When it’s just me and you, tell me your story. Give me all the intricate details of where you were, how the air smelled, where the light landed. Tell me what happened, what you were thinking and what you said, what you thought they were thinking and what they said, and everything in between. Let me be engaged and interested in whatever you want to share. Let me ask you questions so that I can understand you better—who you are and why this story is important to you. Know that I’ll remember you and your story, especially if I find ways to connect to you and it. Ask me later what I remember.
When we’re in a small group, watch me fade into the background, trying to make sure everyone else is being included and actively participating. Watch me smile and laugh along with the conversation. When I have something to say, I’ll say it. Don’t press me too much. I don’t like being the center of attention—at least not for very long. Listen to me get really excited about something I know and love. And then watch me fade as soon as I realize all eyes are on me. Know that I’m listening and watching, and paying attention to all the nuances of the social interactions taking place before me. Ask me later what I remember.
When we’re at a party, watch me gravitate towards the quieter corners of the quieter rooms. I find the hustle and bustle overwhelming, and the volume of people and conversations distracting. Too much noise, too many voices. Too much taking away from whatever you want to say to me and I want to hear from you. Find me on the balcony watching the cars down below and the stars overhead. Find me in the kitchen catching up with the host, prepping food, and washing dishes. Find me outside by the fire pit warming my hands and watching the fire. Find me to catch up, in any place that will let me focus—on me and you and whatever you want to share in the moment. Ask me later what I remember.
When we’re at a bar or a club, watch me head straight to the dance floor in the middle of the crowd. Watch me fall right into a rhythm with the music and dance like nobody’s paying attention—because they’re usually not. I’ll make just enough eye contact to acknowledge your presence, but otherwise, I’ll be in my own world. I like to feel like I’m a stranger among strangers. I like to feel alone when surrounded by people I don’t know or care to know. If it were socially acceptable to just start dancing on my own, I’d probably do just that. Since it’s not, it’s nice to know that you’re there sharing the same space, to make it socially acceptable for me to be dancing my heart out and getting lost in myself. Ask me later what I remember.
When I’m not with you or anyone else, that’s probably when I feel most at home. I like to lie in bed or take long walks, and think about what happened the night, the day, the week before. I like to think about what made it so wonderful, so hard, so meaningful, or so tossable. I like to think about when I was wholly me or only partially me. I like to think about whom I shared glances or words with. What did they say? What did I say? What stayed with me? I’m a thinker and a processor, so I usually prefer less happening because each interaction takes so much processing time in the moment and afterward. It’s exhausting really. So if I spend time with you, know that it’s because I think you’re worth processing, and remembering, for a while longer.
Image credits: Hoi Ning Ngai