Examining ostracism

by Eve Stenson

The effect is unmistakable: a sudden lull in the once-lively conversation, a nervous laugh, a palpable tension, perhaps a thinly veiled snide remark. Everyone in the vicinity knows that an unspeakable act – not for its heinousness, but only because all will refuse to name it – has been committed: someone said the wrong thing.

In the more dramatic instances, it’s the content alone that is damning. Classical examples include joking that someone’s mother is dead only to find out that she really is, and the ever-incriminating Freudian slip that reveals just how deep the gutter is, in which your mind resides.

More often, though, simply mistaken timing or tone is what’s so problematic. That same comment – 15 seconds earlier, with a slightly different emphasis, or boasted instead of lamented – could have merged harmoniously into the flow of discussion. But instead, like a mis-thrown switch at a railroad junction, the off-kilter remark sends the conversation flying from the track into a mangled heap at which everyone shudders, yet nobody dares to approach.

And what of that poor soul who inadvertently caused the train wreck? How does it feel to know – if not conscious of the mistake itself, at least by the scathing pause that followed – that whatever just issued forth from your mouth would best have died there, unuttered? We all can relate, because we’ve all done it ourselves at some point: said precisely the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time. Why, then, are we so unforgiving of this fault in others?

We all know someone who never says the right thing. When they try to be witty, it comes out as an insult. Whey they try to impress, they irritate and bore. When they try to relate on a personal level, the result is embarrassing, and when they try to be funny, it just . . . well, isn’t.

They are usually honest and well-intentioned, but earn through their lack of "social skills" the ostracism that a nimble vicious liar could easily sidestep with a wink and a smile. They are referred to as "odd" or "strange," without any reasons why ever to be given. We still have our societal lepers, our pariahs. They are the uncharismatic among us.

Perhaps it’s because we are too empathic. As participants in the nearly tangible social climate, we experience the awkwardness that a "wrong" comment inspires. Depending on just how insensitive they are to their error, we may feel even more tension than the speaker of a misplaced remark. We wish to escape that discomfort by fleeing their presence.

If that’s all it is, though, why do we perpetuate the unspoken rule of guilt by association? Truly, it’s more acceptable to keep company with the morally bereft than the socially clumsy. Everyone claims to hate politicians for their lack of values. Yet, whom do we elect? More often than not, it’s the best talker, for that’s precisely what the word "politician" conjures: questionable intentions overlooked by a firm handshake. Popularity contests are not limited to the vote for prom queen and mayor – or even to "contests" at all; they permeate the social interactions of our lives.

They say that in college, you no longer need deal with the clique-iness that pervaded so many people’s high school, grade school, and perhaps even preschool experiences. (Back then, the most popular kid was not the one who could tie his own shoelaces, but the one who could fit the most Legos into his mouth at once.) They lie.

Though upperclassmen’s memories may have been pleasantly blurred by positive relationships with friends, lovers and drinking buddies (not to mention the drinks themselves), freshmen should recall all too well the tribulations of establishing a group of companions. My sister, in her first year at the University of New England, called me from Maine one Saturday early in September when everyone she’d become acquainted with was gone for a long weekend; I nearly had to talk her through going to get breakfast that morning. I didn’t blame her; it takes guts to sit down in the cafeteria with someone you don’t know, perhaps even more to eat alone. I was never that brave; I just brought a book.

Within a few weeks of the start of school, tenuous boundary lines have been drawn, and "friends" have been identified. Yet, it seems like it’s quite a while before we truly become secure in our companions. Otherwise, why would we fear social alienation as though it were highly contagious?

Perhaps the only thing crueler than disdainful rejection is outright pity. The best hours of my life are those that I’ve spent with a person whose company I truly enjoyed, and who genuinely enjoyed mine in return. I can’t imagine how painful it would be even to eat lunch with someone who made it clear that they considered tolerating my presence an act of self-sacrifice.

What then, do I propose – to vanquish all the politicians, that the timid might have a better chance to prosper? Of course not; charisma is a talent to be admired. By the same reasoning, though, the person who lacks it should no more be avoided that someone who is bad at math. Thus, the next time "that" person turns the train of conversation into fiery scrap metal, instead of squirming in your seat, laugh it off – as you hope someone else might do in the moment when you hear the telltale silence and realize that you were the last person to speak.

(published in The Ram, 23 January 2003)