The Tartan

By Eshaan Joshi

Picture this: you’re on a bus, trying to get from one place to another, with not a care in the world. The whitest of white girl music is blasting in your earphones, and there’s not a thought in your mind. You’re at peace with yourself, your world, and you’ve found yourself in a trance-like state hitherto only seen among Buddhist monks in their 10th year of meditation.

And then, someone hops on the bus, walks over to you, takes a seat, and starts talking.

What’s your reaction? Is it “oh god, oh god please no, not me”? Is it “I am going to turn myself mute and focus on my music”? Is it even “No hablo ingles”?

Of course, they’re not talking about anything very deep or interesting. Well, at least, I hope not, because otherwise you’re in for a philosophical deconstruction of what you believe, or a 15 minute seminar on how Stanley Kubrick faked the moon landing while high on LSD. But in a vast, vast majority of cases, what you’re about to be treated to is small talk. A whole lotta small talk, and man, buckle up because it’s going to be a wild ride.

See, for context, I’m from the South. And when I say South, I mean I’m from the kind of South where you’re expected to make eye contact, say hi, and have a conversation with everyone you meet. That’s a huge part of southern culture, partially due to the religious backdrop that surrounds the South. If you’ve ever been to that part of the country (and I hope you damn yankees get to at some point), you’ll notice that there are a lot of crosses. And churches. And billboards talking about Jesus. But one of the big things the Church tries to preach, or at least, claims to preach, is being friendly to everyone, from the people closest to you to the various strangers you’re going to encounter. The Church isn’t great at convincing people to be good people, but the South does try its very best to make you feel as welcome as possible, especially if you look like them.

Yeah, racism definitely plays a major part in how we think about small talk — that’s not something I can deny, and it’s also an incredibly important part of how these cultures developed. The South was full of homogenous enclaves, redlining, segregation, and policies that created very stratified, very small communities (the South is still not a manufacturing or trading hub like the North has become outside of maybe Atlanta and Florida, but I don’t think anyone from the South counts Florida as “one of us”). Initially, those policies engendered a sense that everyone in your community was “someone like you.” Now, as those policies have been rolled back, the ability and desire to just talk to the people you see on the streets remains very fundamental to Southern culture — it’s something that’s been passed on beyond its origins. Southerners just want to talk to you about your day and how you’ve been.

It’s not just the South. In the Midwest — that part of the country plagued by small towns and fields of corn stretching into the sunsets and sunrises — people are always open to talk, crack a beer or two, and complain about the weather or the Packers or about that damn Marjorie who can’t keep her damn dogs off your lawn.

It’s a side effect of the suburban lifestyle; it’s a side effect of small communities. While there are behemoths in the Midwest and the South (places like Detroit and Atlanta come to mind), by and large, the entire region is sort of just… empty. And like I said, when you’re likely to know a solid chunk of the people in your town — whether by country club or crochet or some other hobby — you start thinking, “hey, I bet the people I’m going to meet are friendly and kind because the people I have met are friendly and kind”

And that brings up the distinct difference between the South and Midwest, and well, the yanks.

And by “yanks,” I mean I’m going to talk a whole lot about New Yorkers. 

There’s a lot of weird people in New York City. Some of them want money, some of them want to talk your ear off, some of them want to rob you, and some of them need serious medical help, but they’re there, and they’re in your space, and there’s no way to get away.

That’s gonna make you a hell of a lot less likely to hold a conversation with them, or open a conversation with someone sitting next to you. You’re on a subway, you have places to be, and there are too many odd people on the train for you to ask any questions. 

It makes the north a far less friendly place to open a random conversation with a stranger. It’s no less friendly — there’s a common refrain about Americans being incredibly friendly, oftentimes strangely friendly compared to others. But people are less likely to just start a conversation in a public space — you’ll have to wait for the coffee shops and the cashiers’ registers before you start hearing about the day of a New Yorker, or whatever Marjorie has been up to in the Big Apple. There’s a distinct cultural difference in how people begin and start conversations — in the South, if you see someone on the side of the road you may spend a few hours helping them, learning about their lives, and perhaps sharing your food with them. (If a southern granny hands you some food, eat it.) But in the North, you’re going to avoid them, get to your destination, and then regale an entire room with stories about whatever you’re doing off your nine-to-five.

Small talk culture in the U.S. is keyed towards giving people the ability to have an open conversation with each other. We’re a naturally friendly country, partially from roots of racism, partially because we’re just raised to be like that — but when someone walks up to you on a bus, where you are is going to make all the difference in whether you comment on their hat or scoot a seat over.