Strangers Don't Bite
Stranger danger will never mean anything to me, no matter how many times my mother may repeat it; I am unconvincible. If you catch me post cardio, when all my dignity is left behind in a puddle of sweat on the stairmaster, I'll prolly take a seat beside you, all for the sake of catching my breath before core, and talk to you as if we have always been friends. I'll most likely be over complimentary, and very beet red in the face, and I'll prolly ask for whatever song you are listening to before getting up, waving with a "take care," and finishing my workout to head home. Those words are more often than not conversations that could go without being said, but in the offhand chance that I take away a lesson worth writing down, get to add your song to my playlist, or gain a wider perception into how I live my life; it will all have been worth it. This confidence in talking to strangers all came about one night in November of 2024 when amidst the regulars milling about and the workers cleaning to close I overcame my distaste for embarrassment. It was in the aura of an extremely buff man humming a tune, one heel raised and an 80 lb dumbbell perched between his palms and chest, doing pistol squats, that I caught the dawning consciousness on the horizon that nothing more than embarrassment prevented me from talking to him. I had never done it before, wrapped I the very folds of shame from fumbling my words or flushing when I said the wrong thing in years past. What got me to break the levee to live life in true self expression, and give this stranger the fat compliment that he deserved, was thinking back to the apathetic hallways of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Standing shoulder to shoulder with my sister digesting art installations that chaff with nihilistic commentary on global inequalities, and listening closely as she defined what embarrassment meant to her: to see yourself being perceived in a light that is disingenuous to who you think you are. Who do I think I am? In French critical theory, Jean Paul Sartre wrote the book, "Being and Nothingness," where he discusses that as humans we will only begin to be confronted with our existence in the watchfulness of another. It is in being seen that we start to see ourselves. Frankly, it was in talking to strangers that I realized who I am is abstract; all the labels I try to stick upon my character will slowly peel, and my list of favorites will be obsolete soon enough. The very thing holding me back was always illusive. I can choose to accept an unsubstantial discomfort in recognizing the gap between how they perceive me and who I like to believe I am, because I would rather my ever ebbing ever flowing character be ill perceived for a volatile moment than prevented from taking away what I am meant to learn from them. So, if you are ever the stranger I strike up a conversation with, whether that be at the market, music festival, or curb side taco truck, after we exchange names or share a laugh you will never again be a stranger in my books, and I will never again be that version of myself. As I walk away from that glimpse in time I'll carry a piece of who you are with me; never again fitting the mold of your discernment or reading the script you want me to say, because while that rendition of me may reside in your recognition, I am going to keep on talking to stranger. It is in those tender moments of being unknown, and choosing to learn from those around me that I will continually grow, and maybe just maybe, become who I am meant to be. I believe strangers don't bite.
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