Why Do I Do This?

How frequently do you encounter a person who does something so troubling that you vent to your friends for days afterward? Maybe it’s a stranger who speaks too loudly while using a mobile phone. Perhaps it’s a restaurant patron who refuses to tip properly (or at all). You imagine that this person doesn’t know the implications of her or his action. Maybe this person just doesn't care. Wouldn’t it be cool to ask Why Do You Do That? Or consider a counter-example: Wouldn’t it be cool if you could explain and even celebrate your occasional lapses in social courtesy in a safe and anonymous environment? If only a forum existed for these sorts of interactions.

The problem is that these conversations can be downright scary. Today’s public sphere, that theoretical “place” where people interact beyond their relationships with families and close friends, is a thin and narrow domain with little room for strangers to confront and discuss each other’s transgressions. Our web of shared history, geography, and consequences has unraveled in recent decades, or at least it has changed so substantially that many of us feel adrift among strangers. As a result, many of us feel awkward and fearful at the prospect of telling a stranger when her or his behavior bothers us. It’s just too daunting to ask Why Do You Do That?. To illustrate, let me tell you a story:

I finished my undergraduate degree at Berry College, a small southern liberal arts college in northwest Georgia. At the time, all Berry students were required to work on campus ten hours a week, ensuring that everyone participated in the daily functioning and maintenance of our academic home. One day, my co-workers asked me to drive into town and buy some Mrs. Winners’ biscuits and sweet tea (a Deep South delicacy, I assure you). Returning from my trip I found myself trailing a slow-moving car. The biscuits were getting cold and I grew impatient, so I wheeled around the slowpoke and rendered a “one fingered salute.” I felt some petulant satisfaction and continued down the road.

After a few moments, though, I noticed that the car I had just passed followed me turn for turn. I turned onto campus, and the car followed. I turned onto my building’s parking lot, and the car did too. Now I was nervous. Was it my boss? A professor? A friend? I exited my car, kept my head down, and raced into the building. I was mortified. Working and living in such a small community I’d forgotten about the tight-knit nature of our social fabric; I forgot that small communities mean that our actions almost always have social and public consequences. And I swore to myself that I would never again be so rude. Stories like this help explain “southern manners.”

Today I work in San Jose, California. For a big city, it’s a pretty nice place to live. But one rarely finds that southern small town courtesy in such a place. Aside from a few ritualized interactions with coworkers (and maybe a few folks I’ve gotten to know during my daily amblings), the vast majority of folks encountered on an average day are strangers with whom I may only interact one time. We may pass on the sidewalk or perhaps share a bus seat. And yet we know that we will likely never share this place again. In this environment one may easily forget the simple courtesies and gentle kindnesses that bind people to that ephemeral thing called community.

I therefore admit with some guilt that I commit an occasional social transgression. And I see plenty of similar transgressions committed by others. Sitting on the bus I want to ask the girl munching on microwave popcorn, “Why do you fill an enclosed space with that awful smell?” Standing at a busy intersection I want to ask the guy blasting his car stereo, “Why do you set your subwoofers loud enough to liquefy concrete?” Reading a book at the local coffee shop I want to ask the high school student, “Why do you use the word like every three words?” I want to ask these questions, but I can’t.

Asking these sorts of questions, after all, signifies intolerance. And given a general decline in the notion that we should feel “guilty” for pretty much anything these days, intolerance has become an all-purpose pejorative for rule-bound social organization. Surely it’s better to practice patience with the things that strangers do, to relax our standards a bit and concentrate on our mutual rights more than our mutual responsibilities. I understand that sentiment, and sometimes I even agree. But sometimes I just have to know why people do what they do, even if asking risks the implication of judgment. Some things are so bothersome that only some form of explanation can help me tolerate them.

And yet the choice to ask such questions risks public rebuke, maybe even physical violence. Today, the question Why Do You Do That? generally merits a rejoinder to “Mind your own business,” or some equivalent instruction involving the F-word. The tension of the moment, fleeting and filled with danger, allows for no reflection, no empathy, no possibility for mutual edification through shared understanding. There’s just too much risk in asking strangers to justify their transgressions, particularly when they feel no guilt about their actions.

This blog seeks to provide a safe environment to engage in these sorts of “difficult dialogues.” Visiting this blog and answering a question allows people who knowingly practice social transgression to explain their positions without fear of personal embarrassment. Posting also allows folks whose actions have been labeled “transgressions” to reject those rules and explain why their actions should not be judged harshly. Finally, feedback sections allow readers to share their opinions in a low-stress environment that inspires thoughtful conversation rather than bumper sticker epithets. Who knows? Maybe the world could become a bit more conducive to courtesy if people visit Why Do You Do That?.