“As any reader of fairy tales can tell you, not knowing the true name of your enemy, be it a troll, a demon, or an ‘issue,’ puts you at a great disadvantage, and learning the name can help to set you free.” – Kathleen Norris
Learning the Name is a series of blog posts that retrospectively traces fragments of ideas that emerged during the COVID-19 pandemic and the American reckoning on race during Spring/Summer/Now Fall 2020. The opening blog post explored the strangeness of time during shelter-in-place pandemic; this second post takes a well-known concept in contemporary sociology and turns it like a prism in hopes of discovering a new path to being set free.
Maintaining the flow of writing this blog –like so much of our attempts to “live normally” these days–has been repeatedly interrupted by new demands and new griefs. Achieving forward momentum may be too much to ask; standing one’s ground, and perhaps re-establishing what that ground actually is, may be the task at hand.
aching for weak ties
Common sense doesn’t always get it right. This is what sociologist Mark Granovetter delightfully argued in his famous “strength of weak ties” thesis. Common sense tells us that our attention, investment, and gratitude ought to be directed towards those with whom we have strong ties –the friends and family members who know us best and love us most. Because they are the ones who will stick with us through thick and thin, we presume that those relationships are the ones worth valuing as we drift along life’s streams.
But, like many sociologists who enjoy playing the contrarian, Granovetter demonstrates that, under certain circumstances–such as when someone is looking for employment–it is actually those weak ties with distant relatives, local neighbors, or fellow churchgoers who will prove most beneficial. Why? First, there’s the matter of personal contacts and networks. Our strong ties are likely to merely duplicate the kinds of social networks that we already have; whereas our weak ties are likely to have access to a wider scope of contacts and leads that go beyond what we is easily accessible to us. This is particularly helpful for those pursuing careers in fields that are unfamiliar to one’s immediate family’s occupational experiences.
Second, there’s the matter of how much intel people have on us. While our close friends and family might love us to bits, they are likely to know too much about us. That is, if a prospective employer asked: “What weaknesses or areas of growth does this job applicant have?” Unless our siblings and best friends are world-class liars, it’s likely that they will know something about our penchant to procrastinate, our tendency to be overly sensitive about criticism, or some other very common human flaw. And even if they are doing their best to help us land a job, it would be terribly suspicious if they reported that we were actually perfect.
If this same prospective employer asked our Auntie who sees us once a year at Christmas dinner: “What weaknesses or areas of growth does this job applicant have?” What does she have on us but a set of warm and wonderful memories of us dutifully playing piano for the family carol-sing and us being helpful in the kitchen. From this, Granovetter argues that we ought to value our weak ties more than we do, and not simply view them as unimportant, inferior or deficient because they can prove to be far more useful and important than common sense would have us imagine. Thus, the strength of weak ties.
During the first months of sheltering-in-place, there was plenty to make me crabby. One thing that I’ve still made little progress on is making peace with the linguistic mystery of the phrase “social distancing.” This remains utterly confounding.
Why is it “social” distancing and not “physical” distancing when what is at stake is the transmission of viral particles not psychological harm or communal stigma? Therapeutically, psychologists counsel us to minimize social engagement and create “social distance” from those who have left a trail of emotional havoc and damage in our lives. Historically, every community and culture has practices that maintain hierarchies of respectability which involve keeping a “social distance” from those regarded as untouchable.
But during a pandemic, how the @!%* does the word “social” actually help inform our imaginations about what we are supposed to be trying to manage: our intake and giving off of infectious respiratory droplets?
To a sociologist whose starting point is that human beings are inherently social beings, it is not surprising that such linguistic choices in our public health directives only spurs us to be skeptical, anxious, or upset because it sounds as if we are being told to resign ourselves to an undesignated period of social isolation. It is like having to sit in the corner of the classroom, facing the corner.
Furthermore, given how much Digital Revolution ink has been spilled over the last two and a half decades’ celebration of the Virtual over the dreary inconveniences of our shabby bodies and mutual presence, the linguistic decision to categorically collapse the physical and the social in the term “social distancing” is actually quite astonishing.
Perhaps it was due to this perplexing linguistic morass that I feel particularly crabby when beset with news articles and emails trying to be helpful and repeatedly reminding me to video-conference with friends and family. These peppy messages keep touting that such virtual connection will help me feel better. My guess is that, for normal people who haven’t sat for qualifying exams and written books about how computer-mediated communication is distinct from face-to-face communication, and how the digital communication and media industries have perpetually preyed on our human frailties and longing for belonging, such advice actually might be helpful. For me, it just makes me even more crabby.
Here’s the thing: even though I have worked on “exercising self-care” through my own attempts at emotional connectedness, physical activity, altruism, delight, and novel skill-honing through the likes of gardening and cooking new recipes, I remain deeply unsettled. And, while I know that to directly think about the following question is like recklessly staring at the noonday sun, I have found myself wondering: What is it that makes this pandemic life so fundamentally unsettling? Is it that we lost something that gives our life shape, form, and satisfaction?
It can’t just be the disruption to my pre-pandemic routine of driving down to the coffee shop before 7 am, and getting an hour of quiet before the place starts to fill up. It can’t just be the feeling of being confined to my house by fears of invisible droplets of coronavirus landing on me like acid rain. It can’t just be the slow-motion train wreck of the nation’s economy and the loss of people’s livelihoods. It can’t just be the deep sorrow of bearing witness to people lost to the ravages of the virus–and the disturbing realization that disproportionate numbers of young adult BIPOC are among the fallen.
Rationally, I know, it’s all of that and more. But somewhere beneath the plush carpets of reason, I still can’t help but feel that there is something more. Something more fundamental to our humanity that has been disrupted. And curiously, I can’t help but think that maybe it has something to do with the loss of typical embodied encounters with those with whom we have weak ties. Maybe this pandemic is one of those circumstances in which the value of our weak ties is far more important than we can fathom.
In C.S. Lewis’ book The Four Loves, he made sure that the most modest and humble of loves, storge, got to make it into the pantheon of loves. While the greatest of poetry and holy texts write about agape, philia, and eros, Lewis reminds us that the easily-overlooked storge is on the team as well. Storge hums quietly in the affection he felt for his gardener, the warmth I felt for the crossing guard at my elementary school when I was young child, the friendly greetings I exchanged daily with my office mates through a door barely cracked open, and the sparse but inviting banter I enjoyed with the barista who was always there on Thursday mornings. All of those seemingly “lite” human interactions are actually profoundly meaningful to the texture of our lives. They are, Lewis describes, most closely aligned to the sort of affection we develop with familiar dogs, cats, and other beloved pets. This comparison is not meant to demean storge, but to elevate it.
What characterizes storge and these weak ties is that they are hardly ones that we think to cultivate intentionally. We don’t feel an internal sense of responsibility, obligation or commitment to them in the way we might feel about family or friends. In fact, the affection we come to develop often is barely noticed until the crossing guard or the barista is unexpectedly replaced by someone new.
In this way, the storge we experience for the gardener, crossing guard, office mate and barista is profoundly liberating. That is, those bonds are free from our emotional tentacles and our grabbing tendencies to seek approval or attention which we typically extend to our close friends and family. Whether we or they are cranky, preoccupied or ebullient, we often bring our unrehearsed selves to each other because there is so little at stake. There is fairly little “utility” in those interactions; these individuals are free and at liberty to not impress us or worry about what we think. They often can be to us, simply all gift, all blessing.
As such, by virtue of these weak ties, these people in our lives can possess a unique capacity to reflect the pure image of Godness in them. The gift of the gardener, the crossing guard, the office mate, and the barista may be that we experience a mutual touch point with the Other. Through these weak ties with individuals whom we have not sought out, we are given the opportunity to have contact with the reality of a wider Universe that is spinning, always spining, barely minding our existence. It is the reminder that we are not at the center of things. We are not the spoke on the wheel. Rather, we are merely bystanders to someone else’s life. Merely in their backdrop. We are just a blade of grass in someone else’s larger landscape and journey.
In such gifts of encounter, Martin Buber explains,
“…man meets what exists… simply a single being and each thing simply as being. ….They are not linked up with one another, but each assures you of your solidarity with the world. Between you and it there is mutual giving: you say Thou to it and give yourself to it, it says Thou to you and gives itself to you. ….It does not help to sustain you in life, it only helps you to glimpse eternity.”
Against all the selfishness, fear, and utility-seeking appetites that cloud our thoughts and heart’s desires, I wonder if, for those of us who had opportunities to regularly interact with those beyond the thresholds of our front doors in our pre-pandemic lives, our happenstance encounters with those with whom we have weak ties actually functioned like an unsung holy vitamin that sustained our souls. (That this might be True, seems quite possible, if only because it seems to fit God’s hidden nature.)
Unbeknownst to us, below the surface of our consciousness, perhaps we have been refreshed each time when we are called to draw from our fundamental humanity in each encounter. Even when we are half-hearted or preoccupied in those interactions with the gardener, office mate, or barista, maybe we have been somehow reminded, as Kathleen Norris put it, “that we exist for each other, and when we’re at a low ebb, sometimes just to see the goodness radiating from another can be all we need in order to re-discover it ourselves.”
I have known what it is like to ache for someone I deeply love and long for–unable to be together, in each other’s bodily presence, separated by the sea. But this ache for seemingly trivial encounters with those I barely know or share life with–but through whose Created Glory I am somehow refreshed, and even attain a sense of my existential bearings—this is something new and I feel it now.
The inverse of storge’s soft and quiet hum, this dull ache for weak ties thrums like a heart murmur asking for some attention ~ barely perceptible, this ache for eternity.