Illustration by Alex Siklos
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I’m sorry.
That would be my immediate, reflexive response if you ever approached me in a café to ask for a little more quiet. After reading a recent First Person essay about seeking peace and quiet in public places, I recognized that I might be the problem sometimes. I laugh loudly. So loudly, in fact, that my high school friends once claimed they could hear my “howler” from a full city block away. But after I apologized, I’d likely do something even more intrusive: I’d want to hear about your book that you were trying to read. To me, the novel interjections of a stranger are anecdotal gold, the very reason I left the house in the first place.
My favourite part of venturing into the world is the ambient hum of other people’s lives. It is the specific reason I seek out public spaces: to see and hear humanity in its unedited state. Isn’t that the fundamental contract of the public square? If I required absolute serenity, I would stay in the one place where I can control the decibels: my home.
Yet, as any urban dweller knows, even home is a relative sanctuary. In my apartment, the boundaries of “private” and “public” blur through the drywall. The rhythmic thud of renovations upstairs and the desperate, high-frequency wails of the three-month-old downstairs serve as a daily reminder that every inch of space, from my ceiling to my kitchen floor, is effectively shared.
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Am I annoyed when those piercing cries shatter a quiet Sunday morning? I could be. It isn’t exactly what I’d “order” to accompany my coffee. But in those moments, I am forced into a moment of self-assessment. I walk far too heavily on my own hardwood; I am prone to bouts of the giggles at 1 a.m.; I occasionally fumble my workout weights, sending a dull boom through my neighbour’s ceiling. No one has ever complained and I’d be mortified if they did.
Having nullified the urge to be negative by acknowledging my own “noise footprint,” I’ve found a mechanical solution for a social problem. I reach into my bedside drawer, pull out a pair of heavy-duty earplugs and shimmy back under the covers. The silence is mine to create, not the world’s to provide.
I don’t believe anyone should have to “suffer” while frequenting a public space. The frustration described in recent debates sounds genuinely agonizing and the idea of someone sitting across a café in misery while I’m yapping away does not interest me. I would willingly whisper for a stranger in distress.
However, living one’s life as a permanent whisper for fear of frustrating the world feels like a social stranglehold. I fear my joy would eventually fade into a weary, grey story of self-policing.
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May I suggest a shift in perspective? We will never be able to lower the volume of every individual in the city. If our happiness is dependent on the world altering its behaviour to suit our specific needs, we will forever live at the mercy of others. I choose to believe that life is coming from me, not at me. The noise isn’t an attack; it’s the sound of people existing.
I might be the odd one out in a world that craves silence, but there is value in the “obnoxiously loud” friend. Perhaps, via a sort of social osmosis, we could find a middle ground. While I may not agree with the demand for public silence, I found the craft of the argument captivating. It made me want a pen pal – someone to offer tips on how to be a bit more self-aware, while I offer tips on how to find peace amidst the din.
I promise that, on paper, ALL CAPS is the loudest I’ll ever get.
Cecilia Meadowcroft lives in Lévis, Que.