musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

I have a kind of alacrity in sinking


‘I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed.’ I have always loved that quote. There was a time when I was fond of saying it; I softened its blow by explaining that it was actually an example of clever Shakespearean sarcasm. Unfortunately, I was once challenged by a cognoscente to tell me more about its provenance and suddenly realized that I might have been the one who was unarmed…

Sarcasm, to be effective though, should declare one thing while meaning another. It must be expressed not only with the words, but also with the eyes, the face, and the tone of voice; it is a way of disagreeing without arguing. It is a jab, but not an insult; a barb, but not a knife.

And yet, how do we accomplish it, and not appear to be lying or challenging the probity of the recipient? It’s something I’ve wondered about over the years: what is it that allows most of us to recognize it as a kind of dark humour, and not as a dropped gauntlet? For that matter, what is it that alerts the beneficiary that they do not have to clench their fists; that they are still appreciated… well, sort of…? And do younger children, who tend to take things literally, think using sarcasm is like telling a fib -or maybe something worse? After all, the Greek root for sarcasm, sarkazein, means an animal tearing off flesh or whatever. So many questions…

I’ve also skirted the question of its acceptability in other cultures. A metaphor that might help describe something in one society may not be understood -or even be misconstrued in another. Why would sarcasm be any different?

So I was interested in reading a brief little essay I found, written by Penny Pexman, a Professor of Psychology at the University of Calgary. In fact, its title, ‘Why it’s difficult for children to understand sarcasm’ was what made me wonder about its effect on them -and us: ( https://theconversation.com/why-its-difficult-for-children-to-understand-sarcasm-160915?)

As Pexman says, ‘For most children, learning to understand sarcasm is challenging… when a speaker uses sarcasm, they say something different from, and often opposite to, what they really mean… Sarcasm can be used to criticize while using humour, in order for the negative comment to appear less harsh. Speakers may use it to comment on the fact that things haven’t gone as expected or to strengthen social bonds.

‘Children, however, will probably not begin to understand it until five or six years of age. Before that age, children tend to interpret sarcasm literally… When children do begin to understand that the speaker doesn’t actually mean what they said, they may think the speaker is lying… It usually takes until children are older – around seven to 10 years of age — for them to appreciate that speakers can use sarcasm with the intention of teasing or being funny.’

Of course, as they mature and progress through school, they get better at recognizing sarcasm. ‘This progress is related to developmental changes in children’s language, thinking and skills related to processing, understanding and communicating about emotion… this is related to their ability to think about the perspective of another person, and to their ability to empathize.’

Another thing: ‘there is usually both a positive and a negative meaning to consider, and with sarcasm, the speaker means to be both critical and funny… Most children develop the ability to hold two conflicting ideas or emotions in mind around seven years of age.’ Actually, ‘social experience might indeed be important to children’s capacities to detect sarcasm: some families are more sarcastic than others, and children’s sarcasm detection may be related to their parents’ use of sarcasm.’

I am certainly not above the use of sarcasm, but I don’t think I used it much with my children. It’s so widespread in our society nowadays though, it’s almost expected in everyday conversations. In a way, I suppose I’d rather pretend that someone is being sarcastic, than purposely deceiving me, but after what seemed like an eternity under Covid restrictions, I almost felt like a child. It’s only natural to be caught off guard, I think. And things change, manners evolve; my hopes were that I could mesh with whatever the new Zeitgeist threw at me -in actual person, that is; you can never tell on Zoom.

But there were a lot of things I had to get used to in the waning Covisphere -dress codes, for instance. I mean, I’d never forget to wear a clean shirt and pants, but I wasn’t sure of my colours anymore -nor what’s socially acceptable behaviour apart from avoidance. And on public transit you have to be careful.

Fortunately, there was no lineup at the bus stop for my virgin ride, so I didn’t have to worry about social distancing, but the bus was pretty full. Everybody was seated, and everybody was wearing masks -the driver was no doubt under stringent orders- but I wondered about the etiquette of sharing double seats with strangers.

Some people were doubled, but since they were happily talking and gesticulating to each other, I assumed they were members of the same social bubble. In fact, almost everybody was doubled, except for three or four seats. And since all but one was beside a man, and only one was beside a woman, I chose the only sensible option: she was  pretty, well-dressed, and attractively perfumed. Her mask also had big red lips stencilled on it that were smiling invitingly.

When I sat down, though, I could see her stiffen. Hah, I thought -belied by her mask… Still it was too late to change my  choice because I had fully spread my weight onto the seat like the old days.

She tried to increase the distance between us with little, tense movements, but alas her hips and the bus wall were only mildly accommodating.

“Sorry,” I muttered politely, although I wasn’t really. Still, I attempted a showy sideways move away from her, but short of falling into the aisle, I made very little progress.

But I could tell she was watching me out of the corner of her mask. “Not much choice in here,” I said in words muffled by my own mask, then shrugged, as if I was interpreting the muffle for her.

“I really don’t mind that you chose this seat when the one across the aisle is empty,” she muffled back at me.

I have to say I think whatever skin was visible above my mask blushed. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I didn’t mean to drive you to sarcasm…” It was meant to be funny, but her eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, to you,” she answered.

“Oh…?” I muffled, somewhat relieved at her words.

“I was lying to you…”

Needless to say, I changed seats. The man I sat beside seemed to understand.

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gozzter

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