Human beings are the only known species to practice joint attention, the coordination of two or more people to focus on another third object. Linguists theorize this quality is what allows us to use language and why we’re considered the “super learners” of the animal kingdom. In any relationship, we can talk about, evaluate and understand a “third thing” and how it relates to each of us. John Green writes about joint attention in one of my favorite books, “The Anthropocene Reviewed.”
“Our kids are critical points of joint rapture for Sarah and me, but we have other third things, too – the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, the books we read together, the TV show The Americans, and so on,” Green wrote.
The book consists of dozens of reviews of objects in the Anthropocene, or the current world that humans live in. I loved it, and it reminded me how lucky I am to exist at this moment in history, with all of the people in my life. I’ve been thinking about joint attention and how it sustains so many of my relationships – from watching college football with my dad every Saturday to eating ice cream with my friends in Wilbur Dining. My concept of companionship is built on shared enjoyment. Every connection starts with a third thing: a shared hallway, a common interest, a mutual hatred. I can’t fathom that a mother goose has no way of pointing her goslings toward something she sees; my mom showed me everything, from what lipstick to use to which airline to fly with.
For humans, focusing on a third thing might be easier than the alternative: two people milling around a college campus acting like they know nothing about each other and share none of the same experiences.
Stanford students exist in a state of constant joint, if not splintered, attention.
We read papers and discuss them together, we dance in crowded spaces in the dark and we consider the future a ball of clay we’ll mold together. Joint attention is why we bond and why we fight; I think it’s more comforting to know someone saw what I saw — even if not in the same way — than not at all.
When my world is spinning at a rate I can’t keep up with, I consider that everyone I love sits under the same sky. This pulls me back to earth. I can send them a picture and they can send one in return and we can think, “Wow, it looks the same, but also different.”
Every week, I send a custom Connections game to my group chat of summer coworkers, now that we’ve all gone back to school. The categories are usually related to them in some way, like “office snacks” or “our favorite FTEs.” They send in their results, and I like knowing we shared a focus on something I made for them, at least for a few minutes over the phone. I also feel this way about new song releases, sports, news articles and movies. There’s something perfect about someone next to you, seeing exactly what you see.
I’m admittedly not the best at vulnerability. I don’t like to talk about myself or my feelings. Maybe that’s why I cling to joint attention. Instead of focusing on me and how much I love you, I can show you this thing. We can both look at it and it’ll say what I cannot.
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