When we think of rituals we are likely to think of elaborate ceremonies, where each move and interaction has been shaped by centuries of tradition, a kind of dance that the parties to the ceremony play often to signify a rite of passage, a shift from one state to another. Think of rituals like weddings or graduations or retirements. These are not the rituals, however, that are of interest to this book. Rather, Goffman is interested in what might initially appear to be the slightest of interactions between two people, interactions that might appear undeserving of the name ‘ritual’. At least at first glance.
This book takes seriously the idea that we are social animals and so our opinion of our own worth is, if not determined by, at least impacted by the opinions others hold of us.
In a world where each interaction we engage in is capable of adding to or subtracting from our sense of self-worth, we need to be careful who we dance with, whose feet we tread upon as we dance, and follow the various protocols of our dance-card. The problem is that many of the dances we perform have been structured through a lifetime of interactions within our society, so we may not even be aware that we are dancing.
The first chapter in this book considers the role played by ‘face’ in social interactions. He says at one point, “One’s face, then, is a sacred thing, and the expressive order required to sustain it is therefore a ritual one.” (19) This also means that many of the ways we attempt to protect our face are symbolic. Often this involves various means of side-stepping the transgressions we might have made that call our face into question – a particularly ‘boy’ version of these is to pretend the transgression was meant as a joke. But there are, in many social situations, only a limited number of moves one might be able to make given a transgression, and our social standing prior to the transgression will play a large part in determining how our response will be read.
There is a nice part her where he says that there might be a pause by the witnesses to the transgression to see how the transgressor is going to respond before the witnesses will know what their next move might be. There is often a four-part dance that occurs, where there is a challenge by the people witnessing the transgression, then an offering by the transgressor in hope of forgiveness, then the witnesses acceptance and finally an expression of thanks by the transgressor. Except, any step in the dance can be substituted by a misstep, bringing the whole thing crashing down. The problem is that often people go out of their way to ensure that everyone in an interaction gets to save face, but any movement along this dance can put the person moving in danger of losing their own face as what appeared to be a move towards acceptance is snatched away. And so, many of these dance moves involve hints and suggestions, rather than clear and unambiguous statements. All of which reminds me of one of my favourite lines from Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall, that says so much without saying anything at all:
“Your colleague, Captain Grimes, has been convicted before me on evidence that leaves no possibility of his innocence - of a crime (I might almost call it a course of action) which I can neither understand nor excuse. I dare say I need not particularise.”
The problem is that face isn’t the individual thing that you might suppose it to be and so a group of people can lose face due to the actions of one of the members of the group. There are clear power relationships here – where the face or feelings of a subordinate are simply not as important as that of a superordinate and so considerations for their feelings are not as much protected by the group. This is also true with the dedication to supporting a superordinate’s feelings by paying close attention to their conversation, laughing at their jokes, and so on.
All of which means that we need to be careful about who we interact with – and so there are pre-dance rituals that we need to perform before being seen as the sort of people who would interact with ‘them’. I’ve never been good at this – but I put that down to having lived much of my life in Melbourne, being male and having no interest in Australian Rules Football. Something which automatically marks me as not worthy to serve as a legitimate participant in a conversation.
The second chapter is on the difference between deference and demeanor. I think this was my favourite chapter in the book – but I’m not going to cover it in as much depth as the first. Goffman wrote a book called Asylums – like all of the books by him I’ve read, I can’t recommend it too highly. Anyway, this chapter draws on some of his work there. You see, to see how people interact with each other in providing deference to others and in sustaining their own demeanor perhaps the best way to do this is to watch how people who can almost be guaranteed to not follow socially composed structures go about interacting. Patients in the 1950s were generally put into mental institutions because they could not be guaranteed to display either deference or demeanor. That said, one of my favourite lines in this chapter is: “Whatever is in the patient’s mind, the throwing of faeces at an attendant is a use of our ceremonial idiom that is as exquisite in its way as a bow from the waste done with grace and a flourish.” (89)
Again, deference and demeanor may seem like opposites, but they often interact and in ways that we might not immediately recognise as obvious. He makes the point that we defer to those ‘above’ us – and so a doctor might be able to ask a nurse what she did on the weekend, but the nurse be constrained from asking the doctor the same question. But what is also interesting is that the doctor, in his elevated position, may do things that others would never dream of doing – sitting on a desk, throwing rolled up pieces of paper at fellow doctors – while the subordinates in the room would still be expected to defer to them and remain in polite demeanor themselves.
The next chapter is on the role of embarrassment in ritual interactions. As he says at the start of the chapter, “In the popular view it is only natural to be at ease during interaction, embarrassment being a regrettable deviation from the normal state.” (97) but this is often not the case at all. In fact, given the power imbalances and relationships that exist between people in most social situations, displays of some form of embarrassment is almost inevitable and is part of the social rituals that help to show appropriate levels of deference. And as he says, “The fixed smile, the nervous hollow laugh, the busy hands, the downward glance that conceals the expression of the eyes, have become famous as signs of attempting to conceal embarrassment.” (102) But that the intentional embarrassing of people, particularly the young, is an expected stage they are to pass through. “It is no wonder that trial by taunting is a test every young person passes through until he develops a capacity to maintain composure.” (104)
One of the problems, discussed throughout this book, is that people play many roles in social situations, and often the same interactants play different roles in those various little dramas. Which then means that what is completely appropriate behaviour with one person in one setting is completely out of place in another setting – so we defer to someone here, but not there, we lose face if we say this to them here, but not there, and something that is playful in one context is the cause of great embarrassment somewhere else. As Goffman says, “To this extent, embarrassment is not an irrational impulse breaking through socially prescribed behaviour, but part of this orderly behaviour itself.” (111)
I’m going to skip over the next two chapters, and mention the last, which take up half of the book, ‘Where the Action Is”. As he says at one point: “By the term action I mean activities that are consequential, problematic, and undertaken for what is felt to be their own sake.” (185)
A lot of the beginning of this chapter is concerned with discussing gambling and therefore ‘chance-taking’, because, as he says, “Wheresoever action is found, chance-taking is sure to be.” The problem is that bets are curious things. If you are to win a coin one whether you call how it will land, this could mean nothing to you at all, or you might need to win the coin so as to be able to contact a lover before she leaves for good or anything in between. Of course, the toss of a coin might be symbolic of something else entirely, worth infinitely more than the coin’s monetary value itself. Which brings us to risk – because action is a kind of risk, a placing of oneself in a situation where there is some form of risk taking. And this implies placing oneself in relation to fate. And while we generally gasp in awe at those who take on the fates and win – as the book Fooled by Randomness makes clear, often this is merely a matter of survivor bias – where luck is confused with merit and merit with justice.
Not that all of life is a kind of risk-taking – in fact, a large part of life is actively doing the opposite – buying insurance, bringing up a family, seeking security. But both of these can be aspects of the one person, who works as an accountant during the week and climbs a cliff-face on the weekend. And as Goffman also makes clear, risky behaviours and occupations often encourage the risk taker to develop a series of superstitious behaviours to appease whichever gods are involved in marking success and failure.
But he next moves away from consequential action takers and discusses ‘safe’ forms of action – like “The ‘vertigo’ rides at fairs and amusement parks nakedly resolve our dilemma concerning action by providing danger that is guaranteed to be really not dangerous.” (196)
Real action, he points out, “in our Western culture seems to belong to the cult of masculinity” (209) and this is interesting because the then presents an example after example of men risking life and limb to prove their manhood. Bull fighters, racing car drivers and so on. But proofs of manhood are often steps towards getting sex – he talks of how, at a casino, a man giving advice to a woman on how to gamble might be an implied and accepted means towards a sexual advance. That said, it might also be a source of ‘trouble’, intended or otherwise.
These risky moments are more than a mere episode in our lives, but ways in which we may confirm our worth and character to others and even to ourselves. In fact, although they are likely to be fleeting moments, we and others are likely to extrapolate them out to form the basis for their near total judgement of our character. Consequential gambles, indeed. Composure, self-control, cool-headedness under pressure – action provides the scene, our character provides the response. He makes an interesting comparison to this in giving us a justification for high-stakes tests – where “one’s test score depends on mobilizing memory and knowledge under pressure and then fashioning an orderly comprehensive answer in less than comfortable time; the opposite of what is sometimes called ‘blocking’” (225)
One of the odd things here, as I’m already mentioned, is that a single example of our character is often defined as being definitive. And so, the person who freezes in a bank robbery and the person who chaises the robber out of the bank and down the street are understood to be different in kind – but, in fact, might well act in opposite ways on another day. Goffman also talks extensively on how one’s character can be lost – a jockey who can no longer ride after a fall, not from a physical injury, but out of confidence.
One of my favourite lines in this book is in a footnote, “Tellers have foiled bank robberies by simply refusing to take seriously the threat-note to them by would-be armed robbers.” (243) Not least because once I went into a bank and filled in a withdrawal form. When I handed it to the teller she asked me if I had written anything on the back of the form. I answered that I hadn’t realised I was meant to. She smiled and passed it back to me, it read, ‘hand me all your money’ or something like that. I couldn’t help thinking, after I left the bank, how badly that might have turned out if I was upset or annoyed when I went into the bank – “what’s her bloody problem? For Christ’s sake…”
The book ends by discussing a couple of my favourite themes, time and vicarious experience. The thing about risk is that it is not only done in time, but given so much of what we do in life is a kind of slow drudge, risk heightens our awareness of time. And what else can ‘living for the weekend’ mean unless the ‘weekend’ is able to be differentiated from the rest of the week?
But that difference might simply be going to the movies to watch the latest James Bond film – where we watch and identify with the hero as he risks it all, and ultimately wins – and this is not too different from the fair rides that provide ‘risks’ we already know we will live through. This is the commodification of action – action that literally can be bought at the time of our choosing and can be experienced by our mirror neurons, rather than by our intestinal fortitude.
I really liked this book – seriously interesting stuff.