Texting - 1980's Style

A couple of months ago I got really industrious and decided to organize my closet. Luckily I have a huge closet since in goes way back under the stairs. So I have lots of room for lots of junk! I started at the very back and found a large plastic container big enough for Tony Soprano to put to good use. I dragged it out into my bedroom, took a deep breath and pried open the top. Inside was my childhood – finger paintings and report cards, a scrap book dedicated to Donny Osmond, my baby book, a pair of Sassoon jeans, my old tap shoes, countless photo albums, yearbooks from middle and high school, graded book reports, and several large manila envelopes. It was the envelopes that caught my eye. Curious about the contents I gathered them up and flopped down on my bed. Each envelope had a hand written label – Middle School, High School, Birthday Cards, Pen Pals and Boys with lots of red hearts drawn on the front of that one. Each envelope was full of notes; notes that my friends and I would pass to each other during classes or stick in each others lockers. There were love notes from boys that I barely remembered. Letters from a young sailor friend of my next door neighbor because getting mail was supposed to help his morale and letters from another neighbor’s nephew in India who wanted to correspond with someone from America so he could understand what our culture was like. Back in the day notes were our texts. But making the transition from writing to texting is something I have had a hard time with. There are so many confusing abbreviations, too many symbols. How can anyone get their point across with a bunch of letters strung together that don't even form an actual word? During my time we would never had communicated like that!


When I first got my ‘smart phone' I felt incredibly stupid. I had just gotten used to my old fashioned cell phone and even started to remember to put it in my purse instead of leaving it on the kitchen counter or in the console of my SUV. But the new ‘can do it all' gismo was a whole new technological ballgame. As the cell phone representative explained how my smarter-than-me phone would change my life all I could think of was how it would make my life more complicated then it already was. My two teens were already setting up their contact lists and down-loading apps while my very patience cell phone master was showing me how to turn the phone on. Once he was sure I got the hang of making calls he moved on to texting. “Oh, I won’t need that” I told him confidently. “Look, you have unlimited monthly texts and that’s mostly how you will be communicating. Hardly anyone calls anymore.” He gestured toward the seats my girls were slumped in and I noticed both had their thumbs flying over their mini-keyboards like they were in some type of Olympic thumb duel.

Mr. Cell Phone was right about going with the unlimited text because that is all my kids do-they text. They text the second they wake up until I finally have to pry their phone out of their clutched fists after they have fallen asleep. They will even text each other while they are both in their bedrooms or even while they are sitting next to one another in the backseat of our SUV. It was starting to annoy me. Why can’t people just talk to people? I just didn’t understand the need to constantly write about everyday mundane, unimportant things.

With English being my native tongue, that is how I communicate. I write in sentences made up of entire words complete with punctuation. So when one of my kids would send me a text that looked something like WRU@ when I would be on my way to pick them up from school or ZUP when I would be relaxing in my bedroom after a very long day I felt like I was reading a WWII Enigma code. Every one of my texts to my girls would be answered either with an OMG or K. I felt like I was reading Klingon and didn't understand most of what they were trying to tell me. Finally my thirteen year old (volunteered by the rest of the family) was brave enough to tell me “Mom, everyone hates your texts.” “Why?” I asked a little hurt. “Because they are just way too long. It’s like reading a letter.” A few days later I was on the phone with a very good male friend and was explaining my bruised ego over the whole texting dilemma. He just laughed and said, “You are my favorite MILF.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Ask a teen age boy – he’ll know.” I don’t know any teen age boys so I kind of put that question aside and figured the next time I ran into a young boy I ask him.

Moments after that conversation I pulled into my neighbor Walgreens to pick up some odds and ends. At that time Walgreens was the closest store to my neighborhood since our development is surrounded by cow pastures. So you become familiar with the employees that work there and they become familiar with you. When it was my turn to check out I placed my purchases on the counter; a box of Benadryl, a bottle of Aussie hair conditioner, a bag of peanut M&M’s and a get well card for a friend who was feeling under the weather. I noticed that my customer service representative was an older teen boy who lived in my neighborhood. “You probably know all about texting” I said pleasantly. He smiled innocently at me while he was scanning my products. “Yes ma'am.” “Could you tell me what a MILF is?” I asked naively. I noticed his polite smile quickly disappeared and his face started to turn crimson. The gentlemen behind me started to cough. It must be something bad I thought. Was it some kind of racial slur or a horrible insult? “Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s just...” I didn’t get to finish my apology because that sweet boy shoved my bag of items towards me while he kept his eyes glued to the floor. I took the plastic bag and power walked out of the store and to my car. I couldn’t even remember if I had actually paid for anything. While sitting in my Expedition, I used my smarty pants phone and Goggled the offensive abbreviation. After reading the meaning I mentally yelled to my soon to be former friend ”Hey buddy this is UFB! From now on I’ll have to drive all the way to CVS!”

Back to the envelopes I had now spread all over my bedspread. I opened the one that I had labeled High School. The contents of each folded wide-ruled piece of notebook paper were filled with important teen dilemmas, gossip, and injustices. What if Keith finds out I like him, I’ll die! Can you believe that so-and-so wore that skirt- again? Mr. Stevens is such a jerk to give homework over the weekend. Can I borrow your geometry proofs index cards? Warning – pop quiz in American History! Meet me at the front of the gym for lunch. Do you have an extra pair of shorts for P.E.? I yelled to my teens to come and check them out. “What are these” they wondered. “They’re texts” I explained. “Old school style”. We laughed as we took turns reading. “Oh, my gosh mom!” my thirteen year old exclaimed. “You were like a real teenager!” And the more I read the more I realized that being a teen way back in the 1980’s wasn’t that much different than being a teen in the twenty-first century. The worries about looks, clothes, boys, popularity, parties and grades were still the same. The gripes about parents and teachers, homework, curfews and the horror of being deprived of a coveted item that everyone else in the universe had but you hasn’t changed either. The only difference is the method of delivery. I was now on the other side of the looking glass understanding what my girls were feeling and the revelation of what my parents had gone through.

My friends and I also had abbreviations sprinkled throughout our notes – TTFN, FYI, LYLAS, BFF, TLF, SWAK, AKA, and MYOB just to name a few. Not that much different than the texts my kids send, I realized. “Why did you keep all these Mom?” my high schooler asked. “Oh, I guess because there just a little piece of who I was way back then.” “You were almost like a little cool mom.” she exclaimed looking slightly impressed. “So, can we look in the Boys envelope?” she asked with a sly smirk. “NWNH” I replied as I began to gather up the papers and put them back into the envelope. “NWNH – what’s that?” “No way, no how" I said with my own sly smirk. There are just some pieces of yourself you shouldn’t share with your kids!