by Sam Sommers
After all, this is a book that explores our tendency to use snippets of behavior to form lasting beliefs about the type of person someone is. I’ve already detailed how quickly we categorize and judge people upon meeting them, and how such conclusions, once reached, continue to influence expectations. So I’ll concede that enabling a first impression of me as a liar might not have been the best idea. Instead, I decided to tell my story truthfully but leave out part of the punch line. Until now.
But I’m not confessing here for honesty’s sake or to unburden a guilty conscience. I already told you: I don’t feel bad about my lie to Marta. I’m doing it because this convoluted story about my story—my lying about my lying—offers a worthwhile lesson as well. It illustrates, once again, the importance of thinking closely about the contexts you’re in (as well as those that you create).
OK, so there’s nothing that remarkable about an editor and author ruminating on the nuances of a book’s opening pages. It’s part of their job descriptions, right? That they do so regularly simply confirms that we are indeed capable of thinking long and hard about the small social nuances that make a big difference—the mundane aspects of situations that have a dramatic impact on how we think and act. Indeed, many of us do this every day for a living, whether in publishing or in other fields like marketing, politics, education, or sales.
Too infrequently, though, do we conduct similar analyses of framing and context in other walks of life, from our ordinary interactions with strangers to our most intimate relationships with friends and loved ones. Instead, as you now know, we rely on assumptions about human nature to simplify and sanitize the unpredictability around us. We write off apathetic or antisocial acts as the work of dispositional miscreants. We cling to a view of the self as an independent agent unswayed by others. Time and again we convince ourselves that brief exposures to public behavior allow us to “really know someone,” only to get burned by the boy-next-door-turned-serial-killer or the moralizing politician caught with his pants down.
The objective of this book has been to shake up your assumptions. To prompt you to take notice of the situational influences on human nature that too often remain hidden in plain sight. Just as the author agonizes over his introductory words in an effort to set the proper tone—or the advertising professional tweaks her campaign for maximum persuasive impact—so can your daily life benefit from closer analysis of what really makes people tick.
Once you start paying attention to the power of ordinary situations, there’s no going back. By recognizing the true influences on social thought and behavior, you can’t help but change the way you actually think and behave. As I alluded to in the opening chapter, it’s a lot like learning the secret to a magic trick or the ending to an M. Night Shyamalan movie: knowing what to look for gives you new insight the second time you watch it.
Just think—the next time you’re in a busy house or office and the phone rings, will you be as comfortable as you once were sitting by idly and assuming that someone else will answer it? Will you be as quick to agree with the columnist or TV talking head who blames the latest crisis on a few incorrigibly bad apples? Or as likely to explain an apparent gender difference in terms of “boys just being boys”?
I know that I see and interact with the world very differently for having studied situations. Sure, I find telemarketers as aggravating as the next guy, but I try not to take it out on them personally. They’re just trying to earn a paycheck. When you stop to think about it, how miserable must it be to have repeated conversations all workday long with people who curse your very existence? By the same token, I know that they think that the longer they keep me on the phone, the more likely they are to get my money. Thus, I have no qualms about violating the social norm that usually prevents me from hanging up on someone in midsentence.
In the end, I recognize that it’s the situation—not some predisposition for rudeness—that turns these individuals into the contemptible intrusions we all complain about openly. But I’ve also determined that their willingness to forsake the unwritten rule of not phoning during dinnertime frees me from any reciprocated concerns about the guidelines of civilized discourse.
On a regular basis, I hear similar stories from my students of years past. Some epiphanies are longer and some shorter, some mundane and some more profound. They share a common theme, though, of seeing the world differently after realizing just how much situations really matter.
Like Jill, who now works in finance, and had to figure out how to change her coworkers’ problematic habit of completing paperwork incorrectly. So she thought back to what she had learned about how mindless conformity can be and used that knowledge to solve the problem, as she related in an e-mail:My colleague was getting frustrated because she had sent several e-mails explaining how to fill out the two relatively simple forms, and no one could manage to complete them correctly . . . we decided to try taping up sample filled-in forms and ever since, we haven’t had a problem.... Generally speaking, I try to keep in mind that rather than depending on the individuals executing the project to behave a certain way, I should design the steps to steer them in the direction of behaving how I’d like them to.
Or Lauren, now training for a marathon, who checked in with the following story of her persistence in the face of an ambiguous potential emergency:So I was taking a long run on Monday and stopped at a light after a few miles. I was catching my breath and glanced around when I noticed that the Metro bus display, instead of showing the route number and destination, was flashing “EMERGENCY” and then “CALL POLICE.” I looked around and saw to my dismay that no one else seemed to be disturbed, and I found myself thinking “do they know something I don’t?” I thought about our class and the likelihood that no one would do anything since the bus had passengers, appeared to be following a normal route, and didn’t appear to be on the verge of bursting into flames, but I decided I should do something . . . I didn’t have a phone, so I stopped a woman who was crossing the street and she agreed and called 911. I continued on my run so I’m not sure what happened. . . . But I was glad I decided to stop someone.
Or Samantha, now an elementary school teacher, who tells me that she forces herself to include race in her lesson plans, even though it’s a difficult topic to address:Most of the classes I have taught have had a vastly white majority. I find it difficult to talk about race in these situations—be it part of the academic or social emotional curriculum. However, despite my own discomfort, I don’t stop myself from doing it. I have implemented a unit on slavery in a 4th grade classroom, and just today began a discussion about the sit-in movement in the south with my 2nd graders. . . . I guess what I learned is that what I am feeling is my own discomfort, not necessarily anyone else’s, and that avoiding discussion of race doesn’t make issues of race in our culture magically disappear. In fact, it makes it worse.
Or Justin, a student who uses a wheelchair and finds himself newly sensitive to the effects of social expectation:As you might already know, people are usually rather uncomfortable around people in wheelchairs (myself included ironically enough). Knowing that they are uncomfortable, I might not act as open and receptive which in turn makes others less willing to talk and interact with me. This creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. Since I now recognize this thanks to class, I am trying to use this to my advantage by trying to be more open and outgoing and have it work the opposite way. And while this is hard for me, I think that it is slowly working.
And on and on: from those who report getting less aggravated with fellow drivers to those who have developed better strategies for successfully soliciting favors from others; from those who have started to use Facebook snooping to make it seem like they have something in common with a prospective dating partner to those who have convinced the rest of the extended family to pick out presents for a pending arrival before the baby’s sex becomes public knowledge.
Once you know to keep an eye out for it, the power of situations is everywhere you look.
/> AND, YET, SOMETIMES we still manage to look right past it....
With my daughter in her car seat, we were less than a mile from morning preschool drop-off. The only remaining obstacle was the rotary. Perhaps you know it as a traffic circle or roundabout. Or maybe, if you’re also four years old, “the round-and-round.” It’s one of those quirks that’s supposed to make Boston charmingly idiosyncratic. Seven years after moving to town, I’m still waiting for this particular charm to kick in, especially during rush hour.
As we crept toward the maelstrom, we passed time by counting the cars in front of us, as usual. The countdown went smoothly before stalling out at three.
“Why did we stop, Daddy?” she asked after a beat.
“I’m not sure, honey,” I replied. “The red car at the front of our line isn’t moving right now.”
This happens sometimes at the rotary. So I gave the red Nissan three cars up the benefit of the doubt at first. Twenty seconds maybe. It was a reasonable amount of time to wait for an opening before he’d have to take matters into his own hands and lead us into battle, traffic be damned. True, the signs read in big, block letters: “STATE LAW: DRIVERS YIELD TO ROTARY TRAFFIC.” But everyone knows these warnings are to be taken lightly, much like admonitions about mattress tags and key duplication.
I wasn’t the only one who started honking. I may have been the first, but I wasn’t the only one. Initially, I genuinely believed the clarion call might embolden Red Nissan—would let him know that those of us lined up behind him had faith in his ability to lead our charge. By the third or fourth honk, though, the cacophony I started had grown unmistakably aggressive. We were powerless behind Red Nissan, left with no choice but to wait for him to grow a pair, and it was starting to grate on us.
What kind of person just sits there with all these cars lined up behind him? What was he waiting for, an engraved invitation? What the hell, our horns wondered aloud, was wrong with Red Nissan?
“What’s all that noise?” came a little voice from behind me.
I took a deep breath. “People are honking because the guy in the red car needs to learn how to drive,” I explained as calmly as I could.
“You mean he didn’t go to preschool when he was little?” she replied earnestly.
“His dad probably drove too slowly to get him there on time,” I offered in return.
From my vantage point downhill and several cars back, I didn’t have the clearest view. But now Red Nissan seemed to be gesticulating wildly, as if trying to defend his ineptitude through the medium of mime. Still, the honking continued.
Boy, this guy was a lost cause, I thought to myself. It’s a miracle he’s able to dress himself each morning. Now we were going to be late, and I just know these are the minutes I’m going to want back on my deathbed.
Finally, mercifully, we started to inch forward again. My daughter asked me another question, but I didn’t really hear her. I was too agitated. I started to wonder what Red Nissan did for a living, praying that he wasn’t a pharmacist or air traffic controller, hoping that he had channeled his impotent personality into a less impactful occupation, like restroom attendant or U.S. senator.
“Daddy, you didn’t answer my question,” my daughter piped up.
“Sorry, honey,” I replied, as we eased into the rotary. “Ask me again.”
“Why did those cars all have blue flags on them?”
I paused. “Say what?”
“All the cars going through the round-and-round had blue flags. And their lights were on, but it’s not nighttime.”
“Oh,” I said, slumping down in my seat. The combined weight of insight and regret simultaneously landed on my shoulders. “That’s called a funeral procession,” I explained quietly. “You have to wait to let those go by.”
You see, even people who study situations for a living still revert to bad habits in the mindless midst of the daily grind. When you’re tired, busy, distracted, or just running on autopilot, you’re that much more likely to let down your guard and fall back on old assumptions—it becomes all too easy to revert to looking past the context that’s right in front of your eyes.
So while reading this book is a good start toward seeing human nature more clearly, my parting advice to you is to continue to force yourself to think about the impact of situations in your life, at least once a day. And make sure to learn from your mistakes. You know, like honking at mourners.
Fast-forward a few days from my regrettable performance at the rotary. I’m circling a full parking lot while late for an appointment. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of a man climbing into his car two rows over. I speed to the spot and mark my territory via turn signal. Mesmerized by the sound of my own blinking, a few moments pass before I notice that he shows no signs of backing out. I try to wait patiently, but he’s giving no cause for hope—no lights going on, no reach for the seat belt, nothing.
The delay is starting to get ridiculous. How can he be so deliberate when he sees me waiting here? But tempted as I am, I can’t bring myself to honk. Chagrined by my misguided effort to break up the funeral procession earlier in the week, I start to wonder whether there might be a reasonable, situational cause for his inaction. Maybe he’s taking an important call on his cell phone. Maybe he’s waiting for someone to join him. Before my ruminations progress too far, though, they’re interrupted by the sound of a car down the row vacating a space that I quickly claim.
Forty-five minutes later, I walked back to the parking lot to find my antagonist talking to a tow truck driver. Clearly, it had been car trouble that kept him from pulling out, not indifference to his fellow man. Even more surprising was that I knew the guy—he’s the father of one of my daughter’s classmates. The person I almost honked at wasn’t some anonymous motorist—wasn’t just Green Toyota—he was someone with whom I’d shared a handful of friendly conversations. A man I’d be crossing paths with several mornings a week for months to come. A man, I’ll note, who cuts such an impressive figure that his left leg probably weighs as much as my entire body.
I shuddered as I imagined the fate I had narrowly averted. I could hear that little voice emerging from my backseat, or perhaps from my conscience, asking, “What’s all that noise? Why are you honking this time? And why is Charlie’s daddy coming at us with a tire iron?”
Mental note: add self-preservation to the list of positive outcomes brought about by appreciating the simple yet elegant conclusion that situations matter.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgments are boring for 99 percent of those who read them. I know this. I recognize that the vast majority of you will skim the following, if you look at it at all. But appreciate my situation: this is my first book. So I don’t see how I can pass up the chance to thank in print those who have helped me get to this point. And, hey, at least I put this section at the very end so you didn’t have to wade through it before getting to the good stuff.
As I wrote in the dedication, this book wouldn’t have been possible without my colleagues. To my fellow social psychologists, I thank you once more for your consistently engaging and provocative research, as well as for letting me borrow it briefly to tell my story here—even if you didn’t know that you had granted such permission until now. I hope I’ve done justice to your work.
Of course, my family deserves great thanks and recognition. I already acknowledged my wonderful wife and daughters, the illustrious Sommers Ladies, and they’re the tip of the iceberg. Mom and Dad, thank you for your unwavering support, in terms emotional, academic, and financial, and for setting examples of how to balance commitments to both profession and family. Same goes for my always supportive mother-in-law and father-in-law (note to copy editor: yes, that last sentence is correct as written). And to my siblings nonpareil—Ben, Zach, Melissa, and Charles—thank you for giving me ample practice when it comes to intellectual debate on mundane topics as well as low-brow arguments regarding the intellectual. Such skills came in handy when writing this book.
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sp; I’d also like to thank the entire community at Tufts. This book has been shaped by eight years’ worth of conversations and interactions with Tufts students—some of the most impressive students you’ll find in any classroom the world over. Your challenging questions and surprising observations are part of what make coming to work each day so much fun. That fun is also attributable to my departmental colleagues. In particular, I thank Nalini Ambady for encouraging me to start writing and for taking the time to read drafts and offer comments. And Keith Maddox, Lisa Shin, and Heather Urry for helping me waste time in amusing ways when such diversion was needed, as well as for giving me justifiable grief anytime I’d drop a phrase like “my agent” into regular conversation.
Speaking of which . . . I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to my agent, the great Dan Lazar. We academic types have a hard time admitting when we don’t know something, but I will fess up—I knew nothing about writing, much less publishing a book, a few years ago. Luckily, Dan knows it all. So, Dan, thanks for taking on a harebrained email query straight out of Book Proposals for Dummies and helping to turn it into something with a chance of finding a publisher. To my editor, Jake Morrissey, thanks for picking up where Dan left off, working with me to shape these ideas into a book with a chance of finding an audience. And to everyone at Writer’s House—including Stephen Barr—and Riverhead—including Ali Cardia and Sarah Bowlin—who has (or will yet) devote their time and efforts to this project, I offer my sincerest appreciation as well.
A special acknowledgment to my high school English teachers, Pat Dunn and Bob Patterson, who taught me that writing could be fun and could even have personality. Thank you for that, for letting me find my own writing voice through trial and error, and for telling me when to shut up because that voice was disturbing the rest of the class. To Mrs. Dunn’s current students, on the off chance that she ever shows you excerpts of this book—and a greater literary honor I cannot fathom—I inserted a few good vocab words for you to circle and look up before class (in particular, check out “sartorial” in Chapter 4). To Mr. Patterson, we all miss you.
