When's the last time you said hello?

Making the case for small talk

Many of you reading this are closing yourself off to others, and you’re doing it willingly. I get it. It’s five o’clock on a Friday, you just finished your work week and you need to pick up a few things from the store. It’s busy. You choose to go down the empty magazine aisle to avoid wayward glances. You dig through your pockets and find your headphones and pop them in. You don’t even want to listen to anything. It’s just a signal. I’m not here to talk.

Social anxiety is nothing new, but our demonization of “shallow interactions” certainly seems to be. Our heads are bent towards our phones. We’re scrolling in the checkout line, between bites of food, and at family events. It doesn’t matter where we are or who we’re around, we’re still somewhere else. The real world has become secondary to the comfort of the screen, and many of us are terrified of bridging this gap by accident.

The consequences of our distaste for small talk, is that we become inflated by a neurotic sense of self-worth and distrust of others. We see people through the filter of the screen, sorting them by our mental preconceptions. We forget the importance of pleasant and short interactions. And like any muscle, when we don’t use our voice, it atrophies when we need it the most. If you always stay in the comfort zone of scrolling and listening to podcasts while on a walk, or waiting in line, good luck introducing yourself to that cute girl in the corner at your friends party. “Errr ahhh ummm. Hi.. I guess.”

Communication is a Skill

Anxiety about small talk isn’t a symptom that we exclusively crave deep and insightful conversation, it’s a sign that we’ve forgotten how to access other people. Like table etiquette, simple codes of manners, and other social traditions, small talk is a skill. And like any skill it needs to be learned and practiced.

Because we’re scared of our own flaws and neurosis, the idea of small talk has become demonized as a shallow, meaningless, time-wasting interaction that doesn’t add any tangible “value” to our lives. If you are under the impression that small talk automatically involves talking about the weather, it isn’t the act of small talk that’s the problem, it’s you. Our curiosity about others dictates what we receive in return, and, most importantly, how we create strong social ties in our community.

At its core, small talk serves two important purposes: establishing a friendly social frame for future interaction, and managing interpersonal distance. The former ties your face, voice, and mannerisms into the other person’s brain and marks you as a non-threatening and altruistic person. The latter helps you to recognize if the feeling is reciprocated and mutual. Talking “about the weather” isn’t the point, the subtext is.

When was the last time you launched into a “deep” conversation with a stranger or acquaintance? It doesn’t happen. If deep, insightful, and honest conversation is what you crave, you have to be willing to start small. Maybe, just maybe, you’re not as inviting as you thought you were.

While less intimate than a first date, the same broad rules apply to casual conversation. You start by getting a feel for the person by asking broad and general questions. Only then, if the conversation is pleasant, you work your way in. But it’s not a one way street. You have to reciprocate; quiet your mind, quit waiting for your turn to talk, and listen. Like Ernest Hemingway said: “When people talk, listen completely. Most people never listen.”

When you have a genuine desire to listen and see the other person, you get out of your own head. Your response doesn’t feel canned or pre-planned, because it isn’t. It’s real.

When you step outside of your internal monologue, or pause the music and just exist in the real world, it can feel like you’re walking onto stage without knowing your lines. And this unnerving feeling is rooted in our biology. We’re social beings, and we evolved in an environment where cooperation, judgment, trust, and connection were all important for our individual, and collective, survival. This machine still runs, but for the reasons I discussed above, it’s dusty. We can get through our days without much interaction, so that’s what we choose to do.

And when we are given opportunities to be social, we often cower within ourselves instead of taking the risk of actually showing interest in those around us. We return to what’s comfortable, but not what is optimal. Online, we can present whatever reality that we want to the world. But in the world, our idiosyncrasies, flaws, and awkward smiles become unmasked for all to see.

What’s the incentive to strike up a conversation with the old woman while you wait for your bus? She could be unpleasant or cranky. She might be boring to talk to. She might not want to talk at all. All of us have had these lines running through our head at some point. Our gut feeling tells us there’s an opportunity to say “hello” or ask how someone’s day is, but we revert back to old, and trained behaviors. We pull out our phone and scroll through the dumbest shit the human mind is capable of creating while the Babushka stares off into the ether next to us. It’s sad.

To avoid feeling “trapped” in small talk, ask better questions. Don’t revert to the standard NPC dialogue wheel. Ask someone something that shows you’re genuinely curious. A good question typically prompts an interesting—and interested—response. People love answering questions about themselves, so give them a chance.

A Community is a Network of Small Interactions

Being part of an integrated and welcoming community, means choosing to care. Zoom out for a moment. It doesn’t matter if you live in New York or Albuquerque, each day there are countless small interactions between strangers. At scale and multiplied over time, these interactions dictate the “vibe” of a place. We can all pick up on it. Don’t become addicted to idealizing your community—walkable paths, third places full of the dull roar of conversation, street vendors and performers, gardens and water features and families out on their evening stroll—without doing the little things necessary to make it a reality.

One small chance encounter or casual conversation can change your life. It changed mine.

Years ago, while working as a bartender, I had a “small talk” moment that led to something transcendent. It was a Sunday afternoon and the restaurant was quiet. The only person at my bar was an older woman eating a salad and sipping on a glass of white wine. I asked her how her day was and she responded with a curt smile and told me in a hushed voice she had just “helped someone die.” I leaned onto the bar top and she started to tell me her story.

She got engaged to her high school sweetheart at seventeen years old in 1959 Los Angeles. He graduated early and built a small mechanic shop from the ground up and bought a small bungalow in what is now modern day Compton, California for them to live in when she graduated. They were married on a Sunday in front of friends and family and she moved in that day to start her life with him. That evening, they heard a loud noise on the street and her husband went outside to check what it was. She watched from the window. Her husband; nineteen years old, ran toward a parked car in front of a neighbor’s house. There were two men arguing. As he approached, one of the men fled, and the man driving the car got out and confronted her husband. There was a struggle and a gunshot rang out. The man took her husband’s wallet and sped off. She ran out the door and held him as he died in her arms.

Devastated, she moved back in with her parents and got a job as a receptionist at a doctors office. Two years after her late-husband’s death, she met a handsome mid-thirties lawyer who had come in to have an ulcer treated. He was a veteran of the Korean War; kind, smart, successful, and a classic gentleman. Six months later they were married, and a year later she was pregnant with their first child. In her third trimester, they got the news. Her second husband had been diagnosed with a rare form of stomach cancer. He had four months to live.

The first months with her newborn were spent by his bedside as he slowly deteriorated. He raged against God. He raged against the universe. He died looking at his young son, whom he had only known for a few agonizing months.

When he passed, she went back to her parents, raising her newborn son with the help of her family. Like her second late husband, she became convinced that God had punished her and she grew resentful and bitter. But as she aged and came back to her faith, she had a realization. She was put on this Earth to help the dying and their families work through the grief of loss with grace.

She would go on to help fund and build over three dozen hospice care facilities throughout the state. “I’ve seen over five-hundred people die in front of me,” she said. “I know you’re young, but there is nothing to be afraid of.”

I could have done what I did a hundred times; turn on the TV at the bar, count the clock till my shift ended. But that day I didn’t, and I had a conversation I’ll never forget. You don’t know what’s behind someone’s eyes and nobody knows what’s behind yours.

This article was written by Joe Gillespie. If you enjoyed reading this, you’ll love his work. Subscribe to Write & Lift to read more of his musings. You can also follow him on Instagram @writeandlift.

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This piece will be published in Issue 34 of the WARKITCHEN. Stay tuned for the full release. In the meantime, you might enjoy reading our previous issues here.