A few weeks ago I had a day off, and so returned to my trial of silence. I wanted to test how I could get by without language in the public realm beyond Loyola's campus, and beyond interaction with only peer students, teachers, and friends. I started with the streetcar. While there is no real need for speech in the smooth systemization of waiting at a pictorially communicative sign of designation, climbing on board the car when it arrives, guiding my dollar bill into the slot in accordance with the red arrows, and finding an empty seat among strangers--I've been socialized, I know how to do these things-- I did find something lacking. Even just a simple greeting to the driver, a moment shared with the person I share the bench seat with, or a "Thank you" to hear an "Alllright" when I was getting off would have combatted that sense of isolation that I think is prevalent in many forms of public transportation where speech is not required to pass. The most thorough of public transportation systems post signs everywhere with arrows, codes, and pictures to guide passengers (think subway and bus stations, airports, etc.) with minimal need for human assistance, while the least thorough send you through a circular maze in which you can't seem to locate someone to ask where you are going. And so I could not speak to break this tension of separation from my fellow travelers and captain, but a smile would have to do.
I arrived at the Loyola bookstore a bit nervous-- I had never had to purchase anything without at least a small exchange of verbs. I pulled out a pad of paper, upon which I had written "I need a copy of 'When Species Meet' for the class Environmental Theory (used if possible). Teacher is Schaberg. Thank you." I was surprised that the woman did not seem to think (or act, since I can't claim access to another's thoughts) that there was anything out of the ordinary about my form of request, and obliged. I also wrote below it "And can I return this please?" referring to another book I had brought, and this too was carried out smoothly. When it came time to pay, I was asked if my card was credit or debit. I tried to point to the latter as if her words were still hanging in the air in front of us, but I suppose from her spatial angle, the latter looked like the former. "Credit?" I shook my head, pointed back again in the floating sentence. She asked if it was debit, and I nodded to confirm. When we were finished with the transaction. I circled the "Thank you" written across my yellow notebook and pointed to it with emphasis. This time, she smiled.
I thought about this exchange for many days, about how much worse it could have unfolded. I wondered why she was utterly nonplussed about a conversation held entirely on paper and with unskilled hand signs. Perhaps she thought I had laryngitically lost my voice, was physically incapable of uttering, and took pity on my condition. Or working in a bookstore on college campus had come to expect such silly experiments. Or maybe she just thought I was weird, and so was kind.
I decided it would be a good idea to go back and ask her today. I asked her if she remembered me, that time someone came in and wasn't talking and asked her for a book with a note and if she thought that was weird. I could see in her eyes that she was straining to remember, but she said she did and no, she didn't think it was weird, that that's how people come to her, lot's of people do that. Her answer perplexed me, and I doubted if she really remembered the interaction, being that it had taken place several weeks before. I thought it possible that she was confusing our interaction for perhaps the many instances students bring with them the titles of the books they need scrawled across paper. Or maybe there is an underground society of silent students at Loyola I just don't know about. The most compelling hypothesis I could come up with was because it had been a smooth transaction and words were still used, though not in the spoken form, that she simply hadn't really registered that anything was out of place. Curious.
“that sense of isolation that I think is prevalent in many forms of public transportation where speech is not required to pass.”
ReplyDeleteDo you think there is always a link between not talking and isolation? It’s strange that so many people long for isolation; I recently saw an article that listed and described the “top ten places to live post-apocalypse” and they were all places where someone could basically vacation alone. My intuition is that not using words doesn’t even begin to remove one from a community. Maybe this is especially true in the case of public transportation- no one talking, all silently following codes and being perfect ladies and gentlemen makes for a textbook functioning of transit. It’s a uniform in motion going in circles. But I’m assuming no one gets where they want to go without gestures. There’s the everyday “sup fella” nod, the wave (the hand one, and the massive one people do in arenas at sporting events), and others. There’s the sound of a bench behind you creaking slammed into place that tells you the person who just walked by has adjusted the seats so that they have a nice leg rest. And there’s the buzzer that signals a stop- that’s remarkable. Bzzz, ok, see you. Allright. It flows, in a way. Conversations flow, too. This is a mobile, nameless, placeless one, no?
What and when is uncanny? It’s uncanny that a public transportation system has a flow to it and that conversations do too. It’s uncanny that someone can imagine/project these happenings- basically fashion an ambience?- onto a scene that is foreign to where I am now.
But then again- nothing is really foreign. At least one person in close proximity took public transportation.
Saying thank you is important. I think it was Gary Snyder who cited something along these lines: “If you were to say one prayer your entire life- ‘thank you’- that would suffice.” But who is supposed to thank who? Everybody breathes and bows, far as I see.
A character in a book I read a while back was fond of taking drives during rush hours by himself so that other people would presume he was busy and that he had important things to do. Is it possible to be alone in traffic? Traffic is loud and competitive. It’s not a team sport but there’s a whole lot of booing.
“Or maybe there is an underground society of silent students at Loyola I just don't know about.”
… There definitely is. Aren’t all of us silent at least about something? I don’t know if it would be called a society, though- those are verbal places. Nietzsche wrote about that. Consciousness and Language co-developed to realize community; which maybe is communication?
I’m sure that language is one community no one can remove themselves from. Open eyes darting around “say” a whole lot.