An invitation to reinvigorate conversation
On a hot evening in August, I found myself pacing my small kitchen with my roommate and her brother, yelling and brooding and gesticulating like the politicians at Bretton Woods deciding the new postwar world order. In a moment of spontaneous curiosity, my roommate had picked a lemon out of the fruit bowl and asked the gallery of two: “If a lemon had a soul, where would it be?”
Our answers came more quickly and vehemently than one might anticipate, considering the subject.
Her brother sided immediately with the seed, which he said held the divine power of the lemon’s immortality (eye rolls in the stands). My roommate countered that, for God’s sake, the soul isn’t reproductive—it dies with the person (sorry—the lemon) and is pervasive, like the juice. I interjected on behalf of zest—that mystical ingredient of which a teaspoon makes a blueberry scone into a magical scone. That magic, I argued, is what makes a soul a soul—lemon or otherwise. My roommate’s brother, hung up on the juice argument, claimed that the juice was the blood rather than the soul, triggering our indignation over his brash equation of a lemon with human bodily fluids.
“The soul can’t be isolated and picked out like we’re goddamn heart surgeons,” my roommate said.
And so on…
Thus, by interrogating—with whimsy and a little absurdity—a lemon, we had brought to the surface the most fundamental of human questions, and with it, the beautiful enthusiasm with which we defended our own conceptions, and deeply held convictions, of its answer.
Part 1—The problem: Conversation, conformity, and the Other
Conversation is a uniquely human medium through which we relate to one another. It is a petri dish wherein social norms are constructed, and where these norms can either be upheld, challenged, or reconstructed.
Erving Goffman, a prominent 20th-century social interactionist, claimed that when an individual “is in the immediate presence of others, his activity will have a ‘promissory’ character.” This promise is a silent agreement between both parties in an interaction, each of whom is “expected to suppress his immediate heartfelt feelings” as a means of maintaining what Goffman describes as the “smooth working of society.” In other words, according to Goffman, our conversations must be palatable, avoiding the discomfort and conflict that would threaten society’s continuity.
Where has this “smooth working of society” gotten us? With strangers, we take pride in our ability to entertain empty conversations. Over lunch with an acquaintance, we ask after aunts and work and pets, furrowing our brows and following up thoughtfully about mortgages and dog fleas: “Lyme’s Disease is no joke, you know, my aunt got it once.” Sometimes, it takes years before we ask and answer questions freely with even our best friends. In fact, as we become ever more interconnected thanks to the conquest of digitalization, the loneliness epidemic is reaching unprecedented heights.
“Maybe the reason we make conversation the way we make it is because of the fear of the Other,” said Paul Yachnin, Tomlinson Professor of Shakespeare Studies at McGill, in a conversation about conversation with The Tribune. “So much of the conversation we regularly do is to save us from actually seeing the other person.”
This fear is evidenced in our shameless avoidance of divorce, income, trauma, aging, or the absurdity of modern western society in a conventional dinner setting. It is further evidenced by our acute discomfort when Goffman’s promissory agreement to preserve repression and politeness is breached—whether by childhood innocence or mental illness.
“In Shakespeare’s time, […] people were thought to be mad, but they were also thought to have something to say that other people wouldn’t grasp,” Yachnin said. “[Now,] as soon as someone is diagnosed with psychosis, we stop listening to the words coming out of their mouth.”
Though mental illness cannot be reduced to social nonconformity, the intensity with which we ignore or reduce the thoughts that it brings to the conversational surface exposes the depth of our fear of coming face to face with the arbitrarity, sadness, and vulnerability of real human life.
While palatable complicity is easier than confrontation under North American norms of nicety, it vilifies the delight of learning truly about one another, learning from one another, and connecting as the complicated and idiosyncratic individuals that we are. Kristine Nørgaard-Nielsen, in a wonderful article titled “The Paradox of American Friendliness,” describes Americans as peaches in their interactions—with soft, friendly outsides hiding an uncrackable pit.
Such compliance runs rampant even in our closest circles, where our habitual rhythms—while informed by a deeper understanding of personhood and history—still do not give space to lemons with souls, or for questions like what would you write your manifesto about? But doesn’t the zest of humanity lie in the wonderful hidden seeds of our unwritten manifestos?
How can we counter this avoidance? When conversational conformity runs so deep, what can we do to reinvigorate and expand our relationship to conversation with courage, authenticity, and play?

Part 2—On play: Throw the ball, or at least catch it
Embracing playful conversation opens the door to a kind of unconditional authenticity that taps into our shared human experience.
“[Playful conversation] is just playing around, hitting the ball, back and forth, laughing—just delighting in each other, rather than this dry information exchange,” said Mikayla Lynch, U3 Science, in an interview with The Tribune.
While engaging in this play is hard when you’re trained to habitually avoid it, you can begin to take bricks out of the wall of rote conversation through spontaneous, hypothetical interrogation.
The beauty of these questions is their universality: They work just as well on strangers as your closest friends. The lemon question, for example, could be posed as fruitfully to a stranger as to your own parents, who both, by virtue of being human, will offer an intriguing answer. In fact, the stranger might raise a more compelling point than your own mother.
While it might feel necessary to save our playfulness for only our innermost circles, it isn’t. Reflecting on the beauty of playful interaction in close friendship, Lynch poked at its potential to exist with strangers as well.
“When you get closer
