With Arms Outstretched

Thinking outside the box

Several weeks ago, at a housewarming party for a friend of a friend, I found myself giving a new answer to those who asked the most standard and boring of small-talk questions: what do you do? I’ve always regarded this question as limiting when meeting new people, and have always tried to express this with qualifiers; “What I mean is, what’s your story? What are you all about?” But even this doesn’t cut away the frustration found within one stupid question precisely because that question presents an immediate affront to the self, the individual.

“Rather than learn all the ins and outs of what makes you, you, why don’t you just cut to the chase and place yourself within an instantly recognizable stereotype box because, let’s face it, there are a lot of people here and I don’t want to waste my evening with a bore.”

I am now assistant manager of the wine shop, a very straightforward, easy to understand occupation. So when I give my answer to The Question, the conversation dies, I’ve been sized up, and now this new person has an “idea” of who I am, where I’ve been, how I think, what may or may not interest me, how intelligent I may or may not be, and all this because of my source of income. And how guilty I am of doing the same with others, with writing off some people simply because their type of work sometimes contains personality types that I don’t prefer.

It’s a pride thing, of going from graduate student in a somewhat strange field that requires explanation and elicits oohs and ahhs and “that sounds fun,” to working retail, a place in which almost everyone spends a season of their life, enough to know how mindless and uninteresting and commonplace these jobs can be. And so I want to interject before someone completes their silent judgment, “but my job isn’t like that!” Still, that’s just my insecurity rearing its nasty, nasty head, so I refrain.

A long time ago, I imagine last winter because I think coats were involved, I ran into someone who dared to defy summary (like my good friend Annie). Allison and I were at The Living Room, definitely not our normal scene but a place we enjoyed when we were dressed up for whatever reason and in the area, and after chatting up a guy in hopes to pass him to Al once she came back from I presume the bathroom, Al made the “mistake” of asking him The Question. He fired back, in a tone both friendly and defensive, something along the lines of “I never like that question,” and went on to explain himself a little, but who knows what he said because Allison felt the sting of him throwing her social conventions right back in her face with a splash of sarcasm that came across as vitriol rather than charm. She wasted no time in letting him know his company was no longer welcome and told me she was going to get our coats and to meet her outside; we were leaving.

I understood why this guy didn’t like the question, but I also understood why Allison took such offense at his response. There’s a time and place to question societal norms, and a crowded bar is not one of them. But even still, it wasn’t society this guy was trying to change by refusing to answer The Question but rather Allison’s perception of him as an individual. He felt threatened, he didn’t want to be judged or placed in a box, and so he went on the defense rather than starting a dialogue, and that’s precisely what’s missing in social interaction: conversation.

I could go for days about how facebook and myspace deduces our selves into lists of what we consume, creating a similar social atmosphere in the living, breathing world. But that’s boring, and that’s so senior thesis 2006. Instead I am going to stop asking The Question, or at least try, and start listening rather than constantly assessing and evaluating upon meeting people. And I’m going to finally pick up a copy of Barbara’s How to Talk to Practically Anybody About Practically Anything. It’s about time I learn how to communicate.

posted by Alison @ 1:26 PM