I don't mind if somebody texts me but I'm not a big texter, the

Hear the voice of Penny Marshall, spoken with the frankness of one who cherished authenticity: “I don’t mind if somebody texts me but I’m not a big texter, the things are too small. I don’t mind if they text, ‘7 o’clock,’ that’s fine, that’s logistics but, ‘What’s up?’ Get real! Pick up a phone!” At first, her words may sound like simple complaint, but beneath them lies a deep yearning: the cry for genuine connection in an age of shrinking screens and abbreviated words.

For what is a text but a fragment of communication, a symbol stripped of voice, tone, and warmth? Marshall allows its use for logistics—to mark a time, to confirm a meeting, to serve as the messenger of necessity. But when it comes to matters of the heart, to greetings, to the question of “What’s up?” she demands more. For she knows that true human presence cannot be conveyed by a line of characters. The phone call, with its living voice, its laughter and its pauses, carries a soul in ways a text never can.

This truth is ancient in form though modern in context. In the old days, letters carried the weight of thought, but when lovers or friends gathered, they spoke face to face, with tone, gesture, and warmth. The voice is no small thing—it carries memory, it holds intimacy, it reminds us that we are not machines but beings of breath and spirit. Marshall, with her humor, reminds us of this eternal truth: that the heart longs for more than convenience, it longs for presence.

Consider the story of Alexander Graham Bell, who, in 1876, spoke the first words across a telephone: “Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you.” His invention was not born to replace letters for logistics; it was born out of the desire to bridge distance with presence, to make a voice reach across the miles as though the speaker were in the room. The telephone was never meant to be reduced to cold efficiency, but to be a vessel of relationship. Marshall’s call—“Pick up a phone!”—is a plea to return to that purpose.

But here lies the warning: with each advance in technology, we risk trading depth for speed, presence for efficiency. The text message, the email, the fleeting emoji—these are sparks, not fires. They illuminate for a moment but cannot warm. To rely on them alone is to risk becoming strangers to one another, even while endlessly “connected.” Marshall resists this shallowness, insisting that we do not forget the richer, truer forms of communication.

The lesson is this: let us not confuse information with connection. Send a text if you must for times and places, but when the matter concerns hearts, souls, or even the simple joy of friendship, dare to pick up the phone, or better still, speak face to face. Let your voice carry your presence, let your words hold warmth, let your pauses carry meaning. In doing so, you honor the humanity that cannot be reduced to typed characters.

Practical steps are clear: use technology with discernment. Set aside the endless stream of small texts, and instead choose moments of deeper communication. Call your loved ones. Hear their laughter, their sighs, their silences. Let your words carry life. For as Marshall’s wit reminds us, logistics may be managed by machines, but relationships must be nourished by human presence.

Thus, remember the wisdom of Penny Marshall: “Logistics by text if you must—but for life, for love, for friendship—Pick up a phone!” This is not mere nostalgia; it is a call to protect the sacred thread of human connection in an age that threatens to replace voices with pixels. Do not surrender to shallowness. Speak. Call. Connect. For it is in the sound of our voices that we are truly alive to one another.