Conversation as an Art, or Not

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine directed me to an internet link that featured an article written in the Economist Magazine, entitled The Art of Conversation: Chattering Classes.

The article, written in 2006, touches on the subject of conversation, which has gnawed at my mind considerably for a while now. It gave me the framework, so to speak, to develop my thoughts on the matter.

Is conversation an art? There are many definitions of the word art. In the context of conversation, art is, to me, an activity carried out by people with an aesthetic or communicative purpose. Art expresses an idea and/or emotion. I doubt that many people, especially the ones I have had the fortune to interact with over the years, consider conversation as possessing any aesthetic quality; other than, possibly, for romantic and seduction purposes.  It seems to me they regard conversation primarily as a means by which their needs are aired and acted upon; never mind that it involves mutual reciprocity. Mutual interchange.

Interestingly, the aforementioned article pays tribute to the Roman philosopher, politician and lawyer Marcus Cicero, for outlining the rules that guide the conduct of conversation. That such a tribute is accorded Cicero was a revelation to me, for, my introduction to the philosopher was in a political theory class. What had struck me then, was that Cicero had a philosophy that was based on the principle that the status of the world’s success is dependant on how people act in order to make the world a better place.  At the time I did not realize that this philosophy was tied up with a book he wrote in 44BC entitled “On Duties” (incidentally 44BC was the year Cicero was assassinated, so much for people acting to make the world a better place.) In “On Duties” Cicero laid down rules for ordinary conversation as follows:

Speak clearly 

Many are the times, I have become irritated when I do not get a response to a comment I have made, only for close acquaintances or family to tell me I often mumble.  Paradoxically, I am a motivational speaker and the response to my talks is, by and large, overwhelmingly positive. Could it be those closest to me chose not to hear me?

Speak easily but not too much, especially when others want their turn

Is this not a crime many are guilty of? It becomes obvious at some point that those we engage with in conversation, would also appreciate a turn to voice their thoughts, however, we chose to be oblivious to this fact and instead rumble on and on thus denying them their turn.

Do not interrupt, be courteous

You talk, but alas, you cannot complete your sentence, the person with whom you speak decides to interject.  Courtesy has no place in their lives; they will interrupt because they believe there is an urgency for their own opinion to be voiced. After all, is said opinion not more valuable than yours, they reason?

Deal seriously with serious matters and gracefully with lighter ones

How often does one bring a grave concern to the table only for the other party to treat the issue impolitely?  It is frustrating. The reverse being when lighter matters are raised, grace flies out the window together with a sense of humour.

Never criticize others behind their backs

Sadly, I am guilty of this.    Cicero gives me food for thought. If I feel ever so sanctimonious engaging in this kind of conversation, which certainly is not aesthetic, surely, should I not have the courage to voice such criticism to a person’s face? That way, we will both be engaged in growth.

Do not talk about yourself

Why is it that people find it imperative that the topic of conversation should revolve solely around them?

Above all never lose your temper

Yes, Cicero I am guilty there too!  In my defence, I am a works in progress.  It is getting better.

According to the article, centuries after Cicero laid down rules to conversation; the American teacher of Public Speaking, Dale Carnegie, added four rules to the Cicero's as follows:

Remember a person’s name

How annoying is it for someone to continually ask you in conversation “what was your name again”. What is interesting about this, is that, when someone wants something from you, they will never forget your name.  Is this not just rudeness with a generous portion of self-absorption thrown in for good measure?

Be a good listener

There are times when one can plainly see the person they are talking with has their brain engaged in something other than what is being communicated to them.  It kills conversation and indeed the communication process.

Over the course of the last five years or so, I, together with others no doubt,  have increasingly felt that modern technology, specifically the mobile phone and internet, act as a distraction that play a key role in the killing of the art of conversation. If you take a moment to observe people out on a date today, be it friends, a courting couple, husband and wife, parents and children; one, both or all members of the interacting alliance will be glued to their mobile phones or a laptop. However, thanks to the Economist I learnt that way back with the introduction of the radio and television, it was thought then, that they too would kill the art of conversation. They did not.

Rather, the Economist article notes that “conversation has survived worse challenges and it will doubtless survive more.”  It argues that evidence that conversation thrives still, will be found if one were to go into any smart New York restaurant, where the noise level will be deafening.  I have to agree, because even in my part of my woods, if one goes into any social gathering the noise levels are, indeed, at deafening decibels. So, maybe there is truth in the observation that modern technology will not ultimately kill the art of conversation.

The Economist article aptly concludes by borrowing from Carnegie who observed “making friends and influencing people, amount in the end to much the same thing, both of them require charm, courtesy and the desire to understand the ideas and opinions of others”. 

So that, whatever the strategic objective, those can never be bad tactics, can they?

Therein lays the art.

The Colour Black on a White Palette

It had been a long day for Omuchendi. The day had started at a job centre in one of this Western country’s cold, impersonal cities. It was there that he had been referred to four potential employers.  Sadly, all the interviews yielded naught.  He was told he was either under or over qualified. His spirits were low.  All he yearned for now was the warmth of the flat he shared with his three cousins.  As he walked into the foyer of the block that housed their flat, the doors to the lift were closing, prompting him to quicken his pace.  Thankfully, he made the lift with a nanosecond to spare. Already in the old creaky lift was a Caucasian female of indeterminate age.  She had watched Omuchendi rush to beat the closing lift doors and had mouthed a silent prayer that he wouldn’t make it.  Make it he did though.  She instinctively held her handbag closer to her body and shifted ever so subtly to the furthest corner of the small lift. Fortunately for her, she gets to her floor safely without any incident. No mugging, no assault, verbal or otherwise from this black man she is forced to share her ride with. She is safe.

The black man, Omuchendi, gets to his apartment safely too. He walks in to find his cousins in the midst of making plans for a night out on the town.  They excitedly invite him to join them on the night’s revelry.  Being that his spirits are low and the fact that he is also tired and broke, Omuchendi does not feel much like joining them.  However, they cajole him until he eventually relents. It is also not lost to him that going out will provide a brief respite from his troubles, albeit, for a few hours.  The most compelling factor however, has everything to do with the fact that one of his cousins had, that day, won a sizeable amount of money in a weekly lottery and was itching to splash his good fortune on celebration. That meant free drinks and food.  This was an offer Omuchendi could not realistically turn down. Thus, with merry spirits and sprightly steps, the four young African men headed out to explore and sample the City’s night delights.

What a night the young men had. They partied and club hopped to their hearts absolute content. Towards 5:30 in the morning, the happily sated gentlemen called it a day.   It was time to find their way home.   Because it was winter, it was still very dark and cold outside. Fortunately for the four however, the merry making of the night and their somewhat inebriated states had invigorated their spirits; therefore, neither the dark nor the cold causes them any fear. They decide to walk back to their apartment block which is but a ten minute walk from the City Centre. As they walk down a side path, they notice a group of Caucasian men in their mid-twenties positioned on both sides of the pathway. Odd though the hour was, the group appeared comfortable standing in the cold from whence they taunted and threw insults at other night wanderers finding their way home. They did the same to early risers using the route on their way to work. As Omuchedi and cousins drew closer, the young Caucasians fell silent.  In return, probably out of some survival instinct, Omuchendi & cousins brace themselves for battle. However, when they are almost in the centre of the man-made “Caucasian” corridor, one of the white men says “don’t touch them guys; they’ll whip our behinds. Them folk are used to bush wars”.  And with that proclamation, Omuchendi and cousins are apparently granted safe passage back to their flat. No taunts flew. No bust up occurred.

Omuchendi had barely caught any shut eye when his old friend Wakili woke him from deep slumber.  Wakili has come by the flat to pick Omuchendi up for yet another job interview that Wakili, through his extensive networks, has secured for him. Omuchendi envies Wakili.  They have been friends since infancy. They had grown up and gone to junior and high school together in the African village of Mumbita.  After high school, however, their lives took different paths. While Omuchendi proceeded to a local polytechnic, later finding his way into this Western country as an “economic refugee”, Wakili on the other hand, on completion of high school, had been awarded a scholarship to study law in the same Western country. He duly completed his studies, had been admitted to the bar and currently worked as an immigration lawyer.  Further, Wakili had been granted the “right to abode” in this country. He had made a success of his life in the West. To cap it all, Wakili who is a dark, handsome man who proudly wears his dread locked hair in a neat ponytail, carries himself with a confident assurance which Omuchendi often feels he, himself lacks.

After a quick shower, an equally fast grooming session and a gulp of coffee, Omuchendi is ready. The two friends set off for the interview in Wakili’s turbo charged VW Passat car. No sooner had Wakili steered the Passat on to the motorway, than they were pulled over by police officers in a patrol car. A stocky white police officer, whose name tag identifies him as Constable P.L. Fitzgerald, makes his way to their vehicle.  He asks Wakili for his driving licence. Wakili hands it over. Fitzgerald spends considerable time studying the licence before asking both Wakili and Omuchendi to step out of the car.  They both comply. He informs them that it is necessary that he searches the car. At this stage, Officer Fitzgerald is joined by his partner, Constable K.P. Roberts, who keeps an eye on the two friends as Fitzgerald commences the search. The search seemed to go on endlessly. Fitzgerald appeared to be searching for something specific.  With each minute that the search went on, Wakili got increasingly riled up. Being fully aware of his rights, he demanded to be told what was being searched for and the grounds under which the search was being conducted.  In response Fitzgerald replied that they had received a tip off that this particular Passat was ferrying an unspecified narcotics. Fitzgerald’s response was so preposterous that Wakili burst out in laughter. His laughter aggravates Constable Fitzgerald who intensifies his search efforts. A thorough search reveals nothing, causing Fitzgerald to tell Wakili he will have to run his licence through their system in the police patrol car. After about 5 minutes or so, Fitzgerald returns to the VW Passat.  His body language indicates that he is not happy. He grudgingly informs Const. Roberts who is still keeping watch over the two friends, that not only is the licence is valid, but that Wakili is legally in the country and gainfully employed as a lawyer.    He reluctantly returns the licence and advises the duo that they are free to go. As the pair turn to enter the car, they both hear Fitzgerald mutter to Roberts that he cannot understand how they didn’t have weed in their car particularly as “their” kind always have it on them. It took a while for Omuchendi and Wakili to pull away in their car. The interaction had left a bitter taste in the duo's mouths. They felt demoralised and ill-tempered. They had just been  victims of profiling. To make matters worse, Omuchendi was now running late for his interview.

Happily however, Omuchendi makes it just in time for the interview.  Sadly though, the interview proceeded from bad to worse. It was as if the earlier altercation with the police had acted as a precursor to a disastrous interview. Though the interview was conducted in English, a language in which Omuchendi was proficient, the dialect spoken in this part of the Western country, was not the standard English that Omuchendi grew up being led to believe is the Queen’s English. As a consequence, he barely understands what is being asked of him.  As happens, in such circumstances, both parties start feeling frustrated. The interviewer takes to raising her voice in the belief that that will aid comprehension.  As was wont to happen, the more agitated she became the more confused and insecure Omuchendi felt.  There was a total collapse in communication. The interview concluded dismally.

Later that night, back at the flat that Omuchendi shared with his cousins, he reflected over the state of his life in this western country.   His mind drifted back to his days in high school. He especially remembered his literature classes. He had enjoyed them immensely. He recalled his introduction to African American literature. Mr. Omuchesi was the name of his literature teacher.  He was every student’s favourite. He had a most engaging manner.  The characters in the books Omuchesi read with the class had a way of leaping off the pages and into the classroom and lives of the students.    On this cold, dark night as he lay on his bed, Omuchendi vividly remembered a book Mr. Omuchesi and the class had read and discussed extensively.  It was written by the African American scholar and activist called W.E.B. Du Bois. The book was entitled The Souls of Black Folk.  Omuchendi earnestly believed that Du Bois’ words in that book were not just about the plight of the African American during those tumultuous times in American history, but were to foreshadow the experiences of all blacks worldwide. For, had not Du Bois written that “the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the colour line?”  The challenges Omuchendi had endured since he came to this country gave credence to that fact.  He was not oblivious to the fact that much had changed since DuBois wrote his book. However, one hundred and twelve years after W.E.B Du Bois’ observation and thirty five years into the Twenty First Century, the colour line was, thought Omuchendi, as solid as ever.

He thoughts drifted back to how the Caucasian lady had reacted to his presence in the lift earlier in the week.  She probably thought he had not noticed her reaction to him but he had. His mind then flitted to the young white men that he and his cousins had encountered on their way home from their night out. He replayed the encounter his friend, the learned lawyer Wakili, had had with the police officers earlier that day. He went over his interview and the mutual frustration experienced by the interviewer and himself. He pitted all these incidents against Du Bois’ view that no matter how well the black man spoke the white man’s language, no matter how he dressed, he would always be regarded with suspicion. And, when, perchance, opportunities are offered to the black man, surprise will always be expressed when he attains and surpasses a goal.

It hit Omuchendi with startling clarity, that as black man in a white man’s country, he and many others like him, were subject to what Du Bois had termed Double Consciousness.  Double Consciousness was, according to Du Bois, a peculiar sensation where the black person always looks at themselves through the eyes of others. It’s a sensation where the black individuals soul is measured by a tape of the world that looks on at them in “amused contempt and pity” such that one always feels his two-ness, “an American, a Negro, two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings, two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder”. Surely, was Du Bois not addressing himself to Omuchendi and all black people who interact in the global village?

Omuchendi tried to be objective. He questioned whether he was on a journey of self-pity or whether his concerns were legitimate.  He believed they were legitimate.  He had, after all, Du Bois’ words to back him up.  It was he, who had the following to say on the positioning of the black man in the world, ”After the Egyptian, and Indian, The Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight  in this American world- a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation  of the other world”  Omuchendi pondered over the effect of this social prejudice on the black man. What, he asked, is it about the black skin? Black.  White.  Black.  White.  White for purity. Black for sin.  White for hope.  Black for death.  White for clarity. Black for obscurity. Would there, he wondered, ever be an unconditional acceptance of the two colours? A mixed palette?

He drifted into fitful sleep with these unanswered questions on his mind.