are each smart in their own special way), I had a charming rendition of that song from the film “Juno” as my ringtone. “Anyone Else But You.” Now that my phone is smart, I have the wireless company ringtone. And the phone constantly tells me that it has no memory left. I think that it is rubbing off. It is making me stupider and less able to remember things. It’s not an i-phone. I have a kid in college.
And yet, despite all of my phone’s faults, I can usually place a phone call. I particularly enjoy calling parents of my students right from my desk, which is, shockingly, less enjoyable for them. I patiently tell them that, as a mom, if my son was behaving in the way that they had been, that I would want to know. My moral mandate for parent phone calls.
There are a few snags in the parent phone call scenario, at least with my demographic. If I worked in suburbia, I would have eleven contact pathways to parents. Don’t get me wrong—I accumulate eleven different contact numbers by the end of the school year, but it’s a process. A process that sounds something like this: “The Cricket phone number that you have reached is no longer in service.” Slightly better: the phones that greet one with graphic, f-bomb laden rap to soothe the weary soul, and then take your message, wishing that you may “Have a blessed day.” Just a small cathedral moment. It is quite spiritually uplifting. It makes one want to just go home and watch election messages on television.