Shunversations in the machine
Let's say you're going to a party. You won't know anyone there, but it's a party where you must attend and mingle under penalty of losing your home and your ability to obtain food. You get dressed and head out with a big fake smile propped on your face.
You walk into the party and everyone's happily doing their thing. Lots of people here, more than you expected, all of different sizes and shapes and personalities. You grab some punch and let the evening begin.
It starts with a simple introduction. You pick a person nearby, walk up and give a small "hello" with a self-introduction. Not too many details, mind you, just enough so they get a feel for who you are and what you've done with your time.
But the other person doesn't acknowledge your existence. Not a blink or a wink, a nod of the head or a half-hearted frown. It's as if you don't even exist, or your voice was actually silent. You try saying hello again, waving your hand around a bit, but it's roundly ignored.
You shrug. Who knows what's up with that one. There are a lot of people here, so you might as well move on. Someone else is bound to be more responsive.
You pick a new person, someone who looks interesting and appears a good match for your personality. You walk up, say hello, give a little intro, then...nothing. Just like before the new person doesn't acknowledge your existence. Not even a stare in the opposite direction or a shift of the shoulders away. Again you wave your hand, again you say hello, and again you receive nothing in return of a response.
This happens again and again, and three more times after that. You're starting to take it personally, all of this...what would you call it? It feels like you're being shunned. You, a member of one of the most social species on the planet, are being told by your fellow humans that you may as well not exist. Best not to dwell on that, you decide. There's mandated mingling to do.
You decide to lower your standards and try again. After all, the previous conversation attempts were with people you thought you would get along with. Why not cast that net real wide, just fling it out there and chat with anyone?
You spot one, you walk up, you say hello, and they don't respond. A stone wall, a lump of mud, an old tree trunk grayed in the field. You move on. It happens again. You start to wonder if you're saying the right things, making the right gestures, approaching the right people. It could be your entire approach to conversations is fundamentally flawed. That can't be right, though. You've done this before, talked to plenty of people. They responded and it felt very natural, even when it was awkward or an argument. This was something else entirely.
You remember a friend said a bald guy would be at this party, one with a blue shirt and red shoes. He would be expecting you, so when you spotted him across the room, you shuffled right over, delighted to have an "in." You spill your well-rehearsed introduction, prepended by "Hi, our mutual friend said we should chat."
His response is the same as the others: utter indifference, blankness. You thought--it should have been different with him, right? A friend made the introduction. He knows who you are. But man, what is this? What's happening here, and how is it you feel both hyper with frustration and flattened of self-worth?
You move on. The shunversations happen again and again. No one says hello, no one waves or nods in your direction. You're pretty sure you saw an old Twilight Zone like this. The willful ignoring of your words, your Self, has seeped into the shivering parts of your psyche. Strangers on the sidewalk at least nod or move out of your way, proving your existence generates a current. Not here, not once.
But you have to be at this party. You're required to connect with people under penalty of starving. With practiced resignation you shove your self-doubts, your fears, your weak knees and your vice-gripped sense of value aside and continue. Another hello, another shun. Fifty failed introductions later, something finally changes. One of them responds to your now-meaningless hello: "You're not up to my standards. Go away."
You're relieved, just so elated. You were rejected with unkind words, but finally, a response! These people can actually hear you, they just don't respond. Ok, lesson learned. You've got a bit of pep in your step after that, even though the "up to my standards" comment left a long scratch. Still, this must be progress. It has to be.
You're back in the crowd, only to realize that renewed vigor was a scant shimmer deep. A few encounters and shuns later your self-worth has vanished again. Why are you doing this? Isn't there another way? You're alone in a room full of others, unable to get anything out of them beyond a one in fifty "go away."
Then, a partygoer catches your eye. She's wearing a shirt with words on the back. You realize they're instructions for how to talk to her. It would take several hours to follow the list, but hey, the directions are clear, and surely the extra effort will get a response. This must be the trick. You go off to the corner and spend hours writing everything required. Finally, with a cramp in your hand and blur in your eyes, you approach her and place the papers in her hand. You wait, thinking about smiling because you're proud of what you did, but not quite remembering how to smile. And squeezing the fledgling peep of hope you allowed yourself to feel until its neck breaks, she doesn't respond. You try to follow up with a sweet "hello," but she is as indifferent as the rest.
You feel ridiculous now. You just spent the evening parading about making a fool of yourself. Sharing personal details, trying to be cheery and approachable, customizing your introductions to try to get someone to simply acknowledge your presence ("That's a great cap, I have one just like it!") And here you are defeated and deflated and forgotten. Maybe that's all you're worth.
As the spoiled tar of depression settles into the cracks of your heart, a fresh thought drifts on through: this won't be enough to meet your mandatory mingling requirements. You'll have to come back to this party every single evening, repeating the same routine, going mad with each shout into the awful void, hoping that just one of those times you'll find a faint whisper back. You have to do it until it until one--just one--of those deadened wax figures turns to you and says "yes, hello there." You have to take out the glistening chunks of you that still recognize you're human and let them wrinkle and shrink on the shelf. Because you're not like that anymore. You're part of this machine, and as a part, you can't forget that you only matter to the ones who can see the entire device, and even then, only as a part.