I used to be the kind of person who “hated” small talk. In my (volatile) opinion, the kind of person who claims to hate small talk is someone who highly values their own pretentiousness. Don’t get me wrong; pretentiousness is still one of my more pertinent personality traits, as I’m sure you could guess from the rambling tangents that comprise my Her Campus portfolio. Over the last couple of years, though, I’ve seen my haughty teenage superiority complex dwindle into something doe-eyed and gentle. Maybe it’s life in the city, but I’ve seen this place bolster people’s cynicism, evidence of that goofy “Seattle freeze” in action. I’ve learned a lot about myself in five quarters of U-district residency, and while I can’t directly pinpoint what softened my angst, I have my suspicions: new friends who always know what to say, a new job that proves the diversity of the human condition with every rollercoaster of a shift, a new school year that brought wisdom and (figurative) seniority, this intangible quality of walking down the street and not questioning the space I take up, this understanding that I belong just as much as every other soul on the sidewalk.
But I digress. Wisdom can be deceptive. I still have days where I’m convinced the other people in my light rail car have nothing better to do than judge me relentlessly. Anyway: small talk. That polite little demon. Let me tell you what I wish my younger self could see…small talk is sacred.
The true depth of other peoples’ otherness is something we realize in small doses. It’s too scary to wrap your brain around it any other way. Yes, we are all human, and we have more in common than we give each other credit for, but even the most mundane of strangers is a horrifically unpredictable creature when held up to the light. You don’t know what kind of childhood belongs to the random girl beside you in the elevator, or how it shaped her daily routine and her perspective on life. For all you know, standing there next to her, waiting for the metal machine to ding your destination, she could be thinking to herself that you look exactly like her most precious loved one. Or her least favorite celebrity. Or her abuser. That’s a terrifying thought, and why is it terrifying? Because uncertainty is the awful core of every fear.
But when you find the courage to look up from your phone and ask this girl how her week is going, and she tells you ā€”even hesitantlyā€”that it’s been decent, you send some of that uncertainty back to hell. Sure, it’s just a handful of words up against a whole elevator of otherness. But you can still relax, just a little bit, because now you respect each other. Not in the sparkly way that people who really know each other do, but enough to remind your anxious mind that every stranger is ultimately on the same team as you: trying to get through another day in a big bad world. There have been times in my life when, as silly as it sounds, I didn’t feel worthy of taking the elevator. I didn’t want to subject the other elevator-takers to the ordeal of being in my presence. All I know is that when a stranger with kind eyes asks me how my week is going, I feel the power of that question in my feral heart. I am worthy of their momentary attention. I belong in the elevator because of the space I take up there.
Small talk is kindness. For some people, it’s the best part of their day. Others might like feeling invisible; it’s a liberating anonymity, but too much makes even the bravest of us feel lonely. Perhaps the paradox of loneliness is that it’s all around us.
I know how intimidating it can be just to meet someone’s eyes in a new class, much less pose a casual weird weather today, huh? But I am telling you now, as someone who has asked and answered, that I will never stop craving the glowing embers of humanity in those words. So if you’re starved for human connection, but the idea of starting a conversation with a stranger makes your skin crawl, just do it. You have nothing to lose. We are on the same team. I’m rooting for you.
And if you’re still not convinced…get over yourself! Nobody gets through this wretched life alone!
(Winter months are always the hardest. Remember you are loved.)