Rhona Canoy
SO... let’s get nostalgic for a bit. Considering how far telephone technology has come in 2016, I can’t help but think back on my first encounter with it.
As a very little girl, I was quite privileged to live next door to my Lolo Anoy and Lola Aning. This allowed me to spend time in their house which held many magical things. They were one of the few families who had a telephone. Now, let’s not get confused here. By telephone, I mean those US army field telephones with a hand crank on one side which were given to the provincial government after the war. Covered in olive green canvas, it held a place of honor near the window overlooking Del Mar Street. I suppose that was the very first Misortel, now that I think about it.
In order to make a call, one had to turn the crank rapidly, then wait for the telephone operator to answer. Even if you didn’t need to call anyone, it was possible to just chat with the operator about what was going on in our small town. Since the only way those ladies could monitor if the call was finished was to listen in from time to time, the operator ladies were the most well informed of anyone. And since they knew pretty much everything, they were the equivalent of a smartphone, if not better.
Being the simple-minded (if I was ever that) kid that I was, that magical voice was “Operator” to me.
(Conversation translated from the original Visayan.)
Me: *crank crank crank*
Operator: Hello, operator!
Me: Hello, operator?
Operator: Hello, Rhona (Yes, they usually knew if I was on the other end of the line, another magical event.)
I think I must have been one of the very few precocious three-year-olds in Cagayan de Oro who had the audacity to call Operator if I wanted to talk to anyone.
Me: Operator, can you please connect me to my Lolo Delfin’s house?
Operator: Who do you want to talk to?
Me: My Lola Ping, please.
Operator: Well, your Lola Ping is playing mahjongg at your Lola Trining’s house. I will connect you there instead.
Better than GPS, better than Google. They pretty much knew where everyone was, and what everyone was doing at that time. They knew if there was a fire, and whose house was on fire, if the fire department had gotten there yet. They knew who was brought to the hospital, why they were there, and who the attending physician was. It was magic! There was really nothing Operator didn’t know.
The wonderful thing about Operator was how gracious she was. I often wondered what else she knew. How many hours I spent just talking to them about everything, they were my first audience. Shey made me feel as if my words were important, although I’m not sure I made that much sense. My Lola would constantly call my attention to the fact that the telephone was only for important calls. Tell that to a three-year-old!
A few years later, those field telephones gave way to the more familiar units, albeit still without a dial (technology here hadn’t progressed that far yet). It was even more fascinating for me because I didn’t need to turn the hand crank. All I had to do was pick up the handset and Operator would be there.
Eventually, Operator disappeared with the advent of the dial tone. Although it was magical also that all one had to do was rotary-dial four digits and one could get connected directly, nothing could compare to omniscient Operator.
To all the ladies who ever worked as Operator, my eternal gratitude. You will never know how much you influenced me by making me feel that I mattered, and that what I had to say mattered. Thank you for giving me the confidence to speak my mind, to be curious, to be heard.
Of course, the rest of the world probably would have preferred otherwise.
