Have you read Joy Williams?” asks my friend Megan.
“Have you seen Severance?” asks Richard.
“Have you heard the Tedeschi Trucks Band?” asks a woman in line behind me at an auditorium bathroom.
Occasionally a friend or acquaintance — a stranger, even — asks such a question, shifts her weight and looks hard at me. She has discovered some thing — book, show or band — that has thrilled her and that I have not heard of. Her question isn’t casual but pointed. My head starts to prickle.
Her eyes glint once she sees I’m unacquainted with her newfound interest. It’s as if I’m strolling through the grocery aisles of life, meandering this way and that, unsure of what I’m in the mood for, when she pounces with just the thing to put in my cart. I wasn’t shopping for this item. I actually was content to peruse the aisles. But here she is, athwart my path, and it’s clear I cannot weasel my way around her.
The question becomes a command. “You have to see it,” she says as if I’m not taking her seriously. You have to hear it. You have to try it. She speaks with a forcefulness I’m not sure is right for the moment — and I did not ask for her recommendation.
Such a person boldly assumes the role of promoter. One gets only so many firsts in life, and the moment I confess I haven’t heard of her interest she learns that she is my prime source. Like a professor behind a podium, she enumerates its virtues, projects her argument and hits all the highlights.
I bristle at such animated, unsolicited recommendations. The implication is that my reading/viewing/listening habits are impoverished. The recommender, lacking credentials, nevertheless asserts herself as an authority on what brings me joy. Moreover, her recommendation makes a demand on my time. It’s not an hors d’oeuvre she extends on a tray that I might sample quickly. It is homework she assigns without first confirming my workload.
In giving such a recommendation, other people are trying to complete a data download while I am expected to perform the passive upload. They are convinced their updates will enlighten and uplift my daily experience. They occasionally grip my arm, and it seems that the universe courses through them as long as they maintain the connection with me. Yet I want to twist free of their hold, avert my gaze, squirm sideways.
Try as I do to escape such moments, like most things that annoy me, they feel familiar. I’ve done this to other people, I think. I, too, have unsheathed hidden sources of joy to the uninitiated. A television show whose undertones engrossed me, a band whose vocalist soothes my soul, a book that has kept me up all week: I have foisted these recommendations upon friends. I, too, have wanted to make the magical connection. I, too, have hoped for receptivity.
Maybe what the friend, acquaintance or stranger conveys in that moment — and I acknowledge playing each role at various times — says more about the recommender than anything else. As we grow in appreciation for something, we become people with stored positive electrical charges. Eager to share our recommendations, we seize anyone nearby — a dinner party acquaintance, a co-worker in the cafeteria — to convey our enthusiasm. The recipient plays the part of conductor for our news. A spark occurs in the transmission, causing the recipient a zap of discomfort.
This shock, which we both receive and give, is almost inevitable. It’s a product of the contact between one person’s excessive positivity and another person’s neutrality. As our enthusiasm for something amplifies, it seems imperative to communicate our feelings about it to another.
Which reminds me of a book I recently finished: gripping nonfiction about artists in Russia during a time of unrest. It was a fascinating tale. I’ll stop shy of telling you why you should read it — and I won’t latch on to your arm — but you can probably imagine the excitement in my voice, and picture my bright eyes, as I recall a bit of what it meant to me.
Erin Buckley is an occupational therapist and writer who lives in Richmond, Virginia. The recommendation specifics above have been changed. They may or may not have come from anyone you know.