Flash of Humanity

In 2003, then-senior editor of Harper’s Magazine Bill Wasik organized 100 strangers to simultaneously enter a Macy’s department store in Manhattan, ask for a “love rug,” and then leave. Largely recognized as the first flash mob — any sudden and random public group act — this operation left not only a deeply confused salesperson, but a world eager to try it out themselves. Across the globe, large groups began (seemingly) randomly and publicly breaking out into pillow fights, cowering under the Toys ‘R’ Us T. Rex, or even committing mass robberies. And though Wasik sought to demonstrate the power of the internet and social networks while poking fun at the desire to be a part of the “next big thing,” the flash mob quickly became a national phenomenon, a dance craze, and perhaps our best chance at a purely joyful, cooperative experience in the age of the internet. For all our attempts at connection, all we really need is the return of the flash mob.

To clarify, I don’t mean a 10-person professional dance troupe that fails to blend into a crowd with construction vests and security guard badges before jumping into a heavily choreographed, highly inaccessible dance. To pull us out of our phones and pull us together, we need a flash mob comprising policemen, children, lawyers, and nuns, dancing to the finest music of the early 2010s; a flash mob so big the non-participants are at most 10 people by the end; a flash mob that is clearly for the joy of the moment, for being a part of something.

In 2010, such mobs were everywhere. From train stations to parks, festivals to airports, these breakouts were always random, always half-disruptive and half-awesome, and occasionally a marriage proposal that screamed, “I didn’t think you would like this, but I really wanted to do a flash mob.”

The flash mob had become a huge — literally — dance phenomenon, turning strangers into dance crews and captivated audiences. And yet, after a few good years, the festive fad had come and gone, people moving on to the next next big thing (notably planking and snapping selfies), giving credence to Wasick’s original intentions. Google searches for “flash mob” decreased dramatically, with no resurgence in sight, and by 2015, the flash mob had almost entirely vanished.

With the flash mob went one of our truly communal experiences, an opportunity to make and experience something together. Nowadays, with DVR, streaming, and social media, we delay time, experiencing news, television, and events in staggered waves. We asynchronously watch House of the Dragon episodes or Simone Biles sticking her first competition triple-double. My mother sends me Facebook videos I’ve almost always seen on TikTok two months ago. And we don’t make beautiful dancing fools of ourselves for strangers on their commute to work. The cooperative experiences and trends that defined the 2010s and the early internet have disappeared, leaving an online free-for-all that more often divides than unites.

But just because we’ve lost these communal creations doesn’t mean we don’t desperately need them. In fact, studies show that connection activates pleasure pathways in the brain, meaning that even as we barrel further toward obsolescence and polarization, we are in constant search for collective experiences. We look for love in AI chatbots and yell at each other on X just so someone will talk to us.

But why reinvent the wheel, when we’ve already found the best cooperative experience possible? Why spend millions of dollars building digital networking devices when we could assemble 50 strangers at the Claire’s in the local mall to do jazz squares over Rihanna’s “We Found Love.” In the digital era, just one flash mob could lift our faces from our devices in shock, joy, or secondhand embarrassment. Because, with those starting notes to Pharrell’s “Happy” and with that one person standing anticipatorily in the middle of Whole Foods, we know to turn and look. And for four minutes, we partake in a mass event together. For four minutes, we and the stranger to our left (who we’re pretty sure isn’t about to sashay to the bread section) are connected by the power of dance.

Because more than dating apps or the metaverse, we secretly love that glib look in a stranger’s eyes when they turn to you and say, “Can you believe this?” before joining the flash mob 10 seconds later. There’s something so pure about choreography so basic that 200 people from a Facebook post could learn it in 30 minutes. And there is nothing more inexpensive, more joyful, and more communal than coming together in spontaneous song and dance.