It was summer of 2018, and we had just moved to a new neighborhood in a new town. It’s a small down, set in the swampy woods, which means a lot of narrow roads and nothing resembling a sidewalk. Nonetheless, while relaxing on our front porch, my wife and I were delighted to find ourselves saying hello to scores of neighbors just walking by (often with their adorable dogs). We felt like we met more neighbors in a week in our new town than we did after three years in the small city we left.
Yet as the months passed, this optimism didn’t really materialize into something tangible. We achieved a “wave hello” level of familiarity with our neighbors, but still didn’t really know the names or the people. Our connection to our neighbors was widening, but not deepening.
On a summer afternoon, I found myself on a walk with my two daughters, meandering around the quiet roads of our new neighborhood. We happened upon a lemonade stand a couple of neighbor kids were running, where a small cluster of adults had formed along with the father of the lemonade vendors.
Delightful! I didn’t have any change in my pockets for lemonade, but I was happy for a chance to introduce myself to a few families, and my kids to theirs. However, as I brought us closer to the gathering, something strange happened. The adults shifted to turn their backs to us, putting themselves between their kids and mine. “Hey,” I waved.
No answer.
I stood there, flummoxed. Do I attempt to force my way in? Am I missing a social cue? Have I forgotten how to people? Half a minute of awkwardness later, my kids began tugging impatiently at my sleeve, wondering aloud why we were still standing there. Realizing I did not have an answer to that question, I made to turn around and head home. As I did, the other dad noticed. He turned to me, grinned, waved, and called out “nice talking to ya!”
Ah. So I didn’t miss a cue, I was just not welcome.
Minor key reprieves of this theme would play out over the next couple of years until the pandemic hit. We’d meet the parents of a kid our girls hit it off with, set something up, and maybe get a play date or two. After that, we would text or talk, and responses that used to become plans (“let’s meet up at the playground tomorrow”) turned into responses that promised plans another time(“Oh yeah we should totally make set something up later”). After that, our messages would just go unanswered. Ghosting, playdate edition. This happened not once, not twice, but with five different families over two years.
Eventually, we stopped trying. Without us forcing the initiation, and with nobody reaching out to us, our kids’ social calendars withered.
The ultimate impact of these acts of exclusion is to reinforce existing social deterioration. Think back to the previous lesson: now that unplanned play is dead, planned play is the only choice, and planned play can be tightly gate-kept.
This ghosting behavior, which would have seem unhinged decades ago, has been determined to be socially acceptable. Slowly, it evolved from acceptable to expected. Of course other already-defined social circles will edge you out. Of course kids don’t play outside anymore. Of course we don’t know our neighbors’ names. This is the new normal, and one is weird and unreasonable to object. The ruts have been dug so deep in the ground we can’t see over them any more.
Newton’s first law of motion states that an object in motion will tend to stay in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force. This law defines the concept of inertia, which is measured by mass. I am arguing that these exclusionary and isolating choices represent a body in motion, one that our own choices either act upon or against.
Lesson Two: Out disintegration is inertial. It will continue on its path unless acted upon.