Something to Talk About

Running on Valentine’s Day is a columnist’s worst nightmare. Undoubtedly, the majority of my readers have temporarily morphed into bitter, lonely grouses, endlessly bemoaning their solitary existences, while the rest are frantically searching for that perfect gift after having forgotten Valentine’s Day for the third year in a row—hardly a columnist’s dream audience.

Since your minds are all preoccupied with dreamy or violent thoughts of Cupid—or you have reached the state of desperation where you are actually contemplating contacting your Datamatch partners—how could I resist the temptation to add yet another rumination to the infinite pile of theories about the peculiar enigma of Harvard love-life?

I want to write about the half of Harvard love-life no one acknowledges but is almost always on our minds. The talk. Who’s dating whom, who did what where and often WHY? Harvard’s gossip network is alive and well. Most of the time, we don’t even notice the extent to which conversations about love monopolize our time. If you don’t believe me, try the following experiment: think about the last five fairly lengthy conversations you’ve had with friends. The odds are that at least one of them, and probably two or three, related to questions de l’amour, whether you were recounting your trysts or salivating over another’s. We ask for advice, seek commiseration or just attempt to entertain. If you’re like some people I know (ahem), you get filled in on the gossip of everyone else.

When you think about it, the way that we talk about love is one of the defining features of our personalities. Some of us look everywhere for advice, telling the most sordid details of our private affairs to anyone who will listen, including perfect strangers. These are the people who when standing in front of you in the dining hall will raise their voices just enough to make sure that you, their anonymous audience, hear every juicy tidbit about their latest crush. Some of us are so-called “good listeners,”—people who thrive on attempting to sort others’ dirty laundry. These are the amateur psychoanalysts who know everybody’s dirt, and to whom people flock for advice. Others are more reserved, broaching the subject very rarely—these are usually the people with the most interesting stories, as their dirty minds seethe in private. If you ever get one of them to open up, you’ll have material for ages.

But why is Harvard’s gossip web so vital? Why are there so many of us whispering in the dining halls, winking in the hallways and nudging on the shuttle?

The optimist would argue that we are finding common ground, connecting on a deeper level where we don’t feel the need to hide behind our public facades. In telling stories, we assert our existence, forcing our friends to acknowledge that we have important stories to tell.

That’s rubbish.

Most of the time when we gossip, whether we are aware of it or not, we are involving ourselves in power dynamics. With every gossip transfer, there is a transaction in kind of trust for power. And the different personality types are playing the game with different strategies, each seeking to gain his or her advantage.

Those who tell everyone every last detail of their weekend hook-up are trying to impress, to seem cool, to dominate the spotlight. For this reason, their love stories tend to get more elaborate with repetition. What starts out as a simple misunderstanding over a kiss becomes fodder suitable for Jerry Springer, with jealous roommates lurking behind corners and backstabbing friends trying to foil the plot.

The good listeners operate from a totally different paradigm. They feel important because they are entrusted with the power to humiliate the speaker. It is a real honor to be one of the select few who know exactly with whom Sally hooked up last week. Similarly, it is a real ego-boost to be the designated adviser. When someone seeks advice from you, they are admitting that you may have a superior perspective, better than theirs at solving a particular problem. Why else would people be willing to sit for hours on end in the dining hall, listening to yet another sob story about “the Perfect Man”? You don’t really believe they care about your problem. And you certainly don’t believe that the spreader is going to take the advice.

Harvard’s gossip web is so strong because we love power. Let’s face it: gossip makes us feel better about ourselves. The listeners bask in the glow of knowing something that they shouldn’t and the spreaders acquire Harvard’s number one commodity: fame. Quite a symbiotic relationship.

Sound overly cynical? Perhaps. But none of this is to say that gossip is a bad thing. This Valentine’s Day, make sure to get your entertainment by watching the complex personal interactions unfold, and, in case you’re wondering, I’m one of the best listeners around. As my mother always taught me, if you don’t have anything nice to say, sit right next to me.

Robert J. Fenster ’02 is a biology concentrator in Eliot House. His column appears on alternate Thursdays.