Illustration by Marcelina Jagielka
As a first year, I frequently spoke with friends from home, pacing by the bike rack outside of my accommodation. One day, another student remarked: “Every time I see you, you’re on the phone.”
“I have a really big family,” I responded, to cover my tracks.
As the years passed, I became busier with university friends and classes. I no longer wanted to miss out on social events – even mundane ones, like going for a coffee or a walk with my flatmates, came before a phone call with friends from home. I became reluctant to get on the phone at all, scheduled or not. I often thought about my friends from childhood, but sometimes avoided texting to tell them as much, as so often it was met with “are you free for a call sometime this week?”
I never felt any emotional distance from this lack of term-time communication. I had known my old friends for long enough that I trusted in the strength of our bond. On holidays, I would ride the train to meet old friends in a state of anticipation. There were two entire months to catch up on. There could be an entire romantic arc in that timeframe, new friends or jobs or hobbies. I’ve always liked the element of surprise: that’s why I study English rather than History, and why I don’t have any social media.
Now I’m here at Oxford, as a visiting student from Stanford. I’m not as busy as I was back in California. I don’t know as many people, or go to as many parties, but I feel similarly averse to being in sustained contact with friends from home or university. My life is different here, but I still feel present in it. From walking through Christ Church meadows to perusing the vegan sausage options at Sainsbury’s in Westgate, or begrudgingly descending from the top floor of Rad Cam to use the basement bathroom. I’d rather talk with strangers in my college’s dining hall or at drinks for a student club than on the phone to an old best friend. When I get calls, I text that I’m in the bowels of Tesco and the service is no good. Being in the library is an effective excuse as well.
I’m trying to figure out if this is something to feel guilty about. But how many times a week can I be asked to debrief my existence? When I spend too much time on the phone, I feel narrative exhaustion. If a friend needs advice or support, though, I’ll hit the green button. I’m five hours ahead of my friends in New York, eight hours ahead of those in California. Nonetheless, if duty calls, I get on my boots and layers, put in my AirPods, and walk laps down my street until we sort whatever needs sorting. The first night I was here, I sat on a bench on the High Street, past midnight, talking a friend through heartbreak while watching drunk students order wraps from the nearby falafel cart.
When my friends in New York aren’t being ghosted, I am enjoying the independence and possibility that comes with being in a new place. Sometimes it’s raining and I don’t have an umbrella, and sometimes I have no evening plans, and sometimes I spend all day writing in the library. But those are all parts of what it means to be here. The narration of this – of life – snaps me out of it. The story isn’t always clear when everything is still unfolding.Perhaps independence is archaic and I’m being nostalgic. I love writing and receiving letters, which support the accusations. My friends that don’t study English are not as inspired by the medium, but I’ve tried countering proposed phone catch ups with requests for letters. Sorry, can’t talk, I’m in the basement grocery department of the library right now, but if you have something to tell me my address is…