I took a vision test over Winter Break because I noticed myself struggling to see my friends’ faces as they approached me down the street or across the Diag. While their features would meld together, leaving me questioning their identity, a quick evaluation of their gait would soundly confirm or deny my suspicions. The trudge of their feet, the size of their stride and the swing of their arms combine to form a unique identifier of each of my friends, so that I can confidently shout their name without straining my eyes.
In fact, our ability to recognize people based on their gait, even in the absence of familiar clues, has been scientifically examined, so I know I am not alone in this phenomenon. Beyond enabling me to pick my friends out from a crowd, gaits are analyzed in forensics for suspect identification, and they are also clinically monitored to study nervous-system conditions like Parkinson’s. In both of these cases, variability plays a role, not only in the distinctions between individuals that allow us to use gait as an identifier, but also in the differences within an individual’s lifetime.
Ultimately, I think gait analysis is so prevalent because it is so easily perceived by the public. When I research personality traits linked to walking, articles suggest that faster paces imply skills in problem solving, whereas shorter steps combined with a head held high signals charisma with a hint of narcissism. While this does feel like pseudoscience to me, it is a testament to the public perception and shared understanding of our walks. And these theories perhaps speak more to the fact that we implicitly make assumptions about people based on the way they walk.
I love the quirks of my friends. Their walks make sense to me. But I knew their personalities before becoming so accustomed to their gaits, so, to me, the bounce of their steps is an extension of their personality, simply because I subconsciously associate each of them with their own walk so strongly. And while I do love to nail a walk-through imitation, I also have never thought of my walk as a distinctive identifier.
That is not to say that I haven’t thought about the mechanics of my walking. Running track in high school had me researching possible causes for every slight leg ache I endured, so I spent hours reading about the causes of tendonitis and bursitis (notably I never suffered from either condition). My investigations made me cognizant of my flat feet and overpronation and all of the injuries that could arise from those conditions. Yet scrubbing WebMD was a pastime when I was bored, an activity that occupied the last few minutes of my day before I fell asleep, not a conscious thought I had while walking.
It wasn’t until I developed an autoimmune reaction that attacked my nervous system last year that I was forced to actively think about my gait. Over the course of a month, walking became more and more strenuous, and once feasible walking distances left me exhausted. Not knowing anything was seriously medically wrong with me, I simply noticed that the act of walking required a lot of mental energy and focus. And my symptoms provided excellent source material for online investigations.
However, I eventually deteriorated enough to be hospitalized — lacking the balance to walk in a straight line or stand up with my eyes closed. While I have since fully recovered, my fascination with gaits probably stems from my experience of being unable to walk and the recovery process of regaining that ability. It was during this time that I realized, despite not being an athlete by any means, how much I had previously tied agility and coordination to my sense of self. I had no idea that I prized myself for being a fast walker or being coordinated until I was neither and was constantly bumping into things.
Since my neurons have fully healed and I no longer have to actively concentrate on each step I take, I can’t help but focus on the minor details of walking. As I amble on campus, I glance at the walkers around me and I find myself evaluating the alignment of the ankles three steps in front of me. While I don’t notice myself making assumptions about the personalities of these pedestrians, looking for overpronation and supination is a habit of mine — identifying a case gives me a rush of satisfaction (a relatable phenomenon, I am sure).
But I’d rather not turn this reflection inward. I’d prefer to look at other gaits to distract me from thinking about mine — that is, unless I am running late (which admittedly happens often), in which case all of my mental energy is devoted to optimizing my cadence and step size (a balance I like to play around with) in order to maximize the efficiency of my movements. I know I pronate more than I should, something I also try not to think about as I walk, or else I’ll succumb to mental cartwheels of trying to delicately roll my ankles outward to make up for this habit.
After wearing platform Tevas — sandals that have very flat soles and high platforms — my sister once informed me that I pronated more while wearing them. I opted for sneakers for the rest of the week. This past year, I realized my inability to deep squat, a position often referred to as an Asian squat because of its prevalence as a resting position in Asian countries. While I do not remember a time I was able to adopt that position, I immediately yearned for it, and decided that my poor ankle mobility was to blame. I have looked up at-home ankle flexibility exercises and squat progression YouTube videos in a desperate attempt to hold the position simply because others make it look so natural and functional.
I am fascinated by these differences, yet I do not claim them to be significant. While I only identified these quirks by comparison to others, they are also generally imperceptible to the public eye. When I first started writing this piece, I wanted to learn about the cultural and genetic differences in gait, how walking speed is influenced by culture and how my inability to Asian squat was likely due to my sedentary lifestyle. I was focused on the mechanics of walking, things that I felt were more controllable. I was interested in the shoes that people were wearing as I watched them take each step and how their arch support (or lack thereof) likely contributed to their gait. Overall, I was struck by how something so mundane was so closely perceived.
In the fashion world, however, walking is anything but mundane — it is paramount. LSA junior Chloe Manos, vice president of Noir, a fashion runway club on campus, sees walking as a physical expression of art. While my views of campus ankles lament the lack of function of fashionable shoes, Manos is a proponent of fashion over function. Seated across from her, I learned that a model walk is all about creating long lines with body movements, which is achieved by leg crossing (when models step over their midline) and making a C shape with the torso while stepping. I imagine if I learned how to walk like this, I wouldn’t be able to stop the strut, instead constantly monitoring my center of gravity and legs despite the fact that my walk is simply a mode of transport and I am not elevated on a catwalk in front of an audience.
I sought to know more about intentional walking — using your gait to alter your perception. I spoke to LSA junior Will Glasser, previous director of production of Noir, who said the walking styles of models are a component of the overall vision of the show.
“Ultimately at the end of the day, the model is simply a tool for the designer, to get their clothes on something and show it off,” Glasser said.
Glasser was in charge of securing a venue, connecting with production companies and ensuring staff attendance — everything to get the show functional — yet he is not a model, so my investigation into gait and its ties to identity isn’t exactly related to his scope of work, but rather his day-to-day life. Glasser has cerebral palsy, a condition that affects his gait. And Glasser is passionate about both fashion, citing specific designers, runway moments and the way we walk. Learning the facets of the model walk hasn’t changed the way he views other people’s walks, nor revolutionized his own gait — and for good reason.
“It is not me looking at others when I walk down the street, as it is others looking at me, so I am always cognizant of that,” Glasser said.
However, Glasser’s gait didn’t influence his appreciation for runway fashion; he was drawn to it as a means of expression to the world through the showcasing of art.
“It’s not really my gait that impacted my personality or maybe my personality influences my gait, as it is the way people’s perceptions of my gait that they’ve kind of been forced into perceiving because of the way we treat normal people,” Glasser said.
I had focused on a narrow range of gaits, thinking I could discuss the beauty of being able to be identified by a gait we may not even be conscious of, without realizing the downsides of this public perception. In doing so, I eliminated a whole party of pedestrians, those with limps and physical disabilities, who may not share my view of the understatedness of the gait, not only because the physical action of walking is much more deliberate for some, but also because anything deemed out of the ordinary is subjected to additional attention.
“I really do wish that one day I have an identity that is not partly defined by my legs because I do not think it makes me who I am,” Glasser said. And as I sat there asking him to connect his gait to his identity, I realized I was one of many trying to define him by his walk.
Perhaps my attachment to the walk was really that it was a defining characteristic reserved for those who knew a person intimately. Yet, that is only true if the walk doesn’t deviate too far from the accepted standard of normal. I may be preoccupied with my ankle alignment and walking speed, but these are small details that go unnoticed by the general public. My focus on them stems from my personal experience with walking, and these features only stick out when I am actively concentrating on them.
I am reminded that it is a lot easier to celebrate our differences when we aren’t ostracized for them and that the implicit biases we have surrounding gaits can be harmful.
“When we establish something as normal or right, everything else automatically is going to be made ugly,” Glasser said. “It is that ugliness that has really influenced the way I act and the way I treat others, more than it is how ugly I might be.”
Statement Columnist Molly Goldwasser can be reached at gomolly@umich.edu.