My cousin left this message for me three months after my freshman year of college. His Chicago accent was so thick that I had to repeat it several times: Aye cuz, pick up the phone, he said. I spoke to my mother, she told me you were out doing something. We were kids walking in Hyde Park, dreaming of everything we wanted to do, and there you make it happen. Because I’m really proud of you. I love you because stay true to yourself. You are my motivation.
Voicemail has gained a bad reputation. It’s old and annoying, easily overlooked, and can take up a lot of phone storage and is a hassle if you have a long standing relative; most of us have abandoned it in favor of more instant connections. But until that day, I was unaware of what a treasure my inbox had turned into.
My cousin’s voice reminded me of walking down 53rd Street eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos dipped in melted nacho cheese as sweat dripped down our backs. Days spent wandering Powell’s Books after buying lemon pepper-soaked catfish nuggets from J&J Fish and Chicken. The words “I am really proud of you” and “You are my motivation” echoed in my head.
A few months before I received this message, I moved to Wellesley, Massachusetts, to pursue a bachelor’s degree in African studies. What the admissions office, my mom, and everyone else didn’t know was that I was escaping a city with the same cadence as my cousin’s voice. People always reckon that we Blacks from Chicago are Mississippians in coats, and living in Massachusetts has forced me to reckon with my own demons and the feeling that I’ve somehow borrowed time due to my deteriorating mental health. I didn’t dare to chat with anyone for more than five seconds, and I believed that if the people I loved knew what I was dealing with inside, they would somehow persuade me to love me less, unintentionally persuade me to love me less. me love me less I ran too. And although I deliberately chose to leave Chicago, I couldn’t shake the shock and uneasiness of learning about the sound of another city. I felt so distant from everything and everyone I knew.
My mind was going to such dark places that I had trouble sleeping at night, I was dealing with drugs and alcohol. In the meantime, I distanced myself from the people I love most. Soon they started leaving me mostly untouched messages, with a little blue dot next to each of them piling up on my phone, waiting to be listened to.
There were 50 second messages from my sister singing R&B. key off songs
I don’t know why I had to listen to my cousin’s message when I finally listened – why I clicked his blue dot over anyone else’s. But after I did that, after his voice hooked me up with a younger, sometimes happier version of myself, I decided to keep listening.
There were 10-second notes from my father, sometimes telling me about the oxtail he was cooking for dinner in thick Canton, Miss, with his accent, sometimes just checking: I love you, beautiful girl. Your father. We will speak later. Bye. My mother’s one-minute messages asking God to protect me from the wrath of despair worried her youngest child somehow slipping through her fingers: “Good morning, beautiful, today is going to be a great day,” she said. God is giving you one more day to move on – don’t let anything stand in your way. You will have everything you need! I claim in the mighty name of Jesus! There were 50 second messages from my sister singing R&B. keyless songs to put a smile on my face and 30 second pleas from my nephews begging for $20.
The messages did what my family had hoped for: They allowed me to slowly emerge from my bleak and self-imposed isolation. Every time I listen to them, I come back to Chicago—to my mom’s warm embrace, to blasting Chief Keef’s “Great Supreme” late as we drove down Lake Shore Drive, and to rambling tales of my buddies. Now I collect my voicemails like little pieces of gold.
Recently, I’ve started doing something perhaps older than leaving these messages in the first place: I started copying them onto CDs I keep in a safe. The last note I kept was the one my grandmother left me a few weeks before she died of Covid. In it she asked me to FaceTime so she could show me her new hair color, she said it made her look 25. I have listened to his message over and over as I process my anger and sadness into a life cut short. , enjoying the way his giggle made me feel, listening to you say Heyyyy, Renny Pooh.
I shared the message with family members like myself who had a hard time accepting the fact that he had suddenly disappeared forever.
But these records are endless. I have an endless archive of sounds that allow me to experience any moment as much as I want. The voice of my loved ones will always be with me. Ready to be touched. I’m ready to make sure I’m never alone. Non-stop.