ESS.005 — LinkedIn: The City of Posters.

They say there is a city where no one has a body. Or rather: no one ever sees anyone else's body. But there is something strange. Everyone wears a sign hanging from their neck. Huge. Rectangular. It covers their whole body and still sticks out well above the head. Near the top, it has a hole. A circular die-cut through which each person's face peeps out. Round. Nicely framed.

Beneath the die, a name. Beneath the name, some very long words. Global Vice President of Strategic Transformation. Senior Executive for Customer Success Enablement. Chief Transformation Evangelist. Director of Future Readiness. Beneath the title, the name of a company. Beneath the company, two giant numbers. And at the bottom, a row of tiny, shiny icons.

The inhabitants recognized each other by their sign, not by their face. And the signs grew on their own. No one wanted them to grow. It simply happened. Every time an inhabitant thought I wish they would see me, the sign increased by a few millimeters. Every time they compared their sign to someone else's, it grew. Every time they received praise, it grew. The signs didn't grow because people lied. They grew because they confused being seen with being known. It was nobody's fault. It was the physics of the place.

Grandpa Manolo

One day a boy arrived. His name was Leo. But first, a small thing must be told. Leo had a grandfather. His name was Manolo. What Grandpa Manolo liked most in the world was words. He had his favorites. He was fascinated by the ones that started with con- or com-. He said they were words with strength and that they were always positive. Look, Leo, they always mean the same thing. With others. That is already good news.

When they went for a walk in the countryside, the grandfather would say them to the rhythm of their steps. Share. Company. Compassion. Understanding. Complicity. Commitment. Community. Connect. Console. Contain. Build.

He said them like someone singing. Leo walked beside him and learned them as they went. He liked how his grandfather smiled when it was his turn to pronounce complicity. Some days, Grandfather Manolo would stop in the middle of the path, close his eyes, and say: Leo, if one day you forget all the words in the world, keep these. With these, one can already live. Leo didn't always understand why they were so important. But he learned them.

The card game

And when Grandpa Manolo became too old to walk, they would spend the afternoons playing a game he had invented himself. It was called the card game. He would take pieces of cardboard and write a word on each one. He would lay them out on the table face down. Leo would pick one up, and grandpa would ask him to do what the card said.

Listen. And grandpa would close his eyes. Ask. And Leo had to ask him a question he had never asked him before. Cook. And they would go make an omelet. Remember. And grandpa would tell him a story never told before. At first Leo didn't understand why the words changed what they did so much. One day he asked him. Manolo, why do the cards make all this happen?.

Grandfather laughed slowly. Because there are words that describe the world, Leo. And there are words that expand the world. How do they expand it? Because after learning the word share, you can share. After learning console, you can console. After learning compassion, you can feel something you didn't even have a name for before. Leo remained thoughtful. Every new word, Leo, is a new capacity to live.

That summer, when Leo had to return to the capital with his parents, he said to his grandfather: Manolo, can I take the cards with me? The grandfather smiled. Take them. There are people there too. You'll have to tell me if they work. Leo kept the cards in a small wooden box.

The city of signs

When Leo arrived in the city, a kind woman hung a sign around his neck just like everyone else's. It was small. The smallest Leo had ever seen. Rectangular, but manageable. Leo's face peered through the circular die-cut. Below it said Leo. Below the name, in smaller letters, Junior Explorer and Emerging Ideas Analyst. Below that, two modest numbers. 12 followers. 4 connections. And where do I put that I like building cabins, Leo asked. The woman smiled without understanding. That's not necessary. And that I collect rocks. Not that either. Leo started to walk. The sign weighed him down a bit. But since it was small, he could still see his feet. And he could move his hands freely.

The signs were not all the same. There were small ones, hanging from young people walking quickly. There were medium-sized ones. And there were huge ones, as tall as a door, moving with difficulty along the sidewalks. The bigger the sign, the more numbers appeared. Chief Happiness Officer. 84,302 followers. 12,601 connections. Global Ecosystem Growth Architect. 127,844 followers. 18,220 connections.

Leo began to understand. The posters grew with the followers. And since the posters grew but the heads did not, the face appeared smaller and smaller. On a small poster, the face was proportionate. On a huge poster, the face was just a tiny dot at the top. The rest was title, company, numbers, medals. The more famous the inhabitant, the smaller their face looked.

And since the signs had grown so much, some things had become very difficult. Above all, the hands. Leo saw a man with a gigantic sign who wanted to tie his shoelaces. He bent down. But the sign wouldn't let him see his feet. He tried three times. In the end, he called an assistant.

He saw a woman with a huge sign trying to walk through a doorway. She didn't fit. She had to turn sideways and squeeze through bit by bit. He saw two people with enormous signs trying to hug each other. The signs collided before their bodies did. In the end, they gave each other two awkward pats and pulled apart. He saw a man trying to hold a baby. He couldn't bring it close to his chest. The sign was in the way. The baby was left suspended in the air. He saw an elderly woman trying to hold her son's hand. The two signs made a small, dry sound when they bumped against each other. Their hands never touched.

Leo thought that the identity of that city had become so great that it prevented people from doing human things. And something else very strange happened. When someone intended to say something, the words didn't come out of their mouth. They appeared automatically printed on the front of the sign. Everyone looked at the text. No one looked at the face. On a very large sign appeared: Great to connect. On another: Excited to share this milestone. No one said anything with their mouth. Only phrases appeared and everyone nodded as if they had heard them.

The cards

One night, Leo took out Grandpa's wooden box. The cards were still there. Intact. Waiting. Leo realized that in the city there were people who slept with the largest signs. People whose face was so small it almost disappeared. People whose hands had not touched anyone for years. Leo went out into the street. He wasn't going to change the city. He was only carrying the words. The words were the ones that would change the city. Leo was the messenger.

He went from door to door. He looked for those who were sleeping with the biggest signs. He only glued, onto the front of each sign, a tiny card from the grandfather. Over the huge sign of the Chief Transformation Evangelist he glued a card that said Sharing. Over the one of the Director of Purpose and Culture he glued another that said Compassion. Over the one of the Global Ecosystem Growth Architect he glued one that said Build. And thus he distributed the rest — Company, Comprehension, Complicity, Commitment, Community, Connect, Console, Contain — on increasingly larger signs. When he finished the last one, he sat down on a bench and waited for dawn.

What the words did

The next morning something curious happened. The words did one thing: they shrank the signs. And as the signs shrank, the capacity appeared. The card read Compassion. The Director of Purpose and Culture's sign lost a centimeter. Suddenly he was able to lean forward a little more. Just enough to look another person in the eyes. Then he asked: how are you. He didn't ask because he was better. He was able to ask because the sign stopped preventing him.

The card said Share. The Chief Transformation Evangelist's sign lost another centimeter. His arms were able to move. Instead of starting by showing a chart, he started by showing a mistake he had made. He didn't do it because he was more humble. He was able to do it because the sign left his arms free. The card said Build. The Global Ecosystem Growth Architect's sign shrank just enough for her hands to reach those of four other people. They gathered around a table. They imagined together something none of them would have imagined alone. They weren't more creative. It's just that their hands could finally reach each other.

And so the capacities unfolded, one after another. Sharing. Now mistakes could travel without turning into shame. Understanding. An argument stopped looking for a winner. Companionship. No one had to wait alone in a hospital waiting room anymore. Complicity. Two strangers started finishing each other's sentences. Commitment. Someone made a small promise. And kept it. Community. Gatherings appeared that no one had called. Connecting. The phones stayed on the table. But almost no one looked at them. Consoling. A boy discovered that silence could also embrace. Containing. A girl was able to cry without anyone trying to fix her. With every gesture, the signs kept shrinking.

They were losing numbers. They were losing medals. They were losing insignia. They were losing the endless title. And when the posters grew small, the hands appeared. Hands appeared that tied shoes. Hands that held cups. Hands that stroked heads. Hands that pressed a baby against the chest. Hands that reached out to other hands with nothing separating them. They could embrace.

When Leo walked through the city that morning, it wasn't that people were better. It was that there were things they couldn't do before. And now they could do them. Leo sat down on the bench again. The buildings were still just as tall. The streets just as straight. No one had changed jobs. No one had disappeared. And yet, the city seemed much bigger. Not because it had grown. But because people could do more things with one another.

With others

Then Leo realized something that grandfather had never explained to him. All the words Manolo sang started with con- or com-. And it was no coincidence. Con meant with others. To share was to do it with others. To understand was to do it with others. To comfort was to do it with others. To build was to do it with others. None of those capacities could exist in solitude. None. Not a single one.

That's why grandfather had chosen them. That's why he sang them to the rhythm of his steps. That's why he said that with those one could already live. Because the most human capacities begin with con— because none of them can exist without another human being by one's side. And that's why, when the cards were stuck onto the posters, the posters began to shrink. Because the con- words don't need flattering portraits. Nor endless titles. Nor giant numbers. They need free hands. They need bodies that can draw close. They need another.

Continue

That summer Leo went back to his grandfather's village. Manolo was waiting for him on the porch. He could no longer walk through the fields. But from the porch you could still see the wheat moving in the wind. Your cards ran out, Leo. Yes, Manolo. And they worked. Leo thought carefully before answering. At first he didn't know. Now I think they did. The grandfather nodded slowly. Tell me about them.

Leo sat down beside him. And he began to say out loud the grandfather's eleven words, to the rhythm that Manolo always kept with his feet when they walked. Share. Company. Compassion. Understanding. Complicity. Commitment. Community. Connect. Console. Contain. Build. The grandfather closed his eyes and smiled all over his face. When Leo finished, he added one more word. Very slowly. Continue.

Grandfather opened his eyes. That one wasn't there. No. Which one is it. To continue, Leo repeated. I learned it in the city. Grandfather remained silent for a long while. Tell me. Leo thought about it carefully. It's what I do when I say your words. I don't say them because they are mine. I say them because they are yours. And when someone says them after me, they won't be theirs either. They will be yours and mine and those of who come after. To continue is what we do with the words of others so they keep doing what they did when they were theirs.

Grandfather nodded very slowly. Then he reached for Leo's hand. He found it. He squeezed it hard. So that word can't be done alone either, Leo. No. It starts differently. But it means the same thing. Yes. The wind moved the wheat a little harder. And it seemed to Leo that the box, even though it was empty, had filled up once again.