On Voicemails

A vanishing art form

I recently read Bess Kalb’s memoir, Nobody Will Tell You This But Me. In it, Bess artfully crafts her family story (as told through the matrilineal lens) by adopting the voice of her now-deceased grandmother, Bobby. The memoir delivers the story through a series of reimagined and retold stories, tidbits, and wisdom, all delivered via prose and voicemails.

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I have always loved a voicemail. In my family, voicemails are a thing. It's not a real birthday unless I get a voicemail from my mom, dad, grandmother, or grandfather singing operatically into the phone. Over the years, I’ve saved dozens of voicemails: a trove of “Hi, it’s me—call me back, love you, see you, bye” from my mom and “It’s your pa” messages from my dad, each one tucked away like a little time capsule.

There’s something raw and unfiltered about voicemails that other mediums just can’t replicate. A VoiceNote is not the same. Even when you reach the “machine” and you hear the pre-recorded greeting (automated or personalized) notifying you to “leave a message after the tone”, there is always that split second where you must decide: do you hang up? Or do you brave the discomfort of an unrehearsed monologue?

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And then there’s the signoff. Even when I’m leaving a voicemail for a dentist’s appointment, I find myself fumbling. Do I say goodbye? Leave my number? Did I even remember to say who this is? Voicemail has a way of stripping us of our polish. But that’s the magic of it.

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Nowadays, many of my friends don’t even have their voicemail set up. Something I find maddening. Sure, I can text them. Occasionally, I can even catch them on the line. But it just isn’t the same.

I live in fear that voicemail will soon be extinct. So if you’re like me and care about this vanishing art form, I invite you to join me in support of this endangered species.

Call your friends. Call your parents. Call your dentist.

And long live the voicemail.