In Chapter Ten, Gladwell introduces the notion of “coupling theory,” which describes behaviors that are “coupled,” or tied to a specific context or set of circumstances. Coupling theory is the basis for what Gladwell describes as the third mistake we make with strangers: “We do not understand the importance of the context in which the stranger is operating.” In other words, when we interact with a stranger, we fail to realize that their behaviors are linked, or coupled, to a specific set of circumstances and life experiences. When we fail to recognize the stranger’s behaviors as coupled to a context that exists beyond our limited encounter, we inhibit ourselves from understanding the motivations for their actions and the complexity of their perspective. Our failure to see the full context of their world also prevents us from seeing the person that exists beyond our encounter, and we reduce their identity to a one-dimensional shell that exists only to fulfill the prescribed role they play in our interaction. Gladwell explains how this phenomenon has affected perceptions of Sylvia Plath. In failing to look beyond her suicide to see the broader context of her life, we imply that “her identity was tied up entirely in her self destruction” and erase the experiences of the woman who existed beyond this singular event. Gladwell summarizes his advice on avoiding the same mistake when talking to strangers: “Don’t look at the stranger and jump to conclusions. Look at the stranger’s world.” If we can broaden our understanding of the stranger to encompass the fuller context of their life, we can better connect with the people around us in a meaningful way.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Coupling Theory and Context ThemeTracker
Coupling Theory and Context Quotes in Talking to Strangers
The conviction that we know others better than they know us—and that we may have insights about them they lack (but not vice versa)—leads us to talk when we would do well to listen and to be less patient than we ought to be when others express the conviction that they are the ones who are being misunderstood or judged unfairly.
You should have known. There were all kinds of red flags. You had doubts. Levine would say that’s the wrong way to think about the problem. The right question is: were there enough red flags to push you over the threshold of belief? If there weren’t, then by defaulting to truth you were only being human.
The fact that Nassar was doing something monstrous is exactly what makes the parents’ position so difficult.
If every coach is assumed to be a pedophile, then no parent would let their child leave the house, and no sane person would ever volunteer to be a coach. We default to truth—even when that decision carries terrible risks—because we have no choice. Society cannot function otherwise. And in those rare instances where trust ends in betrayal, those victimized by default to truth deserve our sympathy, not our censure.
When we don’t know someone, or can’t communicate with them, or don’t have the time to understand them properly, we believe we can make sense of them through their behavior and demeanor.
“There is no trace of me in the room where Meredith was murdered,” Knox says, at the end of the Amanda Knox documentary. “But you’re trying to find the answer in my eyes.…You’re looking at me. Why? These are my eyes. They’re not objective evidence.”
The lesson of myopia is really very simple. If you want people to be themselves in a social encounter with a stranger—to represent their own desires honestly and clearly—they cannot be blind drunk.
Like suicide, crime is tied to very specific places and contexts. Weisburd’s experiences in the 72nd Precinct and in Minneapolis are not idiosyncratic. They capture something close to a fundamental truth about human behavior. And that means that when you confront the stranger, you have to ask yourself where and when you’re confronting the stranger—because those two things powerfully influence your interpretation of who the stranger is.
Don’t look at the stranger and jump to conclusions. Look at the stranger’s world.
There is something about the idea of coupling—of the notion that a stranger’s behavior is tightly connected to place and context—that eludes us. It leads us to misunderstand some of our greatest poets, to be indifferent to the suicidal, and to send police officers on senseless errands. So what happens when a police officer carries that fundamental misconception—and then you add to that the problems of default to truth and transparency? You get Sandra Bland.
To Encinia’s mind, Bland’s demeanor fits the profile of a potentially dangerous criminal. She’s agitated, jumpy, irritable, confrontational, volatile. He thinks she’s hiding something. This is dangerously flawed thinking at the best of times. Human beings are not transparent. But when is this kind of thinking most dangerous? When the people we observe are mismatched: when they do not behave the way we expect them to behave.
Brian Encinia’s goal was to go beyond the ticket. He had highly tuned curiosity ticklers. He knew all about the visual pat-down and the concealed interrogation. And when the situation looked as if it might slip out of his control, he stepped in, firmly. If something went awry that day on the street with Sandra Bland, it wasn’t because Brian Encinia didn’t do what he was trained to do. It was the opposite. It was because he did exactly what he was trained to do.
Because we do not know how to talk to strangers, what do we do when things go awry with strangers? We blame the stranger.
