Remembered as Strangers
July 14, 2013
Seven Yrs Later are stories on change, in dialogue with Seven Yrs Ago.
I must make a really good sandwich. Experimenting between grocery runs, I’ve been melding peppers, onions, honey mustard, baked beans, sneaking in Vienna sausages, and toasting formerly frozen rolls. Taking these wartime meals in my room, I shuffle the shutters aside for light and stand at the shelf where my cat lies often, and now my grub. I stare at the trees and replace thoughts with carbs. I wave back at the guy down on the sidewalk who slips from view. I give a thumbs up to the masked woman pointing at my “Protect yourself and those who come after you” sign. The neighbor on the phone grins at me despite negotiating what to pay in post, then the parade of kids trip by and two of them look up, and stare for as long as childly possible. Maybe they’ve never seen a sandwich this good. I don’t know any of these people, but I’ll throw them a few cans this week.
I became an accidental expert at talking to strangers. When I go somewhere new, I get the lay of the land, sit back, but look for who to reach out to. I can chat up anyone on set, offices, the street, public transportation. I can’t help myself in elevators; I sincerely compliment people because I don’t like to pretend I don’t see them. This was a far cry, however, from when I was a teenager, anxious about people known and unknown, and would go for several hours straight without speaking. I didn’t think anyone wanted to hear me. My dad advised early on that I ask people what they had for breakfast, which worked for about ten seconds till it dawned I had nothing to say about oatmeal. When I left home for college though, it became miraculously easy to get brunch with classmates, roommates, so I’d know what they had for breakfast (waffles) and could skip ahead to what we were building and what we’d do that weekend together. Slowly still, my old ways did evolve, and while I was no longer apprehensive of people, I sought time with myself, but with a caveat. When I wasn’t Dashing to Central Library or The Last Bookstore, camaraderie in composure, I’d take the line to the piss-heat of Hollywood or to the beach to get swallowed. I loved the masses, the throngs of whos from who-knows-where. I’d disappear and digest, no discussion needed, and I’d decide to engage or not, without expectation. Not expecting is what I miss about people I don’t know.
Strangers are there when no one else is. It is a comfort to cry beside another crying stranger at a show that reminds you of your ex. It is a thrill to get to try something you have no experience in, but because a stranger saw potential, you get a career you didn’t know you could have. Strangers play in the drama of life and death; I saw a stranger pull a knife out on a bus driver, and bolder, older strangers scolded him and shooed him off the bus. A stranger held my hand in a funeral parlor once. The kindness of strangers is fundamental to a functional world. There are no laws requiring one to care, so when it happens between folks who’ll never meet again, there is a sanctitude I don’t see anywhere else. True strangers demand no follow-up, no incentive to do further, so the moment rests with each person who was a part of it. And when a stranger sidesteps a situation, it is definitively nothing personal—you don’t always have to do what you don’t want to do, and who better to practice that than with strangers? It reinforces the feeling that when strangers do good, they mean it. We can risk trust knowing that some people just look after it.
All friends were once strangers, so I keep open, but I like my regulars. They are the cashiers at the supermarket, the passersby with their aging parents, the janitors after hours, the waiters who know your regular. We have no business getting to know each other, but there’s something gratifying about being remembered; you might have a certain quality without trying. To be recognized is to be reminded that you exist, and with the limits we have now, every glimpse counts. To act naturally and openly then allows others to bear witness to other ways of being. I leave my shutters open because I like guessing which game Unit 204 has on tonight, and seeing the labs defy their owners across the street has become my Saturday morning cartoon. In turn, I do burpees that may inspire fitness or roasts, and I whip my cat around the room with wands because he’s his own show. People greet him and take pictures since he’s their regular too.
We belong first to ourselves and second to who we share that with. We don’t belong to strangers, but there’s something to tap if you’re looking for it. Strangers make up the minimum of connection, so if you’re not able to see your favorite humans, try a stranger. The internet has people too. And if you’re not sure how to start, ask them what they had for breakfast. You can do a lot with oatmeal now.