I refuse to be a number. Living in the retirement community of Eagle’s Trace I am supposed to give my ID number for each meal I consume in the café or restaurant. I have refused to memorize it. Fortunately, Karen and I eat together, and she gives both of our numbers to the cashier or to the inquiring member of the wait-staff. In the rare event that I eat alone, or pick up a carry-out meal, I show the cashier my community-issued resident’s tag. I’ve survived for fifteen years under these conditions.
Almost everyone is able to repeat his social security number on demand. I cannot. My refusal to be identified as a number has been consistent for eight decades. Reluctantly I remember the last four digits of my SS number, at least most of the time. However, I usually confirm my memory by glancing at the information card in my wallet; it has every number I need for modern living. No doubt it’s a good thing I was never part of the military, where I would have been forced to be known as a number. Perhaps this is the reason I have refused to become one. Human beings, whether or not they are civilians, should continue to be persons and not mere numbers.
Over the years this idiosyncrasy has expanded so that I fail to recall other so-called “important numbers” – such as telephone numbers. As I said, the information card in my wallet has every number I need for modern living. If I must give someone my telephone number, I often resort to confirming it from that ever-present card.
On the other hand, there is one telephone number I am sure about. It may be the only identification number I really remember. It is OL2-9758. That was the first telephone number assigned to my parent’s home phone when I was in my junior year in high school. That’s when my father finally allowed us to have a telephone in our house. Previously, I had the limited use of one for the few months we lived with relatives either in Mineral Ridge or “up-the-hill.” At other times, if my father had to make an important call, he would use the telephone owned by Mrs. Andrews, our landlady who lived next door to us on both Cedar Street and Seneca Street in Niles. Obviously, no one else in the family, that is, neither my mother nor I, ever had a need to make a telephone call to anyone.
However, when I was a junior in high school, my mother and I were, somehow, able to convince my father that a more direct access to a telephone might be needed – for homework, of course. And that was, actually, the only time I ever used it: to confirm a class assignment or to help another student who called me. This may be the reason why my personal, non-business telephone calls have always been limited. I never learned how to use a telephone for mere pleasure but only for required communication. When the line was finally installed, it had to be listed under my mother’s name, Victoria; my father did not want it known that he had direct access to a telephone. Strangers were not expected to call us. This was, of course, decades before the phenomenon of “robo-calls!”
I do remember that our telephone, with its “OLympic 2″ number, was the usual black, rotary instrument residing on its own personal, small table. Back then, this was the standard model; in fact it was the only model. Telephones, like the original model T Ford, were always black. It was also necessary to actually “dial” a telephone number. I’m not sure modern kids know how to use a rotary phone with a requirement that an index finger be inserted into the round opening on the dial, which was then turned clockwise to its stopped position and then released to complete the action. The sequence was repeated for each required number. It actually took time to dial someone’s number, even if it had only seven digits.
The first telephonic advancement arrived when black was no longer the only color. I remember a beige telephone my mother acquired sometime after I left home for college. At various intervals in my life, the black telephone of my youth was replaced by pale greens and whites (especially for the wall phone in the kitchen.) There may even have been a “Princess” model or two along the way.
The first “Princess” telephone had a rotary dial in the “handle” which was placed back on the cradle when it was not in use. At some point, the rotary dial was exchanged for one with pushbuttons, so that the instruction for reaching an “operator” became “press zero” instead of “dial zero.” Yes, back then if you had a problem or a question about a telephone number, a human “operator” was readily available to help out.
It was not until we moved to Houston in the late seventies that I saw my first “mobile” phone. A friend of ours had a new job selling these telephones you could use without them being connected by cords to telephone wires coming into your house (or business.) They looked like small shoeboxes, with an antenna protruding out of one end. I had my doubts, at the time, just how long this friend’s new career would last. After all, who would buy a “mobile” telephone – other than a doctor or someone who had to be aware of emergency conditions.
As the general public became interested in this new form of mobile communication, the instrument became smaller. The newer models looked like clamshells that folded in half to make them even smaller. The antenna disappeared. Next, the clamshell became an open-faced Apple cell phone. Each succeeding generation, with its increasing G number, offered more functions demanded for everyday life. Telephones used only for voice communication morphed into cameras and minicomputers. Dick Tracey’s wrist-radio became a reality, not as a mere radio, but as the basic requirement for an individual’s daily existence.
Once upon a time, if you saw someone talking to himself, that is without a visible companion nearby, you could be sure the muttering walker was insane, or on the verge of being in some fantasy world. Now, if someone is speaking loudly to an invisible companion, you can be positive he’s well into modern society with its 24/7 electronic communication with every person living on the planet – including the dinner companion sitting opposite. On the other hand, they both may be texting one another in order to keep their separate conversation private. It’s also possible that each one is communicating with someone who is not present across the table.
I said, at the outset, I refuse to become a mere number. I also refuse to be tethered to an object plugged into my ear (except for a hearing-aid, of course.) I do not own an iPhone, iPad or iPod. Someday I may need to purchase a smart-phone merely to exist in the modern world. The time is already here wherein a smart-phone is required to access electronic accounts.
Meanwhile, when I currently drive somewhere, I often carry an old clamshell which is never turned on unless I need to call someone or definitely know someone plans to call me. If you see my lips moving, you can be positive a live person is standing nearby.
Postscript: two years after writing these comments, I did purchase a smart phone! I do not engage with it to the extent made by my children and grandchildren, but I do agree it has its usefulness. Given my distaste for remembering numbers, the contact listing is helpful for the calls I make. I have also found it helpful in allowing me to participate in the daily liturgy-of-the-hours. However, I really have not been involved with game-playing. I refuse to photograph my food!