My first phone was a Samsung Galaxy S7. I was one of the last people in my grade to get a phone, and the excitement I felt at finally getting to fit in made me think that being thirteen wouldn’t be so bad after all.
When I showed up to school touting an Android in a black case, my friends crucified me. Comments of “why does it look like that?” and “I hate that you have green texts” made it clear that there is a phone hierarchy and I was at the bottom of it.
Over the years, I became accustomed to hiding my phone. I kept it in my locker or my backpack so that no one would see that it wasn’t an iPhone. In IB Spanish IV, I’d put my phone in the phone-holder upside down so that the camera in the center of the device wouldn’t be visible.
It felt like no matter how hard I tried to dress like my peers, talk like my peers, and act like my peers, my phone was my Achilles heel that would eventually “out” me as something different.
When I got my first job working at a coffee shop, I made the financial goal to purchase my first iPhone by the end of the summer. Although I reached that goal, even my experience at the Apple store was clouded by side-eye glances and the overwhelming feeling that my phone was an inconvenience to others.
This issue was only compounded by the fact that transferring data from an Android to an iPhone is an enormously overcomplicated process. For as much as Apple promotes a culture of conversion, the process of switching phones feels Byzantine at best.
Of course, I liked my iPhone. My texts went through in an instant. I could now take .5 pics like every Instagram cool girl. I didn’t feel ashamed to have my phone on my desk. And yet, in spite of all these improvements, I was still underwhelmed. Wasn’t this change supposed to alter the very fiber of my being?
I wondered if investing in this phone was even worth it. As much as my Samsung had its flaws, it was sturdy enough to last me another few years. I could still text my friends and take high-quality photos.
The object of my insecurity now seemed the more logical route. But I never found the courage to voice my opinion, because I knew none of my friends would agree.
Even before I bought my iPhone, I was acutely aware of the Android versus iPhone “debate”. The “war on Apple” is decidedly made up, something that I don’t think many Apple users are willing to admit.
I acknowledge that we live in a society built for iPhones. iPhones have access to types of technology that other phones simply do not. There is even some convenience in sharing the same type of phone as your friends.
But the issue with this argument is not that Apple users are “wrong”, but rather that this “debate” doesn’t even exist. Many individuals who own (or have owned) Androids are aware that their phones have drawbacks. But when you account for the fact that the average cost of Samsung phone is roughly $300, the true nature of this argument comes into focus.
As of December, the average price of an iPhone (globally) was just under $1,000. Additional payments often must be made for insurance and storage. Personally, I paid about $1,200 for my iPhone 13, the largest purchase I’ve ever made by far. Compared to the Samsung S9 I’d used until I traded it in (which costs about $115 presently), I paid for a device worth more than ten times the value of my last phone.
The discourse surrounding the worth of an iPhone is not one of the devices compared abilities, but rather one of class. Most often, people do not buy Samsungs because they are trying to anger Apple users or because they wholeheartedly believe that Samsungs are better than iPhones. People buy Androids because they are significantly less expensive than iPhones.
That is the full extent of the argument in favor of Androids—a functioning smartphone that can cost sometimes less than $100 will always be the most accessible option when the alternative is a product that can easily cost more than $1,000.
It is frustrating to watch Apple users condemn Samsungs for existing. I’d go as far as saying that there is a dogged following behind every Apple product released. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard a peer or even teacher declare that they’d buy anything released by Apple. Is that not a toxic culture?
What I didn’t understand in eighth grade was that the stigma I faced for owning my phone was not arbitrary. Apple users dislike Android users because acknowledging the inconvenience of financial hardship is uncomfortable.
There are issues that plague iPhones in ways that Samsungs support their users—see the harm that constant software upgrades can cause. But non-Apple smartphones are the only cell phones that receive criticism because of the ignorance that many have toward the economic circumstances surrounding the decision to own a Samsung.
This piece is not intended to attack or reprimand iPhone users; as I’ve already discussed, I consider myself to be an enjoyer of Apple’s products. Rather, I’d like to address the aspect of this “debate” that many Apple users have the privilege to be unaware of: buying the best phone is rarely in the interest of lower-income consumers.
So the next time you feel compelled to make fun of your friend for how strange their phone is, remember that being an Android user is not always a choice.