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Sparkle (1)
People thought my iPhone was peculiar. A second-generation iPhone, I’d bought it three weeks before the new phones came out. Before buying it, I’d asked if the new phone was slated to be released soon and whether I should wait. I was told to go for it. After the release of the new phone, I returned to trade it in and been rudely refused.
In an obstinate rage, I announced I would never upgrade the thing or purchase any more apps from the App Store. When my screen cracked during a petulant fit not long after, I refused to have it replaced, carrying around the shattered thing like a badge of disdain.
Photo by Emilio Flores.
Despite this, the little device served me fine -- as an Apple product that inspires throwing and other abuses possibly could, anyway. Finally, last week, I decided I'd had enough. I went on the AT&T website and rather unceremoniously upgraded to a Motorola Atrix 4G.
The first people I called upon the arrival and setup of the new device were my parents. When I told my father about the new acquisition, however, he – despite a pronounced affinity for gadgets – seemed sad.
“Dad, it’s been two years. It was time,” I said, a little surprised I had to explain myself.
“After everything that little device went through with you, being dragged around the world in your back pocket,” he responded with undeniable sentimentality.
My mother took the phone anyway from him.
“Oh, your father,” she said. “I don’t know where he developed this neurosis of keeping things.”
Suddenly, I vividly recalled a forgotten childhood ritual: lining up my stuffed animals before bed to kiss and hug them and tell them I loved them.
My parents had eschewed Disney in favor of the Brothers Grimm and Pushkin. I’d grown up in worlds rich with lessons, magic and horrors. But no stories left a mark greater than those my father penned for me. The ritual of kissing the stuffed toys had come about following the debut of the story inspired by a stuffed white cat I’d acquired in Columbia whose eyes had promptly been torn out by my jealous fox terrier upon my return home.
In the story, the stuffed animals came to life at night – to discuss the governing of the different toy districts in the room, to discuss philosophy, to dance, to laugh, to make mischief, to fall in love and live great adventures from the kitchen to the spa. But much like the mobile devices we operate today, the toys could not go about their business on an empty battery. The only way to charge this battery was by loving them.
So it was that no matter how great their mischief or triumph, over time, even the most celebrated stuffed animals lost all their strength to move after the lights went out and I fell asleep. Soon, they were forgotten, delegated to some obscure corner of the closet, or a box, until they were unearthed again and given away to some other child who would love them again and let them return to the world of toys.
The idea of my favorite bear Juanito, which I’d had since birth, and Goofy, which I’d gotten at the age of four during a hospital stay and which now was missing a nose (another act of jealousy by Tiger, the vengeful terrier), struck fear into my heart. My mother’s father always marveled at how I, unlike my cousins, never asked for any toys when he took us out on the town. The truth was that I knew I didn’t have the bandwidth for all of them. All kids grow with some kind of shame or guilt. Mine was the shame of not cherishing my things enough.
Remnants of this feeling are still with me today. I’ve carried my library with me around the world. I can deal with photos being stored digitally, but not the books. The books with all the scribbles in the margins and all the undelinings remain with me. I’ll sooner forgo a dining room than let the books live in a dusty storage space.
But in most other regards, the impulse to save things is gone. I move too much. I can’t afford to accumulate anything. As a result, I don’t own too much. But I have no trouble letting go of things if I find I no longer need them, or they have ceased to operate properly.
Like the iPhone.
This morning, in response to the discussion of his “neurosis,” my father forwarded
