Good morning. How often do you talk to strangers? What’s stopping you?
Public offeringI went to hear some live music by myself a couple of weeks ago. There were a handful of other people in the small performance space when I arrived, mostly in small groups. I was considering taking out my phone, a habit I try to resist when I’m unoccupied in public, when a man walked up to me and a person standing nearby and said something to the effect of, “We’re all here solo, so we should talk to one another.” I was surprised and charmed by his extroversion. I had assumed I’d have to mill about awkwardly until the show began, the tax one pays for going out alone. But this guy, whose name we quickly learned was Stefan, had treated the barroom as if it were a party he was hosting, or at least a party at which he was determined to not be bored. The three of us chatted as the place filled up, strangers with a common interest in a musician, which was enough of a connection to pleasantly fill a half-hour. It has become very easy to avoid talking to strangers. Noise-canceling headphones, internet shopping, self-checkout lines and, when all else fails, our phones — taken out at a bar, a party, a concert — insulate us against humanity’s intrusion. It’s not all terrible: I recently made a doctor’s appointment via consultation with my medical practice’s “virtual assistant” and it was refreshingly frictionless. In a city, headphones are indispensable for boundary setting; they send a signal that one is not to be bothered. But when not interacting becomes the default, our social muscles atrophy. “Far from random human inconveniences, strangers are actually one of the richest and most important resources we have,” the journalist David Sax wrote in a guest essay for Times Opinion a few years ago. “They connect us to the community, teach us empathy, build civility and are full of surprise and potentially wonder.” “Full of surprise and potentially wonder”! Why would we spurn such marvels? “Well,” my antisocial alter ego counters, “strangers are also unpredictable, possibly uninterested in us and sometimes boring.” All true. Is this why I, a person who’s hardly shy, would hesitate to corral the awkward solo concert attendees into conversation? There’s always the risk of rejection, and the risk that I’d feel a responsibility to keep the conversation going even if the people I approached weren’t talkative, a social burden I’d regret. But I was so grateful to Stefan: What a gesture of generosity to extend himself, to relieve others of the awkwardness of standing alone in a space where others are socializing. I try to be this kind of person, the one who breaks the silence, the one who can extend herself, but I’m not always able to silence that alter ego. I asked Stefan if he’s always “that guy,” the self-appointed social ringleader, the outgoing one who coaxes the wallflowers into the mix. “I’ve come to believe that people simply want fun and interesting things to happen to them,” he said. Why wouldn’t they be receptive to him? Most of us are thinking about ourselves, about the potential embarrassment that would arise from making an overture to a stranger. Stefan’s thinking about other people, what they expect or desire from a night out, and he’s doing his part to make that a reality. “Engagement with strangers is at the core of our social contract,” Sax wrote in his guest essay. Contracts are agreements: I will do my part and you will do yours; it’s in both of our best interests. The social contract doesn’t explicitly say we have to give other people a good time (or, it might — I haven’t seen an official copy), but it does stipulate that we consider one another and the type of society we want to create. Sometimes when I’m feeling alienated from the human race, or baffled by the actions of another, I remind myself that every single person wants to be loved. This isn’t a particularly rigorous thought about human psychology, but rather something that seems broadly true. It’s an easily accessed plot of common ground, a starting place for understanding motivations that seem inscrutable. This reminder doesn’t mean I have to love everyone, but it makes their decisions a bit more legible. If I add that everyone wants fun and interesting things to happen to them, me included, I might be more likely to start the conversation with strangers. If we all see it as our contractual duty to generate fun when the opportunity presents itself (and if we can overcome our shyness), then we significantly increase the odds that fun will ensue. And if others don’t hold up their end of the bargain? Then, as Stefan rationalizes, your attempt “gives you a good story to tell your friends.”
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