The Mob Mentality

Last night I went to my first concert.  Ok, my first "small-venue concert packed with people in a kinda sketch part of town".  One of those kinds of concerts.  It was an intriguing experience.

As it turns out, I'm rather claustrophobic.  Not horribly, fit-throwingly, mental break-down-y claustrophobic, but apparently emotional and stress-out claustrophobic.  There was a girl standing in front of us in the crowd who also seemed to have a hard time with the cramped quarters.  She took enough space for two people.  I didn't begrudge her a little breathing room...or at least I wouldn't have had she granted me the same.  However, at the slightest touch she would suddenly push back against you as though you were trying to strip her of her acreage, and at one point I was literally being smooshed between her jutting backside and the hip/groin/stomach area of the tall gentleman behind me (who generally didn't react when I was shoved into him, but at this point was pushing back on me I can only assume to let people across the room pass through the crowd).  The only feasible option to access my hands was to remove my arm from my body at the shoulder and withdraw it vertically.  It was this moment that I suffered the most intense attack of claustrophobia.  To my horror I discovered that my instinctive reaction to being pancaked between two complete strangers is to burst into tears.  This was not an acceptable response however, so I quickly began to cast my mind about to find some way to calm myself.

As my mother likes to point out, my traditional method of coping with emotions which are beyond my control is to dissociate and become analytical and academic.  She likes to imply that this is a defect in my personality, but I was deeply grateful to the habit in that moment.  After that initial burst of stress, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths and allowed my rational brain to step in.  Suddenly, instead of focusing on the sharp hip pressing into my own, demanding ever more of the personal space I did not have to give, I was considering the concert-going experience (and thence mob-mentality) as a whole and that hip was data I could incorporate into an overall analysis.

First I considered the general "formula" of the modern-day concert.  The performers that night were Guggenheim Grotto and Ingrid Michaelson.  You wouldn't really call either of them hardcore or anything.  They both have heavy folk influences, though Ingrid balances those with only slightly less pop influence.  The point is, most of their music is fairly acoustic and mellow.  And yet even in a show like this it was absolutely expected that there would be something beyond simply the music.  Flashing lights, cloaks, SOMETHING.  Not to mention the sheer volume.  Several times I admit that I covered my ears.

As I examined my surroundings I became more and more bemused by them.  Why has this formula evolved?  I simply couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer.  I mean, ostensibly, the purpose of a concert is to hear the music, right?  But all the lights distract you, and the amps have been turned up to the point where they're actually obscuring the sound rather than improving it.  In every way, the spectacle on stage is actually detracting from the music to which you're listening to.

Not to mention the phenomenon that got me thinking about this in the first place.  There are hundreds and hundreds of people smashed into a very small space all to only kind of listen to some music.  Why do we do this?  But as I looked at the people around me--the friend I'd come with, the guy she knew that we ran into, that same girl with the sharp hips, Mr. Tall--all of them had huge grins on their faces.  Every one in the room was cheering and singing and loving every minute of this experience that should, technically, have been miserable.  We'd all been standing for hours, we were cramped and smelly, and our ears were being damaged by excessive sound.  But everyone around me was having a blast.  That was the answer.

The purpose of a concert is not, actually, to listen to music.  It is, rather, an exercise in voluntarily submitting, even striving for, the "mob mentality".  The flashing lights, the high volume, all of this over-abundance of stimuli are simply tricks that have evolved to make the process easier.  Essentially, a concert serves as an excuse and a means of filtration.  Ingrid Michaelson is playing?  Oh, well I'll go to that because I like her music--as do a bunch of other people.  In the enjoyment of her music we share a bond (be it ever so tenuous) and that is enough for me to join you for an experiment in community.  People at a concert are, for those two hours, forming a great writhing community that eventually gains independent existence of its own.  Once you become a part of such an organism the varying moods and tones of the crowd take the place of your own emotional response.

Don't mistake me, I don't actually think this is a bad thing.  At least, not in the context of a concert or Harry Potter release party or midnight movie showing.  I think forming random temporary bonds like that with complete strangers is likely quite beneficial if for no other reason than that it teaches us that anyone really can get along.  Feeling as though you have ties to your community and the people around you is what being civilized is all about really.

So then what about me?  Here I was, surrounded on all sides by this web of connected humans and I was all alone squished between them.  I can't even really say that I isolated myself as a coping mechanism for my claustrophobia.  Rather, I think I was anxious and full of anxiety because I was already feeling isolated mentally whilst simultaneously being lost physically in the pulsating masses.  It occurred to me at that moment that I almost never feel that "mob-mentality" bond.  Not on any level.  Not when I was a little girl and my group of friends would become possessed of the spirit of mischief and get carried away doing silly things or talking about boys, or whatever.  I remember myself as constantly standing in the back offering the ever-ignored voice of reason.  And not now either, when I'm at a concert or chilling with my friends.  I almost never get lost in the moment.

As I stood there and thought about all of this I felt a wistful sense of longing.  I wanted to join in...or rather, I wanted to want to join in.  I wanted to surrender control of myself to the group and feel connected to everyone in that room.  I wanted to be a part of a whole.  I couldn't figure out why I'm so disconnected from such experiences.  I still don't really know.  But now, looking back on that evening I'm ok with it.  I'm not entirely incapable of some version of this experience as one or two of my friends can attest to.  And in the end, if I'm not a participant I can be an observer, which is a role I've always preferred.  Because I didn't get involved I was able to see it all from a completely different perspective than most of the other people there, and that is not an invaluable thing.

Eventually my musings calmed me enough to endure the remainder of the concert, despite Bony Hip Girl and Mr. Tall.  Nonetheless, as I snuck out of the crowd early to snag a t-shirt for my band I couldn't restrain what probably appeared to be a rather seizure-like spasm as I finally passed into open air.  The liberty to move my limbs freely was truly a sweet one and I simply waved my arms about for a few minutes relishing it.

Reminiscing

So, as I was walking home the other day I happened to look down upon the ground at exactly the right moment to see a little pink tube of chapstick laying under a shrub.  Instantly a memory popped into my head from way back in my freshman year of college.

*cue rippley flashback screen*

So, my freshman year of college was spent in the dorms, specifically DT, U Hall, 2nd floor.  I came to a school that actually practices curfew, which in practical terms means that precisely at midnight all the doors into the buildings lock up tight and the only way to get in is if you have your ID card and you're supposed to be in that building.  Swipe the card and you're in...forget your card and you're basically SOL.

Pathetic as my life was my freshman year, I did manage to find a couple of friends who were willing to overlook my extreme social eccentricity and hang out with me.  We established my freshman year tradition of walking to the Dollar Theatre for the midnight movie (we walked because none of us owned a car).  These were good times.  Let's face it, a girl straight out of high school...the freedom of staying out till 3 in the morning with no parents to object was a heady thing.  I cherished those Friday nights.

I cherished them, that is, after I got the hang of my new dorm.  Our first expedition went well until I got home.  It was at this point that I realized that I didn't have my ID card.  And it was 3 am.  And both my friends were gone, to their own respective homes.  Ahhh.......

Lucky for me, I discovered that I had a fellow nocturnal creature on my floor--recall I was lucky enough to live on the second floor.  There was one light on.  But how to get her attention?  Being the intelligent, problem solving, straight A student that I am, I came up with a great solution!  Throw something at her window!  Now I just needed to find something to throw.

If you care to know, there was a shocking dearth of small rocks in the general vicinity of Deseret Towers.  All I could find on the ground was wood chips and they lacked the necessary mass to create any sort of sound on impact.  On to things on my person.  There was not much.  There were my keys and my chapstick.  The keys I thought perhaps too heavy, but the chapstick...

You have to understand something about this chapstick.  You see, while I was giddy with the freedom of college life, I still missed home.  Quite a lot.  To assuage my melancholy my mother sent me the first and only care package I was ever to receive from her (no point in coddling me, after all).  Within said package were useful things like chicken soup, lime green plastic cups, and a potato peeler.  My mother is a pragmatic soul.  Also included was a tube of strawberry chapstick--I'm not quite sure why it was there considering the fact that I had never used chapstick my whole life, but she thought it prudent to include.  Perhaps because I was so unfamiliar with the product, I was deeply struck by the flavor...strawberry!  Who'd ever heard of strawberry chapstick?!  You couldn't find that anywhere!  My mother must really love me to find strawberry chapstick to put in my package.  I will carry it with me everywhere as a talisman of her love!

Remember how I said I was a touch eccentric back then?

The point is, I had a sentimental attachment to this chapstick.  Ridiculous, yes; real, very.  So here I am at 3 in the morning, stranded outside of my dorm, with this tube of chaptsick in my hand, preparing to throw it at one of my dorm-mates' windows.  I haul back and throw and...it hits the brick next to the window and falls back to the ground.  No problem, I'll just go grab it and throw it again.........I'll just grab it........hmm.......I know its here somewhere.............Let me just look a little bit harder................perhaps if I get down on my knees I will see it more easily..................

It was at this moment that some nice couple, out enjoying each other's company perhaps a little later than necessary, walked around the corner to discover me rooting about in the shrubbery that surrounded the building.  Judging by their expressions, they had several ideas of what I was doing, none of which were remotely close to the truth.  However, bless their hearts, they stopped and asked me if I was ok and when I pathetically related to them the fate of my beloved chapstick--because this was IMPORTANT--they both came and squatted down and helped me look.  And yet, even with all three pairs of eyes looking, the chapstick remained lost.  Finally, in despair, I sent them away.

Of course, as soon as they were out of sight it occurred to me that not only had I lost my chapstick, but I was also still locked out of my dorm and now I was again without a projectile.  Aw crap.  But, putting my keene problem solving mind again to the problem, I quickly found a solution.  The beauty of living in the dorms your freshman year is that your RA gives you magnificently useful things to "keep you safe".  Like the Rape Whistle.  This clever little device is given you to prevent your imminent rape.  Because, on the off chance that your rapist approaches you from a distance and alerts you in advance "I'm going to rape you, so if you have any means of defending yourself or summoning aide, you should probably get that out now," you can pull out your trusty whistle from the depths of your pocket and blow gustily till he punches you in the face.  Yes, its a handy tool that no freshman girl should be without.

Being the good, rule following girl that I was raised to be, however, I had dutifully attached my rape whistle to my key chain.  It was not without some satisfaction, then, that I pulled it off that night thinking "you know, I thought this would come in handy some time,".  After several tries (I've never had particularly good aim) I finally managed to hit the window with the whistle...and after a few more, I managed it with enough force that I actually produced a sound.  An ID card changed hands, and I quickly let myself into my dorm.

The story doesn't end there, however.  You see, I could not abandon my chapstick so easily.  Yes, I really was still stuck on that.  Having gained access to my room, I procured a flashlight (and my own ID card) and returned to the shrubs to hunt.  15 minutes later I was still doomed to dry lips forever.  It was no good.  My chapstick had vanished from the face of the earth.  I was, needless to say, quite heartbroken.

But never let it be said that I gave up on something without giving it my full effort (ok, so I've done that several times...but this wasn't one of them).  The next day I sprang forth out of my bed with a mission.  I was going to go back down there in the daylight and reign vengeance down on those shrubs until they yielded up my strawberry chapstick.  I was determined.  I was energized.  I was powerful and nothing could stop me.  I marched forth out of my dorm and over to those shrubs with what I imagine was much the same sort of resolve a firefighter might feel as he returns to the burning building the third time to find the last stranded victim he knows is in there.  And there, lying innocently on the ground, with what I imagine to be the nearest thing to a smug grin an inanimate tube of plastic can manage, was my stupid chapstick.  It wasn't even hidden.  Nor was it in some alternate location to where we'd been searching.  No.  It was right there.  Right in front of my face.  It had caused me so much anxiety and now it thought it could just waltz back into my pocket as though nothing had happened.  Geez.  Some people's kids...

*Rippley flash-back effect brings us back to the present*

I didn't pick up that chapstick I saw under the shrub yesterday.  After all, someone might miss it.