Samuel I. Hayakawa was a college president, U.S. senator, and brilliant linguistic analyst of Japanese origin. He tells us this story that shows the value of, as he says, “unoriginal remarks.”11
In early 1943—after the attack on Pearl Harbor at a time when there were rumors of Japanese spies—Hayakawa had to wait several hours in a railroad station in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. He noticed others waiting in the station were staring at him suspiciously. Because of the war, they were apprehensive about his presence. He later wrote, “One couple with a small child was staring with special uneasiness and whispering to each other.”
So what did Hayakawa do? He made unoriginal remarks to set them at ease. He said to the husband that it was too bad the train should be late on so cold a night. The man agreed.
“I went on,” Hayakawa wrote, “to remark that it must be especially difficult to travel with a small child in winter when train schedules were so uncertain. Again the husband agreed. I then asked the child’s age and remarked that their child looked very big and strong for his age. Again agreement, this time with a slight smile. The tension was relaxing.”
After two or three more exchanges, the man asked Hayakawa, “I hope you don’t mind my bringing it up, but you’re Japanese, aren’t you? Do you think the Japs have any chance of winning this war?”
“Well,” Hayakawa replied, “your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know any more than I read in the papers. But the way I figure it, I don’t see how the Japanese, with their lack of coal and steel and oil . . . can ever beat a powerfully industrialized nation like the United States.”
Hayakawa went on, “My remark was admittedly neither original nor well informed. Hundreds of radio commentators . . . were saying much the same thing during those weeks. But just because they were, the remark sounded familiar and was on the right side so that it was easy to agree with.”
The Wisconsin man agreed at once with what seemed like genuine relief. His next remark was, “Say, I hope your folks aren’t over there while the war is going on.”
“Yes, they are,” Hayakawa replied. “My father and mother and two young sisters are over there.”
“Do you ever hear from them?” the man asked.
“How can I?” Hayakawa answered.
Both the man and his wife looked troubled and sympathetic. “Do you mean you won’t be able to see them or hear from them until after the war is over?”
There was more to the conversation but the result was, within ten minutes they had invited Hayakawa—whom they initially may have suspected was a Japanese spy—to visit them sometime in their city and have dinner in their home. And all because of this brilliant scholar’s admittedly common and unoriginal small talk. Top communicators know the most soothing and appropriate first words should be, like Senator Hayakawa’s, unoriginal, even banal.
But not indifferent. Hayakawa delivered his sentiments with sincerity and passion.
In early 1943—after the attack on Pearl Harbor at a time when there were rumors of Japanese spies—Hayakawa had to wait several hours in a railroad station in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. He noticed others waiting in the station were staring at him suspiciously. Because of the war, they were apprehensive about his presence. He later wrote, “One couple with a small child was staring with special uneasiness and whispering to each other.”
So what did Hayakawa do? He made unoriginal remarks to set them at ease. He said to the husband that it was too bad the train should be late on so cold a night. The man agreed.
“I went on,” Hayakawa wrote, “to remark that it must be especially difficult to travel with a small child in winter when train schedules were so uncertain. Again the husband agreed. I then asked the child’s age and remarked that their child looked very big and strong for his age. Again agreement, this time with a slight smile. The tension was relaxing.”
After two or three more exchanges, the man asked Hayakawa, “I hope you don’t mind my bringing it up, but you’re Japanese, aren’t you? Do you think the Japs have any chance of winning this war?”
“Well,” Hayakawa replied, “your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know any more than I read in the papers. But the way I figure it, I don’t see how the Japanese, with their lack of coal and steel and oil . . . can ever beat a powerfully industrialized nation like the United States.”
Hayakawa went on, “My remark was admittedly neither original nor well informed. Hundreds of radio commentators . . . were saying much the same thing during those weeks. But just because they were, the remark sounded familiar and was on the right side so that it was easy to agree with.”
The Wisconsin man agreed at once with what seemed like genuine relief. His next remark was, “Say, I hope your folks aren’t over there while the war is going on.”
“Yes, they are,” Hayakawa replied. “My father and mother and two young sisters are over there.”
“Do you ever hear from them?” the man asked.
“How can I?” Hayakawa answered.
Both the man and his wife looked troubled and sympathetic. “Do you mean you won’t be able to see them or hear from them until after the war is over?”
There was more to the conversation but the result was, within ten minutes they had invited Hayakawa—whom they initially may have suspected was a Japanese spy—to visit them sometime in their city and have dinner in their home. And all because of this brilliant scholar’s admittedly common and unoriginal small talk. Top communicators know the most soothing and appropriate first words should be, like Senator Hayakawa’s, unoriginal, even banal.
But not indifferent. Hayakawa delivered his sentiments with sincerity and passion.
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