Essay: Subtext

By: Christine Sweeney

A message arrived, the text type. So intimate, so warm, a pulsing in my pocket. A tap, an interruption. Just significant enough to type into words, transmitted across an invisible line. Not significant enough to write through pen or voice through lips. 

There used to be physical requirements for sending words from a distance. You had to sit down, at a desk or on a stoop, start with an idea or a feeling or a need worthy of a pause. You had to log in and type with a prompting, blinking cursor on a blank screen the size of a sheet of paper in landscape orientation. You had to find a phone, bolted to a kitchen wall, tethered with a slinky, curly cord. Or take shelter in a glass booth, hidden yet on display as you emptied your pockets for a dime or Deutschmark or pence, deposit it into a slot *clink* and dial a number you had scribbled on a piece of paper, or in your head.

The point being: communication from a distance, by posted or electronic mail or telephone, was a fully physical act beyond the thumbing of a screen, and came at greater cost. Transmissions were more transactional. The act deserved a letter of response, or at least a ringing (“It’s ringing!”), an enquiring “Hello?”

But these days you can send signals, waves, and sonars to broadcast a feeling, a regret, a request, without the requirement of a response.

Let’s unpack this particular set of messages, these texts (based on true events) at hand. These passive digital pokes.

You: Hey! I found a green earring. Is it yours?

Me: Hahaha! No, it is not. It must be someone else’s.

You: I feel a bit weird since our last meeting. Would you want to get a brief coffee? I should say that I’ve met someone.

Me: I am happy for you if you’ve decided to start a relationship. There is no ill will. But given that that’s not my earring, I see nothing to further discuss. Do you? Wish you all the best.

You: I just wanted to make sure things were okay between us. Irrespective of my new project.

You see, this is one of those modern missives. And we must ask ourselves:

Would someone have sent a letter enquiring about a stray earring in 1921? 

Would someone, after months of silence, dial a phone in 1981 to say two things: 

1) “let’s get coffee”; and 2) “I’ve decided to date someone who is not you.”

I am not certain.

One wonders if this is about an earring, or a closure, or a question: “Do you miss me? Do you care that I am seeing someone else?” And it gets me thinking. I know it’s unseemly to ask these things so directly.  Why did you text me to ask me about an earring that you know is not mine? Why did you invite me to get a coffee to tell me you’ve decided to see someone else—when in fact you’ve just told me you’ve decided to see someone else?

You can send a text about a missing earring as a way of asking for a blessing. You can ask for reassurance that you aren’t a horrible person. “I didn’t know what I wanted. You didn’t ask, but I told you that I couldn’t start something new. But I will start something new with someone who is not you. That makes me feel guilty. Will you have coffee with me so that I don’t feel guilty?”

With modern technology, you can transmit this feeling of self-doubt by asking about an earring. Your recipient will be none the wiser regarding your insecurities. With the impulsive tickle of a glass screen, you can hide your subtext behind text, layered one on top of another, without having to write or voice or post how it is that you actually feel.