Why I still talk to strangers
Jennifer Ditlevson Haglund
New Yorkers get a bad reputation for their coldness. Most of my interactions in the last two months have proven the opposite to be true, but I’m beginning to understand possible reasons for the stereotype.
On the train, everyone except the buskers ride in silence. Most people stare at their phones or sleep. None of the MTA rules posted between advertisements for panties and colleges say anything about refraining from chatting, but the activity is rare. When I’ve broken the unwritten code of quiet to start conversations, almost without exception, I get asked out.
I haven’t yet explained to anyone confused by my sociability that I’m not looking for an affair, just some human interaction. It has become easier than ever before to transport ourselves from the world physically around us to curated circles of friends and acquaintances online. I’ve wondered if people are so surprised by a person making the daring move to communicate face-to-face that it refreshes them and reminds them what it means to be acknowledged by someone who isn’t obligated to approve of their web presence with likes or hearts. They can, without any baggage of their cyber shadow or personal history, begin again — even if only for a few minutes until both parties can get home and run background checks or Google searches on each other. How romantic, how novel it is to talk with strangers in a city of millions of nameless faces who never have enough time for anyone.
An aspect of the New Yorker’s taciturnity comes from a strict adherence to the doctrine of autonomy.
At a playground last week, I offered to open the gate for a woman pushing a double stroller. I could see she had her hands full and almost had grabbed the latch when she told me she was fine. Her tone communicated that if I proceeded to help her, I would be insulting her independence and poise.
I retreated. She entered and called to a fellow parent at the toddler slide, ignoring me. My thoughts were less charitable than they should have been in that moment.
Negative exchanges like this that I experience have less to do with intentional meanness but usually reveal hardness evident in indifference or pride.
That’s a universal problem, and it’s going to show up more frequently in places where people feel isolated and helpless. The woman who rejected my assistance preserved her sacred illusion that she’s self-reliant, and the man downstairs who turned me down when I offered my free gardening services doesn’t mean to be rude, either. He’s keeping his life safe and private.
As I write this column, I hope I don’t have a hernia from lugging a stroller and a 30-pound child up and down several flights of stairs at the train stations. When no one’s around to help or bothers to offer any, and the elevators are broken or soiled with human waste, I take the stairs. At first, I was impressed with myself and proud of my soreness that followed for days to come. After being forced to do this several times, I’ll take any aid I can get. I have nothing to prove, and I’d like to avoid any unnecessary surgeries or expenses.
As a young mother, I probably benefit from more frequent support than most. When someone does see me struggling to balance everything in my arms and offers to relieve me, I’m humbled. Knowing I’ll probably never see that person again, I note that I must make the same kind of gestures when I have the chance.
There is a risk in engaging with others in an unfamiliar place. I can’t deny that. I try to keep myself out of stupid situations involving physical danger, but participating in kindness means tempering your ego and taking time you don’t always have or want to give.
