breaking the norm

While I was a student at BYU I took a basic linguistics class. In one particular lecture, taught near the end of the semester, we learned that we naturally have certain expectations when we engage in conversations with others. One of these is called the norm of civil inattention, which basically states that people brought together in various public situations should, and generally will, ignore each other. There are several instances, however, when this norm is tossed to the wind with reckless abandon, one of which I would like to talk about today.

You know how when you're walking down the street and a person who you would otherwise pretend didn't exist approaches you with a the most adorable puppy you've ever seen? Or is dressed like Jolly Green Giant? Or is toting around a towheaded toddler and a two-week-old newborn? And suddenly you feel the desire to talk with them as if they are an old friend?

According to my linguistics professor, this person is accompanied by what is called an open category and is therefore fair game to long, awkward, and generally unwanted conversations from complete strangers.

I mentioned in my last post that I try to get out of the house with Garrett and Caleb at least once each day because if we didn't we'd probably die a slow, painful death resulting from irrational tears and the pulling out of our own hair. Our outings are short, and we never stray very far from home. It is therefore all the more amazing to me just how many random conversations with people I don't know I have been forced to be a part of. Here are two recent examples:

• I was held captive for what felt like an eternity by a Russian woman who carried on (and on...and on...) in her heavily accented English about how boys were far better than girls because girls grow up to hate their mothers. Or something to that effect. Honestly, I'm not quite sure what exactly she was jabbering on about, partly because apparently most of the words she knows in English are not ever going to reproduced here.
• This morning, shortly after we walked past a woman loitering outside a local church, she called after me to tell me I had a tiny baby (as if I didn't realize this myself), and then proceded to ask me if it was my baby or if I was just the nanny.
  

Poor Garrett is even subject to these crazy strangers who, once they are able to tear themselves away from Caleb and I, turn their attention to him, asking him over and over in high-pitched voices how he likes being a big brother. He never knows how to respond, and so usually shies away to a safe spot behind my knees. Not that I blame him. When I'm stuck in situations like this, I often find myself wishing for some place I could run away to and hide. Instead I find myself inching away as I politely nod. Only trouble with this is that most of these Brooklynites just keep talking as they shuffle away with me.

(Though my professor never specifically mentioned it, I'm assuming that the unrelenting desire random strangers on the street have to give unsolicited parenting advice also owes itself to a break with the norm of civil inattention. I have received plenty of people's two cents' worth concerning Garrett's upbringing in the past, but luckily have not yet had to deal with this with Caleb.)

We've all been there, I know, and it's always an awkward position to be in, one which I'm still not sure of the best way to pull myself away from. In the words of Napoleon, "What the heck would you do in a situation like that?" Because I'm at a loss.