One coffee shop has become, through habit, an extension of my office. Today's meeting was with a field representative of a state congressional delegate. He wanted to share opportunities that might be available at a federal level. I spied a name written on the opposite side of the notebook where he was writing and told him I knew that person too, and that I had asked them early on if there might be a rapid-response system being created to address the impending federal threats.

I said, "I asked if there was a phone tree." He blinked at me. "What's a phone tree?" I explained that it's one person calling two more, and those would call a few more, and it was an efficient way to get information out quickly. "Old school," I said.

He repeated gravely, "Old school."

I drove home thinking about being old school. I'm about to turn 42. I came of age with AIM away messages and the whir of dial-up. I remember when Facebook required a college email address and it was terribly important to curate your Top 8 on Myspace. And yet, I don't feel old school. I feel like I've been watching an evolution of self to meet the needs of a trying time.

Sure, a phone tree is inefficient by today's standards. It relies on human beings answering their phones and assumes commitment that feels flatter today. It assumes that if I call you, you will call the next person, because you believe it matters to be part of a chain.

I suppose what I was really asking about in that coffee shop wasn't nostalgia for landlines. I wondered if our communal infrastructure is sturdy enough to withstand chaos. Can there be systems that do not depend on vibes when the next executive order drops and the next funding stream disappears?

Instagram posts aren't a strategy. A Signal chat isn't sufficient coordination. "Call your senator" isn't infrastructure.

The people who are very good at consolidating power are rarely relying on spontaneous bursts of online outrage. They build lists and practice their messaging. They know exactly which lever to pull and who will answer on the second ring. That is not old school; it's discipline that feels harder to cultivate in the ether of the socials.

The field rep may have envisioned rotary phones and paper lists thumbtacked to a kitchen wall. I meant a connection that cannot be throttled by an algorithm or buried by the next trending topic.

There is a reason organizers still knock on doors, and campaigns still keep clipboards. There is a reason churches, for better or worse, can mobilize congregations in a single Sunday. Information moves fastest through trust, and that still happens in person.

If this moment in our country feels unsteady, it is because many of us have been operating on the assumption that awareness is action. We have built wide networks that are thinly tied. We can reach thousands and still not know who will show up.

A phone tree forces you to know exactly who is on your side and to decide who your first call is to. It forces you to ask whether the people in your circle are ready to carry something heavier than a repost. It forces you to admit that if no one answers, the problem is not technological, it is relational.

What we need is not newer apps but older instincts. Fewer performative blasts into the void and more deliberate chains of responsibility. Not because we are nostalgic for the past, but because power has always depended on organized humans who understand their role in the chain.

When he said the phrase again, solemnly, I realized he thought it was quaint, but it might be a seed worth planting for the future.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at [email protected]. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Hiroyoshi Urushima at Unsplash