"Very few Victorians choose to question the virtues of such cryptic coloration; but there was that in Sarah's look which did. Though direct it was a timid look. Yet behind it lay a very modern phrase: come clean, Charles, come clean..... Ernestina and her like behaved always as if exhibited in glass...They encouraged the mask, the safe distance. . ."
- Fowles, The French Lieutenant's Woman
In many ways we have the social strategy of an armadillo. Each of us walks around in his own individual shell, allowing only slender peeks at his inner softness. The tough crust protects us from our competitors in much the same way the armadillo's shell wards off enemies who would destroy those tender inner parts. We take our opaqueness so much for granted that the small patch of inner skin which we customarily bare to dose associates becomes magnified in our own mind as self-disclosure. To know or share one's love with someone is to spread that patch of exposed "you" wider, but it remains at most a large crack.
How much we expose ourselves socially is metered by our experience, but the machinery and the parameters were given to us by our distant ancestors. Social strategies are a big part of the evolution of behavior. How one approached an unknown social situation has surely been one of the fundamental determinants of how many genes he contributed to following generations. By necessity, one must operate differently toward family members, peers, subordinates, neighbors, and enemies. Among the exceedingly complex characters of these relationships, perhaps the main element is how much of his inner self one discloses or conceals. One has a spectrum of aligned strategies stretching between personal transparency and complete obscurity.
The evolutionary selection for social concealment has been underplayed in the past and remains a fairly well hidden part of our self-view, but neither should we overlook the selection pressures for self-revealment. Opening up to others is the main element in the social bond in all its forms. The wonderful attraction of a child is his open, free expression of feelings. Anyone, by exposing himself to another, allows that person to touch and control, to some extent, his destiny. Mutual exposure establishes the need for trust, and at the same time, curiously, a threat - for if broken on one side the trust can immediately be broken on the other. A tattletale's story is immediately countered by "Oh, yeah, what about when you. . ." The forced intimacy of matrimony exposes the partners to a view through the shell's crack "for better or for worse." And divorce carries the social and personal stigma that the one getting out "didn't like what he or she saw."
Though couched in human terms, the general principle of these social strategies seems to be a broad biological one, spanning the behavior of most animals. Communications biology has been built on the advantages of signal clarity. There is, however, another whole sphere of signal modification which we might call anti-communication: the signal is transmitted but is deliberately obscure. One gets the best insight into the character of this phenomenon by studying social paraphernalia. Though much social ornamentation strengthens the signals being transmitted, there is an equally large portion of ornamentation which obscures the signal or falsifies it in some way.
Because of its greater unknowns and hence potential for disadvantageous social experience, a signal stripped of direct personal involvement is often a more potent display than otherwise. Such a signal contains less information but enough to raise expectations. People often write letters to strangers, whom they plan to visit, for reasons of social strategy. But the absence of personal involvement makes them threats. Joe Blow walking in the door unheralded may be merely a derelict who has lost his way. What does a fox feel when, out of his normal rounds, he strikes a scentpost of another fox with the salty musk scent of urine still hanging fresh in the air? I can imagine it is akin to that formal letter of introduction, or the glance at an engraved calling card. The flame of self-doubt burns higher on a lean mixture of little information and lots of imagination.
The gestures of an animal meeting a strange of his kind are cautious. He does not quickly communicate his feelings openly and may eve displace them in an unrelated gesture, such as eating. Most initial social displays are not offered to provide the optimal amount of information, but rather to provide a mixture of clear information - to the displayer’s benefit - and obscure signals. It is irrelevant that the latter may not be beneficial to him.
Socially ambiguity, achieved through such organs as moustaches and manes, seem to be used in five situations when: (1) Life styles preclude an intimate knowledge of one’s neighbors. (2) Tradition or historical context is such that an acquaintance with one’s peers isn’t well developed. (3) Low density of population prevents intimate and prolonged personal contact. (4) Social structure does not tie individuals to herds of well-known associates. And (5), a rather special case, the population becomes so artificially dense that one has to cut off signal transmission to function.
Many small predators fall into these categories. For example, a fox's or badger's given life style is solitary hunting. More often than not the signs of one's neighbors' presence are encountered often, but actual contact is infrequent (which in part results in No. 3). Because of their mode of life, such animals' densities are seldom high in comparison to, say, herbivores.
Wild sheep and many primate groups, on the other hand, reject social ambiguity. One grows up in a herd or band knowing everyone around, and there are usually a number of members always nearby. These groups usually carry badges of rank and the status of each is recognized, if not personally, at least by his rank paraphernalia. In a social situation where there is almost continuous contact, communication clarity is selected for. Without clear information one would be in a constant state of attempting to interpret his social state and never have any time for living.
Some animal species are very self-revealing, others self-concealing. In many species of animals, such as bears and foxes, only the basic elements of mood are transmitted. These animals are rather asocial individuals which spend little time with members of their own species in the wild and the strategy of self-concealment has frequent rewards. The wolf and the mountain sheep are, on the other hand, quite social species and have little to be gained by being too socially obscure.
Many authors have referred to the present human trauma as a disintegration of our earlier band or tribal social structure as our numbers and mobility have increased. We have the evolutionary background of a sheep and its concomitant social transparency, yet we are becoming more like foxes in our brief, shallow contacts with continuously passing strangers, So, in contrast with our position in the tribe, where we slid along the concealment-revealment scale only to a slight degree, now we swing back and forth violently. We may also settle on single strategies which are inappropriate much of the time - like becoming foxes and never revealing ourselves at all to our spouses, friends, and children. Violent swings result in spasmodic social bonds, and an inflexible stance results in flimsy ones.
Some advise us to "let it all hang out" and become completely transparent (mostly in reaction to parents who were "foxes"). The possibilities are interesting, but I doubt personally if we can pull it off. It takes too much courage. We are foxy for reasons. Taking off one's social shell means complete exposure to being hurt. Keeping bad thoughts about associates concealed is what keeps us functioning. If our souls were complete windows, relationships might be far more difficult to achieve. Most of us can look forward only to fishtailing around somewhere in the middle of the spectrum.
Situation (5) could be called the "downtown effect," where the intensity of new social contacts is exaggerated so far beyond what our evolutionary history has modeled us to cope with that we cut off most of our signal transmission. One sees this in a zoo or animal research enclosure where densities are built up unusually high; individuals will try to ignore others by hiding in corners or brushing past without acknowledgment. This behavior eventually feeds back into the evolution of the design of social organs.
In addition to those five situations where social ambiguity seems to be used most, another deserves separate treatment. Generally, if one is well up the social scale, one can afford to become aloof. By giving a signal of unconcern and independence, the transmitter communicates that there is no doubt that he or she is the dominant. Aloofness is symbolized among human beings by drooping upper lids, tight lips, a protruding jaw and a raised head (snobbishness).
Someone with a subordinate frame of mind cannot chance either an overt threat posture nor aloofness, but must protect himself by clear signals of "no offense." Among human beings, social nervous tension (feelings of insecure social state, we might say) produces exaggerated motions, louder and more talking, and usually more social exposure. There is a tendency in us to equate twitchy, flexible mouths or eyes, the mobility of which facilitates communication, with weakness. Puppies are open and expressive, old dogs sober and aloof. Adults in the presence of children tend to be more serious (unless actually playing with them) than they are among still older adults or among peers. This is a common behavioral trait among many animals - subordination tends to result in more open communication.
Children reared in homes with lots of love and a modicum of permissiveness
are much more open than adults. Interestingly enough, greater openness is also a
characteristic of absolutely rock-bottom social classes. The essence of the American
Negro's "soul" may derive partially from the once childlike status values in the
rural South. So whether you are roaming the woodlands with bushy tail or waiting to catch
the 5:10 p.m. train to Westchester, you must make decisions about social strategies of
revealment and concealment. If you are as opaque as you can be, you may avoid trouble and
gain some privileges, but then again you may miss some important information or a
potential friend. If you "let it all hang out" you may gain closer relationships
or, since closeness involves exclusivity, at least more acquaintances, but if you really
tell all, it may catch up with you. "We really don't want Randolph for a new director
- he told me himself that he cheats on his income tax and married Marge mainly for her
social position."
At one extreme you would never make friends, and at the other, you stand to alienate them
all by being so truthful.
Seldom, if ever, do we approach these extreme strategies, but we feel their effects on a fairly gross level. The sentiments that we refer to as respect and friendship can be thought of as euphemisms for the polarities of dominance recognition and submission for the sake of alliance. They come across primarily as self-concealment and self-revealment.
High respect and friendship often seem mutually exclusive. One usually numbers true friends only among his social peers. A radical change in social state that gives one of the pair a disproportionate control over the other's future inherently changes the base of the friendship. Many of one's closest bonds are formed in school years among classmen. At that time upperclassmen, lowerclassmen, teachers, and administrators are all "other." One is allied with peers because of a common plight.
People who aspire to high leadership roles are almost inevitably social foxes; though the mannerisms of social facilitation are there and well oiled, the lid is down tight. What an epitome of social ambiguity the smooth politician is! He can survive an hour-long major TV network interview, with pointed questions coming at the rate of one a minute, and never give any real answers, yet leave us all satisfied that he has said something. What he has carefully shunned is self-revealment.
We are all born with certain limitations in our social strategy because of the limitations (or facilitations) of our social organs. Someone born with a tight-lidded eye, bushy brows, and pencil-thin lips is not allowed physically or socially to be as transparent as someone born pop-eyed and big-mouthed.
One sometimes hears the accusation that a person is "hiding behind his beard." The hair around the mouth covers up the critical expression zones, giving the wearer a mask of stoicism. A moustache and bushy eyebrows do something similar, as do squint eyes. They decrease the likelihood of a submissive or "scared" face being recognized. When we talk about "saving face," we are really talking about concealing weakness, either on the face or in some other way to which the metaphor applies.
An obscure signal, therefore, sometimes insulates or buffers both ends of the status spectrum. In species that have evolved ritualized displays to establish hierarchical position, an individual has the opportunity to back down slightly and still not "lose face" with himself, and to conceal his status position (other than the fact that he is subordinate) from his competitor. At the same time, the dominant recognizes the most important immediate concern - a submission signal - and is reassured of his own dominance. Opaque signals coming from the dominant can also give status merely by being ambiguous. These forms of behavior, of course, result in accompanying anatomical changes.
In comparison to other organisms, human beings have evolved a fantastic freedom of communication, no doubt due, in biological terms, to our reliance on learned behavior and to our occupying an extremely flexible niche. Yet in any discussion of the flexibility of our communication we often forget that, more than any other creature, we have the ability to edit and modify (obscure or falsify, if you will) the transmission of our feelings. We may give one signal while feeling just the opposite.
Precision has been selected for in human communication to such an extent that it forms a striking chasm between us and other organisms. But communication precision is almost independent of the openness, the transparency of the communicators. High-fidelity communication does not necessarily mean open communication of our emotions. Precise communication means the ability to convey the ideas one wishes to convey, (which are almost invariably different from what is going on inside).
In other organisms, communication is by far less controllable. An ethologist watching a monkey is more likely to be reading signs of real emotional state than an observer at a cocktail party. Yet we haven't become masters of our own communication by a long shot. One feels a blush coming on and thinks, "If I could just stop it," yet the blush blooms forth all the redder if one tries to intervene.
Revealment and concealment superficially go in and out of vogue. During the 1950's the emphasis was on the "cool approach" - play your cards closely and don't show emotion. Remember Marlon Brando? Much of this changed in the 1960's. The zeitgeist shifted toward exposure "ALearn to live with your hangups by sharing them," "Rather forthright than uptight," and so on. On balance, it would seem better to err in the direction of too much exposure than too much concealment. The concept of modern psychiatry is behind such a strategy.
In any event, the evolution of our visage has been affected by these varying benefits of enclosures and disclosures. What we see in ourselves and our fellows is a product of the shifting strategies of the past. In the following chapters we will discuss two critical areas: the eyes and the mouth.