An introvert's thoughts on “American hangouts” and the lack thereof.
In February, The Atlantic published an article called “Why Americans Suddenly Stop Going Out,” in which Derek Thompson argues that increased social media use, hectic schedules, the COVID-19 pandemic, and a lack of social infrastructure (all of which correlate with a surge in youth depression and the breakdown of community) are the root causes of Americans becoming increasingly introverted, but Thompson makes no mention of the long-revered but lost alternative: “the great American hangout.”
Thompson is mostly right, but his arguments are questionable. Was there ever a “Great American Hangout”? And if so, what was it like? If we're tumbling toward a dark age of introversion, it's worth pondering the possibility of a resurgence of extroversion.
We all know that the real reason for America’s decline in “hanging out” is late capitalism. Karl Marx and Alexandra Kollontai warned us that, after all, love of others and of ourselves, friendship, is incompatible with bourgeois culture. We all know that social media algorithms are designed to be addictive, and productivity is celebrated because we are never allowed to spend less time working and more time being human, thinking, loving, dancing. No one in a two-income household goes to work anymore, air conditioning has driven people out of their front doors and into the mall, and public spaces have become a hot commodity in much of the country. It’s no wonder Thompson positions the office as the last “community” for many people. (Seriously, a big thank you to Big Pharma for this renewed vigor I’m experiencing. I think I’m going to the office today!)
Despite this harsh American context, when I entered my freshman year at Binghamton University, I found college almost a utopia. At one point, a friend and I even joked that college campuses were failed communities brought together again. Campuses are liminal spaces, where you spend your days learning about things that excite you, discussing and organizing clubs with peers who share your passions and aspirations, perusing magazines available on library shelves and online, taking naps on the greenery, or taking sculpture classes just for fun.
College seems like the pinnacle of communal living, full of connection and self-discovery. The campus itself is often seen as a model of a human-centered environment. Concentrating similar students within classes, majors, and schools allows for relationships to be built based on interests and personality, not just proximity. And building walkable spaces in terms of infrastructure and scale makes public spaces accessible and face-to-face interactions the norm.
In contrast to the campus void, a common criticism of contemporary urbanism is its tendency to embrace the automobile, build highway-dotted suburbs, and leave human-friendly amenities behind for low-income, non-white neighborhoods, aided by unequal housing. Walkability won't solve all of America's social health ills, but it certainly helps if you can get around on your own accord, be outside without terabytes of information reverberating in your overworked brain, be bombarded by the spectacle of concrete and the smell of cheap fuel, and establish community-based routines in places to worship, work, eat, play, and so on. These privileges are largely achievable on a college campus.
Of course, some things go wrong, like a social weekend consisting of boring dances and meaningless encounters with people you don't like at fraternity parties, or getting distracted by busywork again. After all, universities are not immune to the effects of capitalism. We also need to reckon with the unspoken, invisible labor many low-income and international students perform on campus, the designation of off-campus, walkable neighborhoods for student rental housing, and the pressures many face that prevent them from taking more personally satisfying or “fun” classes. The void on campus is truly fantastical, and Binghamton's deteriorating social health reflects that of the country as a whole.
In that case, we might find joy in solitude while we tirelessly fight the blissful symptoms of capitalism. This country wasn't built for lots of public libraries and thorny lawns, but that may not be the only reason we choose introversion, as Thompson suspects. “What I'm trying to say is, [young people] “You should learn to be alone, and try to spend as much time alone as possible.” In this Criterion Collection archive, Tarkovsky speaks at length about the difference between solitude and solitude, and about not getting bored with yourself.
The desire to be together all the time and the prioritization of “socialization” are rather dangerous for Tarkovsky, whose vibrant hangouts are combined with a dynamic inner life. The American retreat into introversion is deeply misunderstood, but Tarkovsky makes us rethink the negative connotations of introversion. For Thompson, introversion seems like spending more time with pets than people, but it is actually getting satisfaction and energy from oneself rather than others, and is not mutually exclusive with “hangouts” or cultivating community. Introversion feels like listening to one's body, learning its limits, and practicing the intention to become a better friend and, ultimately, a member of community.
The college campus and the utopia of art-loving community that it represents can inspire us with what the Great American Hangout could look like with the right infrastructure and equitable norms. Otherwise, we forget that the Great American Hangout still exists in a variety of non-normative forms and spaces. Otherwise, we have no choice but to reach within ourselves and direct our energies, even social energies, toward the Great American Hangout itself.
Julie Ha is a fourth-year comparative literature and English double major and the opinions editor for Pipe Dream.
Opinions expressed on the opinion pages represent the opinions of the columnists. Only staff editorials reflect the opinion of the Pipe Dream editorial board.