We like to think we're all individuals, in charge of our own actions, relatively autonomous and thoughtful. It's fascinating, then, to take note of the unthinking groups we participate in while going through our everyday activities. Here are three examples from today:
1. Meeting Time!
My office is a buzzing hive of early-morning activity. Everything is open-concept, so collaboration is easy. Some people scurry over to a colleague's desk, chatting enthusiastically about their current project, asking a question, helping one another out. Others are mired deep in private problem solving, the fluorescent glow of their computer screens mirroring back their glassy-eyed stares. Suddenly, the project manager barks "MEETING TIME!" and everyone drops what they're doing, instinctively falling into circular formation around the center of our cluster of desks: it's time for the daily kickoff session.
2. Sensei Claps the Randori Down
At the end of aikido class, S., who is preparing for his 2nd kyu test, is working on Randori: improvised multi-attacker drills. Now, in aikido you always, always assume your opponents are right-handed swordsmen. Passing leftward in front of a line of such foes means you're wide open to getting cut; instead, you should run to the rightmost attacker, while the rest waste vital milliseconds turning toward you. This is your best chance at achieving a situation from which you can run away (since actually prevailing against many is highly unlikely).
So: R. and I rush S. from across the room, and he zooms to the left—a grave strategic error. Sensei claps louder than I've ever heard her clap and yells "NO," and immediately, without thinking, we stop our attack, turn around and head back to our starting positions. It's as if a switch had been thrown and all the martial energy was dissipated instantaneously.
3. The Phantom Subway Car
It's late, and everyone's tired. We've been waiting longer than any of us want to for this train, so we're all pleasantly surprised when it pulls into the station with an empty front car. Everyone's thinking the same thing: "An empty car? On the Bloor line? That never happens! Well, screw it, I know which car I'm getting on." Except: the doors open on every car but the front one. Something's wrong with the doors! The passel of us who've all gathered at the doors of the frontmost car veer, en masse, toward the second car down the train, pushing and shoving to get on before the doors close. I'm sure the train operators are having a good laugh at this. But: we all make it on, and everyone's smiling and laughing as the train pulls out of the station, sharing the joke with this big smushed-up ball of strangers now jammed into one end of an otherwise uncrowded subway car. Gradually the pile decompresses amid giggles and repeated murmurs of "So that's why it was empty!"—but that feeling of a shared joke disperses, too, and we're all back to being tired, grumpy and full of postmodern urban anomie by the time we get to the next station. Happily, the exact same thing happens there, too, and it keeps happening, sending new waves of bemused riders rippling down the car at every stop thereafter.