On the power of Propinquity, and where we are left In its Absence

Once, in the early months of a recent school year, I developed a crush on my friend. Where our relationship had long been established as platonic, I wasn’t sure why now my feelings had changed. My mind kept turning to his tells of affection that made me feel so seen it was almost jarring as if years of trying to fly close to but still distinctly under, the radar had been but an exercise in futility. These tells of affection are similar to but not the same as our love languages. They are the subtle and not so subtle ways a person invites you in, making you feel understood and still wanted, a unique and difficult to strike balance. The tells were, in the case of my friend turned love interest, to me very obvious. First was his desire to make me feel known, often talking about members of my family like they were old friends or publicly recounting moments that we had shared, as if to say “hey guys, I know her and I know her better than you know her.” Second was his ongoing effort to make sure that I was included, that I was not only known but also “in the know”. This was often done in the way of small, almost whispered anecdotes, filling me in on parts of a story that I might have missed or that might have been implied. Third, and perhaps the thing I loved the most, was his constant touch, of which I was hyper aware. He always had a hand on my arm or my back or my thigh. It wasn’t a commanding touch, it was gentle, just noticeable enough that it made me suddenly more present, no longer living within confines of my own mind but amongst other people.

In psychology, the power of physical connection is known as the “propinquity effect”-- the tendency for people to form friendships or relationships with those whom we encounter often. While this does not require physical touch, like the one that drew me to him, it does imply that the smaller the distance between people, the more likely we are to become emotionally connected. Both routine encounters--seeing the same people in class or at work or at the gym or in any other of the settings in which we found ourselves before—as well as chance encounters are the things upon which propinquity relies. (There is also something to be said for the way chance encounters have a way of becoming routine encounters. Like how passing a cute boy on your way to class one morning means that you will try to plan your route accordingly on the same day in the weeks to follow, the invisible tug of propinquity at work.)

In quarantine, many of us are looking for connection. In a world that is presently devoid of physical closeness, emotional connection becomes its necessary intermediary. What I have found is that emotional connection is only as strong as we allow it to be, it is as precarious as our own vulnerabilities, and it is only accessible by stepping beyond the smokescreen through which we are normally understood. There is a boundary in emotional connection, the one we put up to avoid getting hurt, that propinquity implicitly defies. However, as is now obvious, some relationships that were founded on propinquity are only as enduring as physical closeness itself. As in life we move cities or change schools or simply grow up (or conform to certain guidelines affected by a global pandemic), we often find ourselves at the mercy of propinquity’s myriad limitations.

Where propinquity might be the thing that brings us together originally, it is not the thing that holds us together over time and space. Food has been at the foundation of many, if not all, of my relationships. It is my “tell of affection”, my proverbial love language. What food has, that propinquity doesn’t, is the power to bring people together who are at any distance apart. This begins with sharing recipes with friends, delivering food to a neighbor, sharing a glass of wine over facetime, ordering coffee from your favorite local cafe, or cooking a dish that someone in your family used to make. This begins with looking beyond food as purely substantive, but as something with heritage, the thing over which we linger, tell stories, and get to know one another better, the means by which emotional connection is an end—think first dates and coffee with old friends. Where sharing a meal with someone is a unique privilege that I once took for granted, I am now forced to find ways to use food to fill the space left in propinquity’s absence. There are a myriad of ways to fill this space: writing letters, reading or joining a book club, a good old fashioned phone call—food is just the way that I know best. Where are we left in propinquity’s absence? Here, trying to find ways to connect that defy propinquity’s pull altogether but rather rely on something deeper, something more robust, and I think in the long run, we will be better for it.