by Alan Alda
According to Heath and Heath, out of the 120 songs that were tapped out, the listeners were able to guess only 3 correctly. In other words, they succeeded only 2.5 percent of the time. How does that match with your estimate?
When Elizabeth Newton asked the tappers what percentage of the listeners would be able to figure out the songs, their average estimate was about 50 percent, and this is what I’ve found with audiences. I’ve done the game, by now, with a few thousand people, and on average the tappers think that about half will identify the song, with some estimates going as high as 80 percent. But almost always only 2 or 3 percent of the audience can recognize it.
The problem for the tapper is the peculiar disadvantage of the curse of knowledge. It’s almost impossible to tap out the rhythm of a song without hearing the melody in your head. Once you hear the melody, there’s a strong tendency to assume at an unconscious level that the people listening hear it, too.
It happens when people playing charades repeat over and over the same gesture, certain that it conveys the word they hear in their head.
This is the irrational notion, first examined by the three economists, that other people know what you know.
When a scientist uses language that’s just beyond the audience’s reach, or when a doctor describes a medical procedure in terms the average patient doesn’t understand, the scientist and the doctor hear the melody but the people listening only hear the tapping, and they’re liable to think it’s another song entirely.
To me, the melody of nature is a beautiful song, and if all a scientist gives me is the tapped-out rhythm, but keeps the melody to himself, he’s barely given me the skeleton of nature. I want her energy, her luminous skin, the light in her eyes. I want to see nature snap her fingers and dance.
CHAPTER 21
The Improvisation of Daily Life
There’s no failing in improvisation. In improv, what some people call failure is just the next step on the way to an interesting resolution.
It’s like the line from a poem by Samuel Beckett: “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Those words rest on my desk and remind me almost every day that the ashes of failure can be a place of despair or they can be where the phoenix comes from.
Scientists fail better when they’re looking for more truth rather than some absolute true-for-all-time truth. And the rest of us fail better when we give ourselves over to the improvisation of daily life. Things change; we accept that and go with it. Connection happens between us and suddenly we see things about one another we’d never noticed before; just as in an improv, invisible objects become real, and then they transform.
It’s always possible to see more deeply into what we thought we knew, or to step back and see things through a larger frame of reference.
If we remember that every conversation we have, every bit of advice we give, every letter we write, can be an exchange in which the other person might actually have a better way of looking at it, then we have a chance to be in sync, to be in a dance with a partner. Not a wrestling match with an opponent.
But it’s a dance we learn by trusting ourselves to take the leap, not by mechanically following a set of rules.
IT’S NOT A FORMULA
In my childhood, they used to print diagrams that showed you where to put your feet when you did the fox trot. Left foot here, then it moves over here, and the right foot goes here. It might have helped you put your feet in the right place, but I don’t think it ever made anyone dance.
In the dance of communication, we move together with another person gracefully, pleasurably, sharing the pure animal joy of community.
Not being able to communicate is the Siberia of everyday life—a place that, crazily, we often send ourselves to.
But the solution, in my view, isn’t a formula, a list of tips, or a chart that shows where to put your feet. Instead, it’s transforming yourself—like going to the gym—only a whole lot more fun.
Practicing contact with other people feels good. It’s not like lifting weights. It feels good while you’re doing it, not just after you stop.
When it clicks, when you’re in sync with someone, even for the briefest moment, it feels like the pleasure of reconciliation. We’re no longer apart. We have an actual two-way conversation. We go from “No, you’re wrong” to “Oh. Maybe you’re right.” And boom. Dopamine.
It’s a good feeling. I think we crave it.
Liz Bass and I talked about this after she stepped down as the first director of the Center for Communicating Science. I asked her if, while she ran the Center, anything had been surprising to her.
“One thing that struck me,” she said, “is how sort of universal this desire to communicate really is and how good people feel when they sense that connection.”
I wondered why that good feeling doesn’t lead to better communication all by itself. Why isn’t it self-reinforcing?
Liz said, “Sometimes I think it’s that people don’t identify the thing that made that communication good. I think people don’t pay that much attention to what they pay attention to. You know what I mean? Sometimes I tell students, ‘Pay attention to what you pay attention to.’ ”
I agree, and I hope they’ll pay attention not so much to the mechanical things, like a sudden change of pace in a talk or a sudden change in volume of their voice. I hope they’ll pay attention, instead, to the fundamental source of that pacing and volume, which is the connection with the other person. That connection makes us respond like a leaf in the breeze to whatever is happening in the faces of those in front of us.
So, it’s really not that complicated: If you read my face, you’ll see if I understand you. Improv games, and even exercises on your own, can bring you in touch with the inner life of another person—even when you sit by yourself and write.
But it’s an art. It’s not a formula. Great things can happen—but you have to be able to read the other person. I know from experience.
Our family was on vacation in the Virgin Islands and I went on a walk with my six-year-old grandson Matteo. The air was moist and tropical. We were in a paradise of green leaves and blue sky. A light breeze cheered our skin and carried a salty whiff of ocean to our nostrils. It was almost perfect.
And then, at the side of the path, we saw a tree we’d never seen before. It had spiky thorns that climbed up along its slender trunk. It looked like a dragon’s back.
Matteo pointed at it. “Look at that tree,” he said. “How did it get like that?”
Now the day was perfect. He was asking a deep question. He wanted to know. This was a chance to introduce him to the idea of evolution.
We sat on the ground and talked about natural selection, adaptation—the whole thing. For forty-five minutes. It was glorious.
The next day, he was swimming with his cousin and asked her a question, and she said, “That sounds like a science question. Why don’t you ask Grandpa?”
He said, “I’M NOT MAKIN’ THAT MISTAKE AGAIN.”
for Arlene
my love and my pal
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The only sad part about writing acknowledgments is that there’s going to be somebody I’ll forget to acknowledge. Forgive me. You were invaluable.
I can remember Kate Medina, who is as sharp and encouraging as an editor can be, and I’m grateful for the gentle nudge she always gave at just the right time.
And I’m grateful, as well, to Amanda Urban, my book agent, for her professional skills and for her friendship. It’s a wonderful thing to share a friendship with your agent.
And heartfelt thanks to my acting agent, the legendary Toni Howard, who helps keep my life creative and interesting. Hugs to Toni.
Deep, deep gratitude to Jean Chemay, my assistant, who is warm and thoughtful and makes sure my life happens in an orderly sequence of events. Without her, I would be roaming the streets, asking people if they know how I can get to St. Louis.
My wife, Arlene, reads every draft of everything I write and ma
nages to be totally honest and totally supportive—both at the same time. As she is in life. She always points me toward my better self.
Thank you to the entire staff of the Alda Center for Communicating Science. Your creativity, your selfless hard work, and your determination to help the world be a better place is astounding. You inspire one another, and you inspire me.
And thank you to Laura Lindenfeld, the new director of the Center, for leading it with exciting ideas, boundless energy, and wisdom. I know that before she reads a book, she likes to read the acknowledgments. Hi, Laura.
And to all the scientists who generously let me grill them about their work, it was fascinating to talk with every one of you. I’m grateful that you’ve volunteered your lives to be the curious explorers of our species.
And if you’ve actually read this far, thank you, too.
—Alan Alda
BY ALAN ALDA
Never Have Your Dog Stuffed
Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself
If I Understood You, Would I Have This Look on My Face?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALAN ALDA, seven-time Emmy Award winner, played Hawkeye Pierce in the classic TV series M*A*S*H and wrote many of its episodes. He has appeared in continuing roles on ER, The West Wing, The Blacklist, and Louis C.K.’s Horace and Pete.
He has starred in, written, and directed many films, and was nominated for an Academy Award for his role in The Aviator.
His interest in science led to his hosting the award-winning PBS series Scientific American Frontiers for eleven years, on which he interviewed hundreds of scientists. Also on PBS, he hosted The Human Spark, winning the 2010 Kavli Science Journalism Award, and Brains on Trial, in 2013. On Broadway, he appeared as the physicist Richard Feynman in the play QED. He is the author of the play Radiance: The Passion of Marie Curie.
Awards for his work in communicating science include, among others: the National Academy of Sciences Public Welfare Medal, the National Science Board’s Public Service Award, the Scientific American Lifetime Achievement Award, and the American Chemical Society Award for Public Service.
In 2014, he was named a fellow of the American Physical Society for his work in helping scientists improve their communication skills. He is a member of the board of the World Science Festival and is a Visiting Professor at Stony Brook University’s Alan Alda Center for Communicating Science.
alanalda.com
Facebook.com/AlanAldaFanPage
Twitter: @alanalda
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