Screams, Smiles, Unexpected Connections
I’m sitting in the Barnes & Noble café between two women — one in her mid-forties, the other in her mid-twenties. We work silently at our computers, the only sounds in the café the faint murmur of two teenage girls talking just across from us. It’s quieter today. The usual buzz has given way to an unusual hush, like the café itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence.
I love these public cafés — there’s something comforting about working amidst the soft rhythm of distant conversations, the low hum of activity, and the familiar scent of books and coffee.
A young child's scream suddenly shatters the calm. His thunderous, almost otherworldly wail slicing through the air like an unwelcome intruder in the otherwise peaceful space. I thankfully note that the young boy is not in any danger; he’s just having an epic meltdown. He doesn’t seem angry or sad. He’s not whining for a book or a cake lollipop his caregiver has denied him. He's just tired, cranky, and really, really loud.
The crying screams continue for several minutes, then stretch into what feels like an eternity. Instead of fading, the boy's wails grow louder, more frantic. We've all heard a young child lose it. We've all felt that familiar ache of frustration. But this — this is different. This is a meltdown unlike any I've ever heard.
Back in our little corner of the café, aside from the two teenage girls still quietly absorbed in their conversation, none of us has spoken or even exchanged a glance in over two hours. It’s a silence that passes for normal these days. I can’t help but compare it to what I remember — when even in the briefest shared spaces, people exchanged nods, small smiles, simple gestures of acknowledgment. Now, those tiny acts of humanity seem almost quaint. It’s strange, sitting just feet from others for hours, without a word, glance, gesture, or the faintest flicker of connection. How did we get here? When did a fleeting ‘hello’ become too much to ask?"
Five minutes pass, then ten, then fifteen, and the boy’s raging fit worsens, his screams devolving into ferocious growls. We’re so far beyond what anyone would consider normal that, without thinking, I utter a single word — quietly, but just loud enough for those nearby to hear: ‘jeez’.
Studies on auditory processing and speech perception show that the human brain can begin recognizing spoken words in mere milliseconds. In the instant it takes for my quiet utterance to reach the ears of those around me, the invisible wall between us shatters, and the floodgates of shared humanity burst wide open. Suddenly, we’re no longer isolated strangers but a small, animated group, united by the absurdity of the moment. For the next fifteen minutes, the five of us talk easily and comfortably, even eagerly, trading stories sparked by the boy’s epic meltdown.
The woman on my left recalls her mother’s no-nonsense approach to public tantrums. Ouch. Maybe she should’ve kept that to herself. One of the teens sweetly defends the boy: Poor little guy. Sounds like he’s having a rough day. The woman on my right, less forgiving, declares that security should’ve removed both the boy and his caregiver immediately. A bit harsh, don’t you think?
The icy, impersonal vibe of the café melts away, replaced by something easy, lighthearted, even joyful. In an instant, it feels like we’ve been transported to a time when people acknowledged one another with warmth and openness — when small exchanges like these were the norm, not the exception.
The woman to my left asks if she can borrow my charger for a few minutes. I pass it to her without hesitation, happy to help. One of the teen girls admires the jacket worn by the woman on my right, sparking a brief but cheerful exchange. The woman can’t recall where she bought it but promises to DM the girl later after checking her online orders. And then, for the first time in hours, someone speaks directly to me, asking if I’m enjoying Nexus, Yuval Noah Harari’s latest book, which had been sitting between us on the bench, unacknowledged for hours.
Moments like these are also quite fun — a feast for naturally observant people-watchers like me. People are endlessly fascinating — funny, strange, tone-deaf, kind, or earnestly sincere. But my favorite, the one I’m always on the lookout for, is the person who turns the shared experience into a stage for themselves — I this, I that. It’s precious. Hysterical. I also love the one who takes charge, barking orders at everyone else. And, of course, there’s always the funny one, the overly friendly one, the mysteriously quiet one, the chronic complainer, and the one who’s just plain creepy. Collectively, we are a strange, endlessly captivating bunch.
Perhaps the most compelling part of this shared interaction was the palpable relief that settled over the five of us afterward. As we returned to our work, several of us remarked on how the strange, unspoken tension had completely dissolved. It’s remarkable how we can sit next to each other in public spaces, pretending no one else exists — no eye contact, no smiles, no acknowledgment. But once that invisible barrier is broken, a collective ease emerges, and for a moment, our better angels shine through. It makes you wonder what all the quiet avoidance was really about in the first place.
Just ten minutes before all this, an unkempt elderly woman had walked past, mumbling to herself. I watched as the four women around me subtly lowered their heads and leaned inward, clearly hoping the moment would pass without incident. What were they afraid of? What were they trying to avoid?
Then, twenty minutes later, after the boy’s meltdown subsided and our conversation tapered off, a middle-aged man walked by and dropped a piece of paper. Before he even realized it and turned back to retrieve it, four of us immediately stopped what we were doing and jumped up to help him.
It’s striking — just minutes before, we were all so closed off, silently avoiding one another, and now we’re eager to assist a stranger. In those brief moments, the shift is unmistakable. It’s a small thing, but it speaks volumes about human behavior. How quickly we can go from cold detachment to warm generosity when the right conditions shift.
Moments like these capture the essence of our shared humanity. The one I experienced today reminded me of another powerful encounter I had in this same Barnes & Noble café a year ago. It was intense and profoundly meaningful, an experience I reflected on in my essay Observations on Motherhood & the Importance of Looking Around. Yet, moments like these are becoming increasingly rare.
In our post-pandemic world, people have grown more guarded, mistrustful, and withdrawn, retreating further into themselves. The reasons for this are many — behavioral, generational, cultural, and societal — but one stands out: our near-constant use of mobile phones and social media. What began as tools to boost productivity and connect us has morphed into a force that's consuming and isolating us.
People are literally scrolling their lives away, hypnotized by the endless cascade of curated feeds. When I watch people — young and old alike — heads bowed, fingers moving instinctively over their screens, lost in an unbroken stream of information, it makes me feel physically ill. Mobile phone and social media addiction are insidious, all-consuming, destructive forces quietly dismantling our relationships, our sense of community, and, ultimately, ourselves.
Consider that as of December 2024, nearly five billion people worldwide owned a smartphone, roughly 60% of the global population. By 2029, that number is expected to reach 6.2 billion. In the U.S., 57% of people admit to being addicted to their phones or the apps they use. Even with a conservative estimate, half of that global figure represents 2.5 billion addicted people — a staggering number, greater than the combined populations of the U.S., Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Japan, and India. Their collective humanity, siphoned off into the digital ether of an endless, curated scroll, is both heartbreaking and terrifying.
Is it any wonder that shared smiles, brief exchanges with strangers, or even meaningful time with friends have become so rare? Our global addiction to digital isolation is depleting us of these fundamental human connections. I explored the risks of this immeasurable loss in Soon We Will Have Nothing Left to Give Away of Ourselves and the beauty of what we're leaving behind in The Profound Power of a Smile, a Friendly Word & a Kind Gesture.
If a single, offhand remark about a child’s tantrum can unite five strangers in an instant, what might it take to restore the days when people freely shared more — with each other and the world around them?