Talking To Strangers

Talking To Strangers

Kelly Samuel

Artwork by Anna Morrissey

“Don’t talk to strangers.” We say this to children, as if they come out of the womb with a fully formed friendship group.

Growing up with the rise of social media, this sentiment had a new arena in which to thrive, for good reason. Even though technology dominates every aspect of our lives (including dating), the typical conception of someone who makes friends online would be a loner, or someone lacking the interpersonal skills to meet people in person. As life turned upside down overnight in March 2020, we quickly had to adapt to the new rules of socialisation. Suddenly, being online was no longer ‘anti-social’, and offline was no longer a way to ‘stay present’ and make ‘real connections’. 

Having spent the majority of my life very lonely and searching for community, a weight was suddenly lifted that I didn’t even know had been there. I was in the safe cocoon of my flat in London, free from the performativity of what a healthy social life entails, and the unspoken pressure to ‘make friends for life’ and ‘have fun’ in your early 20s. As academia had taught me, everything had a deadline - and my deadline for the perfect social life ended at graduation. Simultaneously in therapy, in an attempt to understand my own pathologies and wrongdoings, I had one burning question on my mind: what connects people? 

The obvious answer is that connection depends on a cocktail of shared interests, memories, and proximity. But is it really that simple? My psychology degree taught me that the desire for social bonds is an evolutionary trait we developed for ‘survival and reproductive benefits’ - the Dunbar number states that humans can maintain as many as 150 social relations. So is what connects us purely evolutionary, based on circumstance? This is somewhat confirmed by societal values: longevity is glorified in relationships as a measure of closeness. The implication is “don’t trust strangers”.

These are the standards of the physical world. As we entered lockdown, and all that was left was the digital world, everything changed for me. Initially there was a manic, nervous excitement around the madness we were all experiencing. We yearned for old friends and relationships and participated in  zoom quizzes and instagram challenges. “Distance doesn’t matter anymore!” people would say. But slowly, the distance creeped in. It was a new type of distance, one unrelated to space, time, or life experiences. As the mania faded, I was confronted by the truth that many of my friendships had been circumstantial. Everyone I wanted to speak to was at arms reach, and yet felt further apart than ever, because there are only so many new topics to discuss when no one has left the house in months. Having an online, quantifiable way to measure togetherness through social media suddenly felt too dystopian - like I was in an episode of Black Mirror.

The cognitive dissonance I had been feeling around social media led me to finally delete my personal instagram account in August.  Slowly, I realised this dissonance could be used to my advantage. I began carving out my own spaces online, spaces separate to the ones that represented a digital embodiment of the physical world. I joined a zoom writing group, patreon communities, and even downloaded discord. 

All of a sudden, my social cocktail had a completely different recipe. The element of ‘longevity’ that I always felt was missing didn’t seem to matter, and I realised that my soul was a better compass for forming relationships than my geographical location. This meant that we connected in a space where no consequences could come from being ourselves. While in physical spaces, you enter a world that already exists, digital reality is all about world building. Stepping into a virtual reality of my own creation, the internet allowed me to carve out space free of the toxicity that can exist online.  Socialising from my bedroom, I was simultaneously in the physical and digital spaces that reminded me of who I was. So as a result of setting my own rules, I fell into groups where my authenticity was at peace.

As we sunk deeper into lockdown, I accepted my fate, purposely in denial that life had ever been different. I started to believe that the rest of my life would be lived out in 2D. But something in me snapped when I attended the third virtual dance party of that month.

Starved of physical connection and bored of big zoom meetings, I had initially been excited at the prospect of the dance party. But the knowledge of being filmed, while trying to focus my attention on people and not my own reflection, all while attempting to be present in the music - I was not having it.  It felt completely empty without the ability to get lost in a crowd.

The sensory experience of being out at a bar had been what I craved the most. Body language says so much in human interaction, and dancing itself is body language. Of course I missed my physical friendships. I missed the small talk that happens with people you meet at a party, and have no intention of speaking to ever again. Even the conversations with my local barista, where the same mundane exchange of words would take place each time. Even though I was virtually surrounded by people I had never met in person, I missed strangers. 

Fast forward to today’s world. Walking around the canals with a friend this weekend, I felt a level of vitality and serenity that was almost alien to me. Being outside in the fresh air, watching the sunset behind the concrete, and hearing the buzz of people chatting, everyone was so excited to be in each other’s presence. When somebody brought a birthday cake out, all the people sitting on the steps at Granary Square started cheering for the life of a person they had never met. I had forgotten what it feels like to feel alive, connecting with new people, presenting yourself to the world. The beauty of meeting people for the first time is presence - being authentic to who you are at that moment, and being recognised for it.

I wondered, was writing this piece a way of me romanticising a tough year? Is there a space for online friendships to complement offline ones? A year of enforced isolation has allowed me to be more present than ever, first in myself and then with others. I missed my in-person friends, but my online life gave me access to parts of myself that I had always been missing. I realise now it’s never been a competition between my online and offline life, but that digital existence gave me the bravery I lacked in the real world to be myself in the company of others. 

So what connects people? Everything and nothing, all at once. Our evolution can only take us so far, after all. You can be worlds apart from your blood relatives and feel deeply connected to people you have just met through a screen. If our relationships are mirrors to ourselves, we can only grow by finding new mirrors to look into. So here’s to talking to strangers, and to being the strangers people talk to.