It was a Friday night. My house was empty. I rarely ever had the house to myself, but oddly my mother had taken my brothers somewhere and my step-father went out. I was bored. What should I do?
We met each other in San Francisco at a student conference and kept in contact. Shortly after our return to the east coast, she became my girlfriend.
I was sixteen and in 11th grade. She was fifteen and in 10th. I represent the Bronx, but she was raised out in Brooklyn.
I had practiced on my own. I wanted to make sure that I understood how it worked because this was new to me.
I was nervous. My hands fumbled, but I intently listened to the sounds. That was the key. Each touch resulted in a slightly different tone.
That night, I was determined to make it happen. No more practice needed, I was ready.
After a few minutes, I was done. Pleased, I rolled over with the biggest grin on my face.
My private phone line rang within a minute.
“Hello?” I answered with anticipation.
“What did you do?” she questioned me. “What is this text message thing you just sent me.”
Ever since that first textual moment, I have been textually active.