phoney

 My siblings and I used to fight over answering the phone. As a child I loved talking on the phone, I guess because it was such a grown-up thing to do. When we were young, I think my older siblings envisioned me as a teenie bopper racking up a major bill on my parents’ land line each month in order to stay connected with friends (of course, this was pre-cell phone world).

My life has developed differently than my siblings predicted. Fast forward 20 years and you find me half way around the world acquiring a new cell phone as part of my job in Africa.

About five years ago, I chose to get a personal cell phone. I assure you my phone bill has never come close to exceeding the plan’s limits. In fact, sometimes an entire week would pass and no one would have called me. Not a single soul. Sometimes Dad phoned me from the kitchen to give me a personal invitation from my bedroom for Sunday dinner—just so I could receive a phone call.

Somewhere along the way as the years passed, my childhood phone infatuation died. I think it had something to do with answering a billion business calls at home throughout the busy summer months on the farm. I devised my own rubric for determining “real” phone calls. For example, a campaign call or telemarketer spiel would not be defined as a “real” phone call. However, a call from Betsy on her lunch break would definitely be a legitimate phone call. Gone were the days of rushing to the land line phone just to greet a telemarketer before my older siblings could. However, calls from my parents and siblings ranked as prized incoming connections (“real” calls) on my cell phone.

At my office in Michigan, I answered the phone a handful of times in my nearly two years of service, and I definitely didn't mind letting my boss handle the common phone inquiries. But my job in Zambia is different. The office phone travels everywhere with me. I can’t just close my office door and leave it on the desk for the weekend.

Shortly after arriving in Zambia, I felt like I was coming down with an illness, one that was masked in a little red package and could bother me at any moment. “You have to take it!” Heather would tease me, even for short trips to town.

So “it” comes along—to Macha for Thanksgiving, to town for errands, to Bible study on Wednesdays (well, sometimes I conveniently leave it home then), to my bed for the night…

It’s not that I dislike cell phones. I love having ways to keep in touch with the world. I recently realized the problem with my new phone: a phone in Zambia is of no use in helping me stay in touch with my family back home in Michigan. Betsy can never call me when she’s on break at work, and I can’t give Mom a buzz just to chat after dinner in the evening. I can’t dial Amy from the grocery store to see if there’s anything she wants me to pick up on my way home from work, and Dad can’t call to see if I’m home on Saturday afternoon so he can come work on my house.

The little red box of buttons and cell tower connections felt pretty useless, and like a nuisance. My first many times to hit “Answer” went like this: “Hello, [coming from the caller] is Wingert there?” No one knew who I was or why I had Mr. Wingert’s phone anyway.

I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my phone’s purpose in Zambia is not the same as my phone’s purpose in the States. It’s ok.

Though… I was just thinking, maybe if I named my phone it would be more fun to haul with me everywhere… any suggestions?