Why you should always smile at strangers
I always try to smile at strangers. Smiling, to me, is an act of acknowledgement. You are a person, as am I, and we both inhabit this space individually from one another, each carrying our unique narratives – our ideologies, thoughts, and behaviours – crafted from a lifetime of experiences. In that fleeting moment, it is just you and I; I see you, and you see me, with no prior knowledge of each other's stories. We do not judge what we have each experienced or what we might become; we simply appear as two ships that pass in the night. This act seems trivial, but it touches on a deeper aspect of how we see ourselves and others: our narrative identity.
Narrative identity is a philosophical concept that examines how individuals understand themselves through the stories they construct about their lives. This perspective on identity stems from the debate around characterisation. As Amy Kind (2015) discusses in her book Persons and Personal Identity, characterisation focuses on the idea that humans have distinct characteristics, where "some of those characteristics are seen as more central to our identities" (Kind, 2015, p. 119). These traits that define a person's identity are "those that cohere in a narrative structure" (Kind, 2015, p. 125). The concept of narration is fundamental to theories of narrative identity. At the core of these theories is the idea that a person's identity arises from weaving together events and characteristics into a cohesive narrative structure. Kind explains narrative structure here as the ability for something to be explained in a coherent fashion, as opposed to simply a presentation of facts. Narrative structure allows for these facts to be connected to one another, for the story to be told instead of merely being presented. In developing narrative theories, the main focus of philosophers was on first-personal narratives – an individual's own story about themselves. Kind calls this approach the self-narrative view (Kind, 2015, p. 131). There are many ways an individual can construct their personal narrative, but people uniquely shape their identities by weaving together the stories of their lives. Creating a narrative is an active process of unification. It doesn't require perfect consistency or complete cohesion; what matters is that integrating these events into a story helps make sense of them, giving them meaning. "When an individual's self-conception is narrative in nature, she understands and interprets her experiences against the background of the overall story of her life that imbues such experiences with their significance" (Kind, 2015, p. 131)
Both of us have led lives shaped by various events, relationships, and societal influences that contribute to our sense of self. This amalgamation of experiences culminates in this singular interaction with a stranger who knows nothing of my life - my narrative. There should be no judgement. And yet, in the split second before our eyes meet, I still experience anticipation: Will they smile back at me, ignore me, or acknowledge me without reciprocation? The thought lingers: why would they not return my smile if I offered it? After all, they have no prior knowledge of who I am; they only perceive my physical presence and, based on that, decide if I am "worthy" of their acknowledgement.
This anticipation reflects a more profound internal conflict. The moment I think I have figured out who I am, the issue arises of whether that view aligns with how the world sees me. If it does not, it leaves me puzzled as to the true nature of my self: am I really who I think I am? It leaves me to question if my self-narration in itself is substantial enough evidence to constitute my identity or if the simple lack of connection between one's own perception and how one is perceived is enough to dismantle this. How much of me is me, and how much of it is imposed on me by the things I have seen, observed, and experienced in the world I live in? The concept of narrative identity moves beyond the first-personal narrative to encompass our interactions with the world. Our identity is not solely determined by how we view ourselves but also by how others see us and our response to those perceptions. Thane Plantikow argues precisely this, stating that third-personal – external – contributions are critical in constructing identity-constituting narratives. He describes such narratives as co-autobiographical (Plantikow, 2008, p. 93). Kind raises the question of whether third-personal narratives can shape the identity-constructing process while still preserving self-narration. This presents a conflict. Individuals can be mistaken in their self-perception, which may differ significantly from the "truth." To illustrate this complexity, Kind introduces the example of a woman, Avery. Avery, a mother, selectively focuses on the moments when she was present for her children, "the birthday presents she's bought," while downplaying the times she was absent, "the birthday parties she's missed." This forms a narrative in which Avery perceives herself as a compassionate and caring person, even when evidence may suggest otherwise. Kind argues that this illustrates the limits of self-narration: "Though our stories about ourselves might change us in various ways, [...] it nonetheless seems that the mere construction of a story cannot by itself make a person into something she is not" (Kind, 2015, p. 134).
I hold some issues with this example, relating primarily to an absence of information, meaning that I can fill it in however I want, which is what I will do. As external observers, we must recognise that we do not fully know Avery's life. We only see parts of her story filtered through our judgements. Let us assume that in this specific example, Avery is unaware of her past mistakes. Can we blame her for perceiving herself as compassionate if no third-personal perspectives are shared about the complications her actions may have brought on?
Now, imagine that these third-personal perspectives have been vocalised, and Avery is now aware of her past mistakes and actively working to change. If she acknowledges her failings and tries to reconcile with them, does this mean her narrative of being compassionate is false?
Yet, despite my commitment to smile, I am a hypocrite. I often find myself assessing strangers as they walk by, scrutinising their attire and demeanour, allowing my mind to conjure up narratives about what type of person they could be. This tendency reveals my implicit biases and preconceptions about them, even as I consciously recognise that I know nothing of their lives.
In my opinion, this brings up an even deeper issue with third-personal narratives. Do not get me wrong, I am very sympathetic to the concept that you need objective external perspectives to gauge how to characterise yourself fully. However, a flaw in humans is that we tend to judge others based on their actions or inactions in isolation without considering their broader story or intentions. We view them through the lens of our own experiences and values, often failing to see them as central characters in their own lives. The world might be quick to label Avery as a "bad" mother, but if Avery is consciously trying to improve, does that mean her self-narrative is invalid? Can the world convince her that her narrative is false? Is her current narrative then – one she has actively reshaped – nothing more than an imaginative fiction? How do external judgments impact our self-narratives, and how can people navigate the tension between who they believe they are and who the world tells them they are?
Let us now change the Avery example again. Imagine that Avery is a nurse, and on a particular day in the hospital, an incident occurs, making it so that she has to stay longer than expected. Because of this, she misses her child's birthday party. In the meantime, the child and Avery's partner are upset by her absence, and the moment Avery comes home, they let her know. Avery's partner and child are disappointed in her, screaming at her what a horrible mother she is, making her out for things she does not associate with herself at all until a point comes where the constant reinforcements of these ideas impose themselves on Avery, and slowly she begins to believe them herself. Suddenly, what she once deemed valid reasons have become excuses; Her supposed caring nature has transformed into carelessness. For individuals whose narratives have been shaped or even imposed by others, discerning the "truth" of their identity becomes incredibly complex. If their only markers for their narrative identity stem from third-personal influences, how can they truly understand or define themselves? In other words, how can Avery change her narrative?
Despite this internal conflict, I strive to set aside my judgments and embrace the unknown, reminding myself that the reality of who they are may differ significantly from my preconceived notions. I consciously resist the urge to impose a narrative on them, choosing instead to see them as a blank slate.
One moment that has always stuck with me exemplifies this. One time, when I was younger, I was out with my mother. We saw a woman walking her bull terrier, which I usually call rocket dogs (see Appendix). Growing up around German shepherds, I have always loved dogs and was excited to see this bull terrier (they are one of my favourite types of dogs). I immediately approached the woman and asked if I could pet her dog. She agreed, and I began playing with the dog, utterly oblivious to the world around me. After we went on with our day, saying bye to the woman and dog, my mother told me that the woman had tears in her eyes as she thanked her for my reaction. She explained that most people avoided her and her dog because bull terriers are known for being aggressive. To have someone, especially a child, approach her dog with excitement and joy was something rare and precious to her.
That moment stayed with me because it showed how profound the impact of external narratives can be, even on something as simple as owning a pet. The woman had faced judgement and avoidance from others, not based on who she was or what her dog was truly like, but based on the preconceived narrative surrounding bull terriers. My interaction, however small, changed her experience (and hopefully also the dog's) for that day. It made her feel seen. Not as the owner of an "aggressive" dog, but as someone whose pet was loved and appreciated for what it was – a joyful, friendly creature.
Maybe perceiving a blank slate can make even those with the most stubborn narratives, whether conjured up by themselves or others, see themselves in a different light. And so I always smile at strangers in the hope that there is someone's narrative I can change.