v. 69 Fifteen Seconds of Humanity Subtitle: The Disappearing Art of Acknowledging Strangers
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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about service and the expectations we place on people in the service industry.
During a recent weekday brunch (yes, I know exactly how that sounds), my girlfriend and I found ourselves talking about service and tipping. By the end of the conversation, we realized we had completely different ideas about what we're actually tipping for when we get into an Uber. I expect a ride. She expects a certain level of service along with the ride.
My first instinct was to chalk this up to privilege and the expectations that can come with it. But because I overthink everything (which you already know about me!), I kept turning it over afterward. The more I thought about it, the more that explanation felt incomplete.
What I eventually realized is that my service expectations vary (dramatically) depending on the kind of interaction I’m having, and those expectations are shaped by whether I see myself as a guest or a customer.
For example, my girlfriend expects a driver to help with luggage. I don’t. Part of that comes from spending decades in New York City taxis before ridesharing existed. I never expected a cab driver to jump out and load my bags. My baseline expectation was just arriving safely, ideally without paying $75 for the privilege of taking the scenic route thirteen blocks downtown. Ridesharing didn’t raise my expectations of service so much as eliminate uncertainty. Suddenly, I could call an affordable ride on demand instead of standing in the rain hoping a taxi driver would stop. Thanks to this fine city, I entered my rideshare era with expectations calibrated VERY low. (Thank you, New York City, for keeping me honest.)
That experience shaped how I think about much of the sharing economy. When I get into an Uber or Lyft, I behave like a guest in someone else’s car because, in a sense, that’s exactly what I am. My job is to be easy, pay and get out of the vehicle. Their job is to get me there safely. The same applies to Airbnb. I read the house rules, I follow them, and I don’t expect a boutique hotel experience from someone renting out a beach apartment to offset their mortgage. I’m a guest in their space, and I act accordingly.
Restaurants and coffee shops feel different, though. Nobody is inviting me into their home when I walk up to a coffee counter. I’m a customer, and the business exists to serve not only coffee but also the people standing in front of them. Lately, I’ve noticed how often even the smallest acknowledgment seems to require a shit load of effort. At a restaurant recently, a waiter took our entire order with one earbud still in. Half the time, I can barely get a hello when ordering my morning coffee. Considering what that coffee costs these days, it is very frustrating.
When someone slides a cup toward me while continuing a conversation with a coworker, it creates a strange feeling of invisibility. It’s a brief moment where I expect more humanity. And no, I don’t think that is too much to expect.
Even though I clearly am, I don’t want to be the person yelling that technology ruined everything. But I do think it plays a big role. A generation raised on screen mediated interaction is now working jobs that require immediate, unedited contact with strangers, strangers who, admittedly, sometimes suck. Online, you can curate your words, mute people, disappear from a conversation, or just opt out if you feel like it. None of those options exist when someone is standing three feet away waiting for their coffee or meal.
Technology never taught people how to navigate those interactions, and service industry management often isn’t teaching them either. They’re simply expected to know. I have genuine compassion for that adjustment because moving between those two worlds is not necessarily easy. But compassion and standards can coexist.
I’m not asking for friendship in exchange for my $6 coffee. I’m asking for fifteen seconds of acknowledgment that says we’re both here and we see each other, even briefly.
As I kept thinking about all of this, I realized that service isn’t actually the reason this topic stayed with me the way it did. What unsettles me most is how easily people disappear from one another now.
I’ve spent years writing about microjoys because I believe life is largely made up of everyday interactions that either brighten our day or make it a little harder, whether it be eyecontact or a brief hello. These moments are the threads that hold communities together. They remind us that we are not moving through the world alone.
When we remove even those simple acknowledgments, what’s left?
Every interaction offers the possibility of connection or the absence of it, and we make that choice dozens of times each day, usually without noticing. Somewhere along the way, we’ve lost each other. A lot of people are lonely and tired. And I think we’re underestimating how much these moments add up.
I don’t have an answer to technology but I do hope we start choosing one another again.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: I was sitting outside on a sunny afternoon, minding my business while parked under an umbrella and slowly working through an unsweetened iced matcha latte. A grown ass woman walking by with her teenage daughter and a bright pink flower stopped, looked back, and said, “I love your hair!” I thanked her and told her I loved hers too. (She had great hair.) Then, to my surprise, she turned around, walked back over, and handed me this flower. She told me to have a fabulous day… and kept on walking.
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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