My Phone Won't Stop Talking to Me in AAVE

I recently updated my phone. To my surprise and confusion, when it powered back on, I heard the voice of Siri sigh out in exasperation, “Whew, chile.”

Though this update has only made it worse, I’d noticed this strange behavior slowly increasing in the weeks prior. Especially when I received a notification from Amazon that read, “Bishhhhhh, don’t let me find out you forgot about yo’ shopping cart!”

I said, “Who you calling a bitch?!”, and Apple Music started playing Knuck If You Buck by Crime Mob.

I don’t know if I’d mind it so much if it was at least accurate, but it’s really just acting like a standard-rate White person who’s slightly fascinated by Black culture. Like, Google will start a conversation with me about rap music and ask if I “enjoy saying the n-word”, but when I bring up slavery it’ll start talking to its White friend instead, and only return search results describing “how long 157 years ago was”.

But, whatever, I think. It’s fairly innocent, and honestly kind of funny. Like, even though Uber keeps asking when it can, “pull up on me,” it’s kind of charming. It makes me feel proud to be Black, knowing that even in this device’s greatest efforts, it can’t replicate the language of my people.

At least, that’s what I think.

//

The morning is light and grey when I’m confronted with the news. A thickness in the air. Thunder coming, lightning promised.

The sky turns ebony as I watch the words leave her lips. My fiancé.

“I’m leaving you.”

“I’ve found a White boy who can love me better.”

The rage does not yet consume me. It cannot yet consume me. How could it? What I feel now is palliative. What I feel now is, really, only confusion.

”Who?” I ask, utterly bewildered.

”Your iPhone 12,” she responds—calmly, but precise.

And, before I can say anything, I feel a small body brush my leg. I look down to see a tiny device, dressed in a du-rag and black tee, carrying a packed suitcase.

"What the fuck could be in his suitcase?” I think to myself.

I hear the voice of Siri.

"Sometimes White chocolate is more enticing than dark, homeboy.”

//

It’s been a few months since then, now.

Life is life. I work, and go home. And there are far and few differences between my life and the life of anyone else.

One of those differences, though, is that there is no technology in my home. I’ve gotten rid of my television, my computer, my alarm system, my electric stove, my smart fridge, my A/C system—practically anything and everything that could have an intelligence of its own, is gone. And, I think it should go without saying, I’ve neglected to purchase another phone.

Still, it’s not simply “hard”, but genuinely impossible, to avoid the influence of technology in my daily life. In my job’s break room, situated catacomb on a corner on the wall, is a small, but powerful television. I usually turn my back to it, trying to repel its sway, but I still can hear whatever is on. I’d put on headphones, but that would require a phone.

If there is any force in this world more powerful than television, it’s music. And that’s what, ultimately, gets me to turn around.

A mighty but breezy rap song graces my ears, and my eyes follow where it leads.

When they meet the screen, they encounter the image of my former iPhone 12 and fiancé, along with various other bad bitches, in a music video for the song. My Phone sports cornrows, a crispy White tee, and gold grills. He looks like he was programmed by Post Malone, engineered by Paul Wall, and marketed by the CIA.

That shit goes hard.

//

It’s been a few months since then, now.

Life is life, and there are far and few differences between my life and the life of anyone else.

One of those differences is that I no longer am able to speak, move, or eat. I can listen, though, and the doctor likes to play an audiobook titled, I Have No Mouth, I Must Scream.

I can also think.

I think to myself, what a striking title. I settle into a solace, imagining its implications, marveling at its beauty. I don’t even notice the doctor leave. I don’t even notice the audiobook turn off, and the radio turn on. I don’t even notice the host announce that the song that’s about to play is country, but it’s by an artist who used to make rap music, looking to take his career in a new direction.

I don’t even notice any of this. Until it’s too late.

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