Eight Billion Protagonists
On the silent roles that we assign, and what happens when no one tells anyone.
“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players”
I’m running late. Not very late. Very late would allow me to send a note of commitment to my lateness. “I’m sorry, I’m running twenty minutes behind - please start without me.” No, I am right on the edge of late. I-might-still-make-it-if-I-hit-all-the-lights late. I exit the freeway and turn right at the light.
Traffic.
I crane my neck to look past the line of cars. I see semi-truck backing into a construction site. A man in an orange safety vest and helmet holds a sign reading STOP. Ugh! I smack the steering wheel and lean back into my seat. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME!?
To me. There are at least twenty other cars in line, but this is happening to me ...
We learn our early lessons from stories. We are surprised when the tortoise beats the lazy hare. We remember that the villagers stop coming when the boy cries wolf one too many times. We imagine our own lives as narratives. In a world defined by stories, we craft our own.
Within the narrative in our head, we are the protagonist. As David Foster Wallace says in “This is Water”, “Think about it: there is no experience you have had that you are not the absolute center of.” Researchers from Duke, Bath, and Southwest Universities in 2019 found that we bias towards self-referential information at the level of working memory. I have a hard time telling if this biases the way I tell my own narrative, but, then again, I am the main character.
The main character is the center of the universe. The story and its related characters and happenings are in service of the protagonist. When the protagonist wins, we all win. The antagonist is in the way. The enemy. Other major characters - love interests, allies, collaborators - exist to advance the protagonist. Minor characters are important too. They are the tools used to define the protagonist. They serve as mirrors and foils and juxtapositions. But nothing more.
In a story of our own making, everyone else is just a character. Some are major, some are minor. Their needs, their wishes, are secondary. Grating against our own story, they seem to miss their lines. They seem to not know their role. Why can’t they stick to the script?
A colleague once told me, “I can’t figure out if you are in my story, or if I’m in yours”. As we bump along, celebrating our victories and lamenting our misfortunes, we forget that everyone else is, too. There are over 8 billion stories in the world. Inside of each story is its protagonist. Consumed by their own universe, grappling with the world around them, frustrated, just as we are, that things don’t go their way.
A script is merely black text on white paper. A series of words and actions defined by the author. However, theatre is script manifest. The interplay of actors. The guidance of the director. The repetition of rehearsal. A great performance is built from a thousand moments shared by a hundred people. Performances coalesce.
Those on stage and backstage and in the audience - everyone has a job to do. When someone misses a line, or drops a curtain early, or fails to react to a punchline, the magic evaporates. This failure is a failure of execution. A failure of communication. A failure of collaboration.
Imagine a play where each actor changes the script. Imagine if they didn’t know who the real protagonist was. Your spouse doesn’t share enthusiasm for your decision. Your boss leaves you wondering if you’ve done a good job. The expectations of the people in our lives reflect the role that we assign them. I spent the first half of my life disappointed in those around me, wondering why they couldn’t fulfill my expectations for them. They didn’t know I had assigned them a role. I hadn’t considered that they wouldn’t know. I was so consumed by my own narrative that the roles of those around me were obvious. Obvious to me.
Our innate egocentrism sees the world as we define it. We define roles for those around us so they fit our narrative. We forget that they, too, are the main character and the co-author of their own story. No one person is in charge. We actually don’t even know what scene comes next. Dan McAdams wrote that our self-authorship “is really co-authorship - creating stories that are ultimately derived from authorial sources that are too many and too diverse to name.”
In improvisational theater, they use a concept called “yes, and…”. This mechanism drives ad hoc collaboration. If nobody is in charge, then we share authorship. Saying no reflects a struggle for authority. Saying “yes, and…” allows co-authorship.
My family and I were at a sporting event recently, and the man sitting next to my wife loudly blew his nose into his hand. In a fleeting glance, she expressed her disgust at this moment, her dismay that he may be sick and that she’d catch it, and her finding humor in that this seems to happen to her a lot. My look told her that I knew. We both burst into laughter.
Over 25 years together, we have learned to dance in one another’s shadow. We are curious as to what is in each other’s heads. We regularly check-in to validate assumptions and confirm expectations. When we miss, which is often, we discuss what happened.
How are those around us supposed to know their role if we never tell them? Have you told your spouse what your expectations are? Have you asked your boss to what their expectations are?
Communication is not just saying what you mean. It is also confirming that they heard what you intended.
If I give you a role to play, the only way I can be sure you know is to tell you. The only way for me to know what role I am supposed to play is for you to tell me. Instead, we rely on hints, suggestions, passive communication. Expectations remain a secret. We blame the resulting gap in reality on the other person. They were wrong. We weren’t a fit. I’ll find someone else. Two stories, both self-righteous, go on their way.
The first half of my life was full of disappointment as I struggled with the world around me. I got angry at traffic, disappointed in family, frustrated with the characters that missed their cues and flubbed their lines. Now I find joy in the give and take. The “yes, and” of life. The improv.
When I was the main character, my world was small. Once I learned to listen, I could hear the other stories beyond my own. Those stories had authors who saw the world differently than I did. Authors who knew things I didn’t. My story was part of the other stories around me, amplified by their voices. The harmony was the actual performance.
Can you hear it?