My comfort with strangers
I once took a 20-hour journey from Christchurch, New Zealand to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. It was 1981. I was aged 11. This journey defined me in many ways by improving a skill I was cultivating: extreme comfort (even delight) in talking with strangers. My companion, my older sister of two years, and I took four planes together on this trip: Christchurch to Auckland; Auckland to Sydney; Sydney to Singapore; and then Singapore to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Our mother met us in Singapore for that last lap; and we had small help from several airline chaperones; otherwise, no familiar adult joined us.
Families did things like that more often back then. In fact, the only reason we did not live in Malaysia with my mum, stepdad, and younger sister, was our attendance at St. Margaret’s College, a very posh boarding school for young ladies. My British stepfather of this time worked for British oil companies. The first contract took us to Islamabad, Pakistan where I lived for 1 year before the boarding school. The second took my mother, stepfather, and younger sister to Kuala Terengganu, located about 273 miles northeast of Kuala Lumpur on the east coast of Peninsular Malaysia. There the oil company also paid for children’s schooling abroad. Such ‘company perks’ were common back then for global companies vs today where companies wince at spending on their devoted employees, slogging away.
Going to boarding school in Christchurch placed 5,400 nautical miles between me and my mother when they lived in Malaysia and over 7,400 miles when they were stationed in Islamabad. I was age ten when I first attended boarding school and followed their strict rule of one monthly phone call with my mum, on a rotary dial land phone, from the head mistress’ office. This trained me in independence and social agility, also brevity, because the calls were timed. No more than 30 minutes.
I found the dormitory can separate the hearty from the meek. Wallflowers struggle with loneliness, abandonment, and heartbreak. I missed my mother horribly; but, I became the opposite. I felt more socially outgoing, kind, engaging, and empathetic with the introverted. (I related to that part of them, too.)
Some girls wept solid on arrival. I’d comfort with an arm over slumped shoulders. Tissues. Soothing words. I became besties with many. I coached others, too, simply by listening and asking about their day. Within a month, all ten girls voted me dorm leader. (Looking back, this was my early work as a coach and something I plan to essay on more, if you’d like to join me.)
And yet growing comfortable with stranger conversations — with folks of all ages, backgrounds, and demeanors — happened even earlier than boarding school and that first flight abroad largely solo.
Growing up in the wilderness of South Canterbury, New Zealand offered the best ever training ground for stranger conversations. Monthly trips to our village, Pleasant Point, meant a 20-minute drive across rolling hills and gravely roads. You seize any connection with others when your social circle stays so small. Prior to kindergarten, aside from my sister and mum, for years, the only conversations existed in my head. I spoke with God — with whom I connected through the shafts of light in the woods or our fluffy, long, white clouds. That’s when I felt and saw him.
I chatted with sheep, cattle, rabbits, native birds, their sweet nests and adorable babies. I spoke with field mice, buttercups and snowdrops— even trees. I heard them speak back to me often in acknowledging, short sentences like: “I like your jeans and that patch on your knee today.” Or, “we haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?” I’d reply back that the patch came from Pleasant Point’s sewing store; and if you look closely, it’s an apple with a worm. Mum sewed it on for me last night. Do you like it?” Or, “I’ve been exploring the other side of the farm, building a cafe with logs and wool sacks in that thicket. But I’m back your side now. How have you been?”
Sometimes I just chattered to myself. I’d roam the hills, pausing only to look up at our big, blue sky, the occasional cloud floating by. The conversations and chatter calmed, anchored, and enlightened me. I always learned something new. It was wonderful.
Even so, this trip across two continents, four airplanes, and without any familiar adult nearby unnerved me. This was no normal trip for girls, even boarding school girls like us, posh ladies-in-training. Our Parisian head matron, Mrs. Miller, possessed pursed lips, a mighty frame, and strict views on how girls ought to behave. We learned how to set tables, curtsey, and enunciate well. We learned to peel an orange with a knife and fork to avoid sullying our hands we might then need to greet people with. (Prying the peel open with our fingers: distasteful and unladylike.) Conversational skills fell off of the long list of trainings. (An oversight, in my view.)
I practiced speaking a lot with my dorm mates and the girls in the day school, who also voted me their head girl. This validated me and lifted me up; but not quite high enough to feel confident traveling across two continents alongside thousands of strangers. My biggest fear? Getting kidnapped. Dying of starvation. Or getting lost. Or separated from my sister and the chaperone and missing my plane. (How would I eat? Where might I sleep? How might someone find me? Who might find me? Don’t forget: No cell phones invented in 1981. No tech at all.)
I mulled on this as we sat with one chaperone in Auckland airport waiting for our flight to Sydney. The mulling made me quiet. Once we arrived in Sydney, about 3 hours away. None of the above came true. Relief reinvigorated me.
Sitting with our Lufthansa chaperone in the airport lobby in Sydney, Australia before boarding our third flight to Singapore, I noticed his nervousness trying to connect. He was a middle aged man with a warm face in a well-pressed uniform. His opening icebreaker statement flopped. He told me I was an adorable boy. (I got this a lot because my hair stayed short and I dressed like a tom boy.) I corrected him: “I’m a girl, actually. But that’s ok. I get that a lot.”
He had questions about our trip; but I asked to wander. I wanted to approach the counter and ask for my own drink and perhaps a treat for me and my sister. (Who knew when we’d next eat?) I wanted better proximity to travelers coiffed with robes, silky knotted scarves for the ladies, and men in gray suits. I sought to share my New Zealand dollars with a kiosk operator, which I did, the chaperone smiling on. I enjoyed the experience, telling the operator I was Debbi from New Zealand on my way to see my mum in Malaysia when I hadn’t seen her in six months. I asked his name. He told me, and said how nice it was to me meet me. I watched how he said it, with soft eyes and a gentle smile, and determined he meant it.
I enjoyed seeing this shop keeper take my New Zealand money and hand back change in Australian currency. He smiled at my marveling and waved back to me when I shared my thanks and said goodbye.
“You are brave,” I recalled our chaperone saying. To which I replied, “thank you.” But he was wrong. This want to interact with strangers felt vital to me, not brave at all.
In my girlhood mind, once I got out of my head and managed my fears, I saw a lost opportunity in not communicating with other travelers. Not venturing in that moment resembled standing outside a movie theater, ticket purchased, access gained, and not going in. Sitting vs roaming felt like a missed adventure: Meeting and learning from others as a privileged global citizen and traveler. Besides, I was out of boarding school with all of its rigid rules and curfews, for now. Carpe diem, I say. Seize the day. If I don’t explore now, when?
In the Power of Strangers, a delightful book by Random House, Joe Keohane, an American journalist, contends that communicating empathetically with strangers is vital and potentially life-changing. I agree and as a coach, I’m now listening to and talking with strangers for my living. A robust coaching day can include ten sessions. I’ll feel a euphoric high from hearing what’s on the minds of many. I feel honored.
They’ve trusted me — little Debbi from Upper Waitohi, New Zealand — which still feels extraordinary. Whatever they share and whatever awareness they evoke helps clarify and unlock something inside of me. I could talk more — and at length — on the gifts and opportunities that can come from lots of change, travel, and how that advances us as communicators. But this sharing feels replete, for now. Here ends a first essay on how and why I became comfortable talking and being with strangers.
Debbi Gardiner McCullough has reinvented three times across three continents and three industries, most recently leaving academia after 19 years of service to train to become a coach. From Wisconsin, she owns and runs Hanging Rock Coaching and serves as a communications coach to leaders all over the globe with BetterUp and Sales Rocket Fuel.