Of all internet memes, one of the most enduring involves autocorrect, the smartphone gremlin that can turn text exchanges into a game of chance. There are websites and books devoted to autocorrect’s mishaps, not to mention shirts, mugs and calendars printed with popular autocorrected messages.
This stuff is funny, sure, but after years of scrolling past “no ducking way” posts, I’ve come to believe that autocorrect actually has useful things to tell us — if only we’d listen.
Some people get so frustrated with autocorrect that they disable it completely, but then you run the risk of telling a date that you’ll “be thfre asd oon sa i gte off th trnai.” To which your date will reply, “Are you OK?” And you will reply, “Osrrt. I hvae agocrructs rurtned pff.” And then you will be single again.
It’s also possible to teach autocorrect about your linguistic quirks, so it understands you always mean Mariska Hargitay (the “Law & Order” star), never Marisa harbor day. But let’s be real: If I can’t slow down long enough to type clearly, there’s no way I have time to make lesson plans for my phone.
So we forge ahead, never knowing when autocorrect will decide to insert itself into a conversation. You can think of this as yet another modern annoyance, or you can do as I do, and embrace the excitement and wisdom it brings to your life.
For example, last summer I sent a series of texts to report that my mother, who lives in central Maine, was in the hospital after surviving a “bear” attack. How thrilling this must have been for my friends, who spent several minutes thinking I was about to relate an outdoor adventure story, instead of a boring update from a cardiac ward!
A mom I know was the beneficiary of an even better auto-improvement. She wanted to arrange a get-together for her daughter and a friend, so she texted the other girl’s parent. “Do you want a playmate?” her phone inquired. Well, phone, now that you mention it, that is a surefire way to spice up the 84th viewing of “Frozen.”
Sometimes autocorrect just wants to provide a bit of inspiration, like those sayings on tea bags, except with real-world context. A friend involved in a group text chat, when asked if so-and-so had done such-and-such, tried to respond that so-and-so “probably” did. Her phone had other ideas. “Poetically,” it said. I’ve been reflecting on this for weeks now. Shouldn’t we all strive to do things poetically?
Other times, this humble smartphone feature reveals itself to be a visionary. I once received a text asking if I had “a papal account.” I knew right away that the sender was trying to get my PayPal information, but if you think about it, a papal account would revolutionize faith for millions of people. With just a few taps on your phone, you could confess on the go, update your sacraments and check dispensation status at any time.
Perhaps the clearest proof that autocorrect is smarter than we are is its ability to give voice to the voiceless. Cats, specifically. My cat got his paws on my iPhone and managed to send a text to my husband, and whatever feline gibberish he entered was transformed into a single, sensible word: Nolan.
My husband immediately understood this as a conversation-starter about Nolan Ryan, the legendary Major League Baseball pitcher. Meanwhile, I had no idea my cat was interested in sports. The whole thing has brought us closer together.
A little over a year ago, our household welcomed another small mewling creature, and as every parent knows, babies are drawn to glowing smartphone screens as moths are … drawn to glowing smartphone screens. Last fall, my son, age 11 months, retrieved my phone from between the couch cushions and sent a series of texts to my brother.
First, four baseball emojis (I chalk this up to the cat’s influence). Then a beautifully evocative phrase appeared, courtesy of fat baby fingers meeting autocorrect: “Meg’s bight effigy.”
I have no idea what this means, but it certainly sounds like the start of something profound. I tried to get the baby to finish his thought, but he wanted only to put the phone in his mouth. So, until he texts me otherwise, I’m going to assume he is a genius.
Indeed, autocorrect has an uncanny ability to reveal our authentic selves. A Midwestern couple I know was texting back and forth about head colds: He complained of nasal congestion, so she suggested he cut out dairy until he recovered. “I can’t love without cheese,” came his response. The heart wants what it wants. Nobody knows this better than autocorrect.
The word “love,” on its own, is all the evidence I need to prove that autocorrect knows me better than I know myself. For years, my phone has had a habit of replacing “love” with “L&O,” which is, of course, shorthand for “Law & Order.” My husband is wonderful, but every time I tell him that I L&O him, I am reminded of the truth, which is that the longest relationship I’ve ever had is with Dick Wolf’s police drama.
Text me, Marisa harbor day?
— New York Times News Service
Mary Phillips-Sandy is a writer and editor based in Brooklyn.
