“Silence is better than unmeaning words.”
Years ago, on a cruise with my soon-to-be wife, I was still young and fit enough not to worry about caloric overload or liver damage. Grace and I were headed to Alaska, the Inside Passage, a seven-night cruise leaving from Vancouver. It was our first lengthy vacation together, and we were excited to take our relationship to a deeper level. Or at least to a deeper depth, given we were traversing the cavernous North Pacific.
I was ready for the adventure. Grace is an organizer, and she helped me pack for the trip, making sure I had the right outdoor gear for land excursions (Glacier hiking!), but also for mealtime. Grace explained that for many cruise ship regulars, “dressing up” for the formal dinner was a big thing…and well-planned in advance, with women wearing a different floor-length gown each evening, and the men in traditional black-tie attire. I am not that fancy, but not wanting to look too out of place and embarrass Grace, I settled on my standard wedding-attendee outfit: blue blazer, matching Oxford shirt, gray slacks, and penny loafers. To add pop and panache to this otherwise dull look, I added a yellow-and-blue striped tie from J. Press, festooned with miniature golfing icons.
And so on our first evening at sea, I donned my get up, Grace slipped into a lovely black dress, and we headed to the dining room, expecting to enjoy a sumptuous meal and to enjoy meeting the other members assigned to our table. We were mostly right. The meal was great, as were the two women who sat with us. But I didn’t enjoy the evening. In fact, the dinner rattled me so much that I stopped at an ice cream station on the way back to our berth, intent on numbing my frayed nerves with cold confection.
What made me upset? Not the women. One was an older aunt; the other her adult niece. They were polite, intelligent, and cordial.
But they were quiet. And Grace is quiet as well. This might have been fine if a few more “talkers” were at the table. But there was no one else. I panicked. In this void of conversation, I babbled on and on, told long-winded and winding stories, volunteered information about myself not asked, and searched for topics that might start a spate of speaking. But it never happened.
The next evening, and the evening after that, went much the same. It remained only the four of us at the table. I tried hard to get things going, feeling at times like a stand-up-comic working a dead room. I was so drained after the last meal I told Grace I couldn’t take anymore. She didn’t understand. She had a nice time, thinking our two companions perfect company. It made me question for a moment our compatibility: how could she and I interpret something so differently?
The following three evenings, at my insistence, we ate alone, in different spots on the ship. It was more relaxed, and the food was good, but it was not as special as the “Five-Star” experience in the formal dining room. Therefore, on our last night, as the ship chugged back to Vancouver, I set out my blazer, pressed my shirt and slacks, shined the loafers, pre-tied the tie, and readied myself for one more night with the ladies. I even prepared beforehand, going over in my head different topics that might get things going.
By the time we got to our table, I was primed to wow, to ignite meaningful conversations, to be a master of ceremonies. I failed. The women were as quiet as ever, save for seemingly banal small talk with Grace. It was now obvious to me that the three were quite content with each other. I was not. I was frustrated, self-conscious, accusatory, and paranoid, wondering openly to Grace later when were alone: “What had I done to make them not like me?”
The next day we docked. Waiting outside for a taxi to the airport, we chanced upon the two women. I immediately started talking fast, mimicking my mania at the table, telling them how much I enjoyed meeting them, and how much fun it was to dine together. Basically, I lied. But they were kind and thanked me back. Then it was Grace’s turn. For the first time, I saw emotion overcome the two women as she also thanked them. Their faces broke into wide smiles and they reached out, one-at-a-time, and hugged Grace with fervor. When they let go, I swear they had tears in their eyes. They gushed to Grace how wonderful she was, how much they liked learning about her and her family, things I never heard discussed at the table. Now, I realize it was because I wasn’t listening. I was so busy worrying about what I was going to stay next to get them to talk, I didn’t hear them actually talk. And to this day, I also wonder if part of their warm embrace of Grace was because they felt sorry for her – that she was stuck with a self-absorbed blabber-mouth.
I tell this story often, including to my college students each semester, a prelude to a writing assignment on the topic of silence. When I’m done describing what happened on the cruise, I challenge them to write a scene, dialogue only, with one character talking, the other remaining silent. Usually, their output follows a similar pattern to my behavior: the talker gets upset, frantic, in the face of silence. It makes for good writing, and a good talk after about why this is often the case – why do so many of us feel uncomfortable when our words are not met by more words?
Jason Kurtz, frequent column contributor, a leading psychoanalyst in New York City, and an award-winning playwright, has an interesting answer to this question. He opines:
It’s a human need to connect with others, and it’s a human need to be safe. Often these two needs intersect. We can connect to others through conversation, obviously, and that conversation offers verbal and visual clues about how the other person feels about us. If the person we are talking to responds in ways that affirm us, we feel connected and accepted and therefore safe. Silence, on the other hand, does not have those obvious context clues. Does silence mean rejection? Anger? Disapproval? Or does it mean acceptance? Or safety? The meaning of silence often depends on our childhood experience of silence. If our family liked to talk around the dinner table, but would sit in sullen silence when someone was angry, then silence can come to mean disapproval. If a punishment in our household was to be sent to our room to be alone, then silence can mean rejection. On the other hand, if we retreated to our room to be away from family fighting, or to be safely out-of-view from an angry parent, then silence can represent safety.
Don’t like ads? Become a supporter and enjoy The Good Men Project ad freeYet for some people, simply being present with others provides the connection they need. They can attend church, listen to the sermon, and go home satisfied and fulfilled. Other people, need to shout ‘amen’ loudly, so as to make certain that others witness their fervor . And yet others feel the need to approach the minister after the sermon and have a conversation.
I’ve come a long way since that cruise. I’ve matured, emotionally, and physically. With each added year, I feel less jittery, more grounded, not as controlling, and easily content with the way things are. Because of this, I wouldn’t trade that experience with the two women if I could. It was a learning moment, and it helped me get where I’m at now. Mind you, I’m still a talker; that will never change. That is my nature. But I’m a much better listener. And much more comfortable with other people’s silence….including, most importantly, my own.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
