Archive for the ‘Dialogue and Current Events’ Category
As you may have gleaned from the last post, the state of the U.S. is troubling me on a deep level. It has, among other things, left me with no stomach for dialogue—a very strange position for the host of a website called The Dialogue Venture.
This made more sense to me in the immediate wake of the presidential election. A seismic shift like the election of Donald Trump takes some processing. But it’s now December and I still don’t want to talk.
I may, however, be starting to figure out why. And the reasons may bump into some of America’s deepest divides like a dentist’s drill on a raw nerve.
(Warning: some of what follows may induce eyerolling and the no shit, Sherlock response. I will completely understand. More than that, you may know from experience that I’ve got some important stuff in here totally wrong. If that’s true, please tell me.)
Here’s the thing: Reaching out to others in dialogue is a vulnerable act. Just saying “I want to dialogue with you” requires that we let our guard down. This is difficult enough when we do it from a position of strength—when the balance of power is at least equal (or tips to our side), when we feel safe and stable, when we perceive no threats on the horizon.
It’s nearly impossible when those strengths are missing.
As I wrote in my last post, no one who feels disrespected—or invalidated, or invisible, or in any way marginalized—wants to talk with their disrespecters. More broadly, no one wants to talk when they sense a clear and present danger in their environment, when opening up to dialogue carries a high risk of yet another, deeper wound. Only the saintly or heroic can even think of reaching out when vulnerable.
Before November 8—as a white, suburban, straight, genderfluid person—I perceived myself as in a position of relative strength or stability. Yes, people could mock my gender identity, but they were usually strangers and their voices were few. The election of Donald Trump, with his chronic denigration of others, has changed that. Suddenly being different—or even welcoming difference—leaves one open to disrespect and, sometimes, much worse.
It feels like a dark place. And yet there is one fascinating glimmer of light. I wonder if my sense of vulnerability is a teeny-tiny glimpse into the world of so many who have been disrespected every day, all day long, for decades, even centuries.
This feels like what I’ve read about the experience of African Americans, and why many of them view white people’s efforts to reach across divides with distrust and suspicion. This feels like what I’ve read as the reasons for separatist movements. This feels like what I know personally, from my experience as a genderfluid person, as frustration with having to explain, over and over again, who I am and why I am, when people who fit the cultural mold never have to explain. (To make things even more complicated, I know that sometimes it’s really important that I do explain myself, as I wrote here.)
Now, looping back to what I wrote last week:
No one who feels disrespected wants to dialogue with their disrespecters—and we all feel disrespected.
This apparently includes supporters of Mr. Trump. We have all heard the narrative: for a sizable chunk of the U.S. population—many of them middle or working class, living in rural areas, scraping to get by—the impact of global trends has been brutal. Their wages have stagnated, at best, for decades. No one in power, according to this view, is listening to them.
So if they get approached by an affluent professor from a big city, saying, “I want to dialogue with you,” why would they want to?
Now in fact some researchers—like Katherine Cramer from the University of Wisconsin—have made this work. That doesn’t obviate the fact that, for many of us right now, curling into our own worldviews and living there awhile sounds pretty good.
I don’t know what to do with all this. One imperative seems clear: if people don’t want to dialogue right now, we need to respect the living hell out of that. They have some very good reasons. Maybe the only thing we can do now is one-half the hard work of dialogue: shut up and listen.
Right after the U.S. presidential election, the dialogue field seemed to launch itself into activity. A November 14 post on the blog of the National Coalition for Dialogue & Deliberation proclaimed that “dialogue & deliberation is more critical than ever” and invited professionals to share their post-election activities. Based on the 34 responses in the Comments field—a huge number for most blogs these days—there’s a lot going on.
I’m sure some of this activity, even most of it, will prove fruitful in some way. Yet I cannot shake the gut feeling that we, as a field, are missing a very, very big point.
Specifically, I wonder if our prospects for authentic dialogue—at least on the national, global, policy, big-issue levels—have turned very dark indeed. I wonder whether the obstacles to further dialogue have become insurmountable, at least in the short term.
Here’s why I’m wondering this:
- It’s unclear to me that Trump supporters want to dialogue at all. Several disparate observations lead me to this.
- Over several months, on my own social media feed, I put out several calls for Trump supporters to share the thinking behind their support. I received thoughtful, in-depth answers from precisely two people. Everyone else, even when approached directly, gave me evasions at best.
- Separate from this effort, I’ve noticed that social media comments and posts from Trump supporters are nearly free of original content. (Before you think I’m jumping to the conclusion that Trump supporters are stupid, see point 2 below.)
- In mainstream media, buckets of ink have been spilled reporting (and in some cases publishing research) on why Mr. Trump has attracted so much enthusiasm. There are many reasons why “the media” may have missed the whys and wherefores of this support. But could one of them be that many Trump supporters simply do not want to talk about it?
- In NCDD (where I just finished two terms as a board member), we have long bemoaned the dearth of conservative voices among our membership. Some have pondered whether dialogue is a “liberal thing.” At the recent biannual conference, I don’t recall talking with anyone who supported Mr. Trump.
- No one who feels disrespected wants to dialogue with their disrespecters—and we all feel disrespected. I’ve noticed this within myself since November 8: amid all the talk of “reaching out to Trump supporters” to try understanding them, I want someone to reach out to me. Do Trump supporters feel the same way? Have they felt the same way for a long time? A corollary of this is “explanation fatigue”: people in marginalized groups often find themselves having to explain who they are and why they are, so putting the onus on them to explain themselves again in dialogue just adds to their sense of otherness and disrespect.
- The fissures are so much deeper, and more ancient, than we thought. I’ve been reading an in-depth history of the U.S. between 1788 and 1800, when factions and partisanship first became part of the political landscape. Some aspects of that history are so very familiar: a divide between city and country (link to brilliant and profane article on this topic here), between centralized government and small government advocates, between slave owners and abolitionists. I have no doubt that you could trace these divides much further back as well. Yes, the rise of Mr. Trump may be about immigration or economic opportunity in 2016—and these issues are important—but they do not begin to explain the divides of centuries. I don’t see our current attempts at dialogue even beginning to address this.
- In a post-truth society, we have nothing to dialogue with. The very nature of dialogue implies a search for truth of some kind: the truth of the other person’s experience, at least, if not some kind of transpersonal truth (e.g., gravity exists, slavery is universally wrong). We dialogue because there are truths we don’t know, either about the other or about the world. Mr. Trump’s campaign seems to have ushered in an era where one can say anything, claim anything, without regard for the accuracy or truth value of that statement. What then forms the content of our conversation? It can be anything, it can go anywhere, without regard for reality. This is not dialogue. It is not even conversation.
I dearly hope someone will read this and explain precisely why I’m wrong. I would love to think that dialogue efforts can proceed as they did before November 8—the same tools, the same techniques, the same spirit and attitude—just accelerated. But I don’t see it. What do you see?
Last week in this space, we discussed “a time for dialogue and a time to shut up.” In line with my contemplative nature, I’ve opted for the latter recently, sitting in silent prayer with the wreckage of the U.S. presidential election and seeing what bubbles to the surface.
What has bubbled to the surface is impatience.
I’ve had no use for rehashing the results or joining in the collective fury of many people on the left. I have turned my attention away from analysis, predictions, commentary, and punditry of all types. Weirdest of all, my colleagues are mobilizing for dialogue efforts, and I just can’t join them.
What I do want—what in fact I’m craving—are facts.
I have little interest in what Mr. Trump says at this point, but I want to know what he does. Right now, it’s all about who he appoints to his administration: their qualifications, their temperament. On January 21, it’ll be about the policies he pushes, the executive orders he signs, the treaties he abrogates (or doesn’t). Don’t tell me what it means; don’t tell me what you think about it; just give me the facts.
The other day, I realized that my hunger for “just the facts” is part of something bigger. It’s a craving for truth—or at the very least, an unblinking pursuit of truth.
I’m craving truth because I’ve barely heard any for more than a year now. Mr. Trump has built a history of chronic, continual lying. Secretary Clinton is hardly simon-pure herself. Social media is littered with memes and news stories with next to no truth value. Each side is armed with its own “facts,” to which it clings regardless of evidence to the contrary.
But here’s the thing: dialogue’s value is greatly diminished if we don’t care about truth.
Yes, we can still dialogue to understand one another, to glimpse another’s pain and struggles up close, to foster empathy. That’s still terribly important. But if the point is to work together on society’s problems—what professionals call deliberation—forget it. You can’t agree on what to do if you don’t agree on what’s happening.
Some people might raise objections at this point. No one can uncover absolute truth (if it even exists). My truth is different from your truth. What’s more important is common understanding. Etc. There’s merit in these points, to be sure.
But to dismiss the pursuit of truth entirely is wrongheaded. Consider: Gravity exists. Slavery is wrong. Smoking causes cancer. There was a point at which all of these points were not regarded as truth. Now they are. Over the eons, we have learned things about the cosmos, and we assert those things as true, because we have inquired into the truth of the matter.
This pursuit of truth energizes dialogue. Here’s what I wrote in my book:
The whole point of raising [the commitment to truth in a book on dialogue] is its power to bring us together. When we are passionate about truth—not truth as we see it, but truth in itself—we eagerly seek out anyone whose perspective might shed light on that truth. That draws us into an exploration of diverse ideas with other people. In other words, truth seeking as a habit of the heart draws us straight into dialogue.
So for now, for me, facts first. Pursuit of truth first. There’ll be plenty of time for the essential work of dialogue—later.
You may find the title of this post somewhat odd, especially for a blog about dialogue. But the aftermath of the U.S. election has brought up some things for me, and they have to do with silence.
Silence looms large for me. For years I’ve been practicing contemplative prayer, in which we sit silently before God, opening our hearts wide to the susurrations of the Spirit. This practice has changed my life in all kinds of difficult and wonderful ways.
Not surprisingly, then, silence has been my go-to place since November 9, when the wreckage of this savage, unending campaign became all too apparent.* I was not ready to take up the facile calls for “healing” and “reconciliation” that pop up at the end of every campaign. To me, this earth-shaking event required serious reflection. So I opted for a season of silence and introspection—or, as I wrote on Facebook, “just sitting before God with the damage we have wrought.”
One side effect of silence is that you start to notice things. In the past week, two things have come to mind.
For one, I’ve been dumbstruck by how, as a collective culture, we never shut up. Not ever. Right on the heels of the election came a torrent of words: angry rejoinders, petitions, redoubled commitments to causes, new strategies for dialogue as a response to the election, and yes, the usual calls for unity. All of them facilitated by the relentless 24/7ness of social media.
None of these are bad things in themselves. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’re the very stuff of our life together, and certainly of a robust democracy. But in that maelstrom, the value of silence easily gets lost.
So does the value of the other thing that’s come to mind: simply living with the “negative” for a while. Many commentators would like to speed past the rage, fear, and dread to get to new plans and initiatives and countermeasures for a brighter future. Again, Lord knows, we need plans and initiatives and countermeasures. At some point.
But when we sit with the “negative,” I think, we tap into a deeper place from which our actions became more heartfelt, more authentic, and maybe more fruitful.
For example: In my reflections over the past eight days, my horror has moved to lamentation—which connects me deeply to the prophets of the Hebrew scriptures. Large swaths of their writings are consumed with bewailing the utter ruin of their beloved Jerusalem in 587/586 B.C.E. Some of the psalms written in this period paint a terrifying picture of loss, despair, and rage.
We postmoderns don’t like this sort of thing. We want to get right to the good stuff. But the prophets teach us that dwelling with suffering connects us deeply to life as it is, and to others who suffer (which is all of us). When billions of our human compadres suffer daily, don’t we do well to get (as the prophet Isaiah writes) “acquainted with grief”? What deep wells of compassion and empathy for others might be tapped when we live with suffering ourselves?
Maybe this difficult silence is only for me. Maybe we really need millions of hands on deck, right now, to start changing things for the better, fend off the tide of racism, etc. But maybe we need some of this silence too. I know I do. What about you?
*Full disclosure: I have been truly interested in seeking dialogue with Trump supporters, and I still am: their sense of feeling left behind, to name one thing, has been massively underheard over the past 20 years. At the same time, I see the election of Mr. Trump as a travesty, and since understanding that view is essential to understanding this post, I’m admitting it here.
Political lies used to imply that there was a truth…. Evidence, consistency and scholarship had political power. Today a growing number of politicians and pundits simply no longer care. They are content with what Stephen Colbert, an American comedian, calls “truthiness”: ideas which “feel right” or “should be true.”
—“The Post-Truth World: Yes, I’d Lie to You,” The Economist, September 10, 2016, p. 18 (emphasis mine)
My social medium of choice, Facebook, has been a disturbing place of late—even more than usual. A particular meme formula is appearing more frequently as we get closer to the U.S. presidential election. It goes like this:
- Photo of something outrageous (especially if it casts the candidate you don’t like in a negative light)
- Headline so outlandish it’s guaranteed to get attention
- Name of the source
People share these things in a blink. They’re so juicy that you can barely resist clicking through. If you stop to read the source line, though, you might detect a fly in the ointment: it usually reads something like (and these examples are made up) downwithfilthycapitalists.org or freedomfrommuslims.edu. Many of these sources excel in making up news, distorting it to their own ends, or at least disseminating stories without any regard for their truth value.
In the post-truth culture described by The Economist, where we don’t care about the facts, that makes perfect sense. But it presents a massive problem: there is no way—no way whatever—that we can run a society on that basis.
So we need to care like citizens and think like journalists.
The caring-like-citizens part is fairly straightforward. We realize that without a consensus on the facts behind an issue—or at least the orientation to care about the facts—we cannot begin to dialogue about the wicked societal problems that are far too big for one person, or one interest group, to overcome. Caring about an issue and the truth associated with it, then, becomes an act of good citizenship.
Now, thinking like journalists. Good journalists take nothing for granted. They check and double-check their sources—on everything. As the old saw goes, “If your mother says she loves you, verify it.”
Time was when good journalists, and the reputable media that employed them, were plentiful enough to ferret out truth from nonsense for us in many cases. That’s not as true anymore, thanks to budget cuts, failing newspapers, etc. So now we have to be our own journalists, or at least our own fact checkers.
How? There are at least three ways we can do it, and I’ll describe them in the next post. For now I’ll leave you with one thought: when I say “we need to care like citizens and think like journalists,” I mean everyone. Me. You. Your neighbor down the street. We need all hands on deck to work through our thorniest problems, which means that collectively we must put the post-truth trend behind us. As Daniel Patrick Moynihan famously said, “Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but not his own facts.”
What does it mean to make America great again?
As much as anything else in Donald Trump’s campaign, his supporters seem to glom onto this one big idea, or parts thereof. So it’s worth looking at. And if you look at it hard enough, you realize each word raises questions, such as:
Which vision of America are we talking about? Listening to Trump supporters, I think many of them are focusing on the America that, once upon a time, held out the promise of a secure, prosperous life. As the story goes, you could get out of high school, get a job at the plant, work there for 40 years, and save enough to provide a great life for your family—a nuclear family, in a neighborhood, where everyone knew everyone else and lent a hand in times of need. That’s a compelling story. No wonder people want to get it back again.
But there are other Americas. There’s the America in which success came only to white people of European origin. There’s the America whose interventions in global affairs have wreaked havoc as much as they’ve borne fruit. There’s also the America I cherish: the America of vast natural beauty, a bedrock belief in liberty, and the inspiring (if sometimes annoying) can-do spirit. Which are we talking about?
What on earth do we mean by great? Look again at the visions of America described above (and add your own). Which were great? Was there ever a time when America was nothing but great (as the slogan seems to imply)?
Meanwhile, the word again implies that America was great at one time; which era would that have been? Would it be the America of the 1950s: a massive engine of economic opportunity and systemic racism? Do we mean the America of the 1940s, with its spirit of self-sacrifice and horrifying (though necessary) world war? What about the 1920s, with its sunny optimism and Prohibition?
Of all the words in this slogan, I see this one as the most seductive—and the most dangerous. Make implies that we can return to a great America (however the hell you’re defining it) simply by force of will. That ignores the global, impersonal mega-forces that have changed the world beyond recognition: the massive flight to cities, which changes social norms; the yawning gap between the skills of many U.S. workers and the skills demanded by the fast-changing marketplace; the constant drive for businesses to streamline workforces and cut costs; the continuing impact of automation and the rise of artificial intelligence, which eliminates jobs; etc. Etc.
Notice something about this. None of these trends is anyone’s fault. All of these trends are far beyond the ability of one person, or group, or even nation to change. Seen in this light, make looks like a mirage.
As a siren song, make America great again is compelling: many Americans have lost a lot amid the world’s changes. But as a prescription for action, it sputters. I would rather we seek a way forward in the world as it is than try—and fail—to return to what was.
Last week we started evaluating Donald Trump’s stated positions in light of facts and sober analysis (at least the best I could find). As it turns out, his immigration policy is way too big for one post, so for the time being, let’s look at one of its cornerstones: building a wall on the Mexican border—in part to stop all those dangerous Mexican criminals from entering the U.S.
(Warning: there is math involved, and math is not my strong suit. If it’s yours, and you spot a flaw in my calculations below, please speak up.)
Trump’s statement claims that “for many years, Mexico’s leaders have been taking advantage of the United States by using illegal immigration to export the crime and poverty in their own country.” He supports his claim with this statement:
In 2011, the Government Accountability Office found that there were a shocking 3 million arrests attached to the incarcerated alien population, including tens of thousands of violent beatings, rapes and murders.
For starters, the figure is wrong. The GAO study estimates 1.7 million arrests for 2.9 million offenses (apparently you can be arrested for multiple offenses at the same time, a fact I have no intention of verifying firsthand). It also attributes these offenses to 249,000 alleged offenders—or, as the GAO calls them, “criminal aliens”—for an average of about 7 arrests per offender.
Sounds like a bad lot, and it probably is. But wait. The “incarcerated alien population” doesn’t include just Mexicans. Neither does it say anything about the behavior of undocumented Mexican immigrants in general. We need more “facts and sober analysis.”
As it turns out, data on Mexican criminal aliens are hard to come by, but we can make some educated guesses. Start by assuming, just for the moment, that all 249,000 alleged offenders in the above paragraph are undocumented Mexicans. The Pew Research Center estimates that 6.2 million undocumented Mexicans lived in the U.S. during 2011. That would put the number of all “criminal aliens” at 4% of all undocumented Mexicans in the U.S. If Mexicans make up half of all undocumented immigrants, and we apply that to our percentage, we’re down to 2%.
By comparison the total number of U.S. residents arrested in 2011, according to the FBI, was about 9.5 million—or 1% of the U.S. population. Not exactly a significant difference.
The Lessons We Might Draw from This
Everyone would agree that keeping criminals from other countries out of the U.S. is a good thing. But in terms of crime, at least, Trump’s solution sounds like massive overkill.
More troubling is this: Trump hangs essentially his whole case on this statistic—and it clearly doesn’t say what he says it does. Worse, the fallacy of his “shocking 3 million” claim, together with his wild profusion of other claims, lend weight to the charge that Trump just makes it up as he goes along, pulling statistics out of the air, without heed for accuracy.
Yes, I know. Candidates have used isolated statistics to prove dubious points since…well, probably since there have been candidates and statistics. But Trump has raised this game to another level, apparently citing random statistics as support for extreme, even dangerous, positions. That means he deserves special scrutiny.
Put another way, we have to find out to what extent the emperor has no clothes. Do all his positions rest on erroneous or obsolete facts? We’ll see.
Today we bring you a public service courtesy of The Dialogue Venture.
The most disturbing aspect of the U.S. presidential campaign, for me, is how unhinged from reality it has become. Truth and nuance are casualties of most campaigns, but this year I see a widespread assumption that opinions matter and truth does not. The obligation to back up one’s rhetoric with facts and sober analysis is gone.
When things get unhinged, you fix the hinge. So let’s try.
For starters, I strolled over to the website of the man most blamed for unhinging the campaign, one Donald J. Trump—specifically, to his Positions page. The first thing that struck me was the number of issues on which he’s articulated positions here: five. Just five. All of them are issues worth exploring: immigration, the Second Amendment, others. But the gaps are, well, huge: nothing on the economy in general, foreign policy, race….
Putting that aside, I dove into his China policy. As a cornerstone of that policy, he promises that “on day one of the Trump administration the U.S. Treasury Department will designate China as a currency manipulator” (underlining in the original). This action, says the policy statement, will “force China to the negotiating table and open the door to a fair—and far better—trading relationship.”
How much of that makes sense? Let’s look at some facts and sober analysis to find out.
- We’ve done this before, and it didn’t work. The U.S. Treasury slapped China (as well as Japan and Taiwan) with the currency manipulator tag in the late 1980s and early 1990s. As Foreign Policy’s Joshua A. Keating reported, all three shaped up: they “made ’substantial reforms to their foreign exchange regimes’ after the negotiations, and were removed from the list after their ‘currencies appreciated and external trade balances declined significantly.’ However, the U.S. trade deficit with China…has increased every year since 1988. Evidently, the labeling in the early 1990s didn’t do the trick.”
- It’s not clear whether China is still manipulating its currency. You manipulate currency to keep its exchange rate But from 2005 to 2013, China’s currency (the renminbi) rose 35 percent. No one really knows whether the renminbi is still undervalued. Even if it is, that’s not entirely bad: it allows U.S. consumers to buy Chinese goods at cheap prices, among other things.
- Mitt Romney made the same promise in 2012. Trump may think himself forceful and leader-like by making this pledge, but he’s not original.
Based on all this, it seems Trump aims to provoke China—perhaps the world’s second-greatest military and economic power—over an issue that may have gone away some years ago.
Why did I do this research? Because it’s nearly impossible to dialogue, let alone collaborate on policymaking, without a common understanding of the facts. When we disagree on facts, we do well to dig deeper and sort them out. When we ignore facts entirely, we can move in directions that may be not only irrelevant, but catastrophic.
I’m going to try doing this with his other positions. Perhaps I’ll find that some of them are solid and thoughtful. I hope so. Based on Trump’s public record so far, I doubt it. But let’s see.
Last night, BBC’s World News America led with yet another story on the suffering in Syria. I was reluctant to watch it—not because I don’t care about that horrendous conflict, but because it was yet another story.
How much news from Syria, or from anywhere, do we need? How much can we take? Is there a point at which we “get the point” and can skip the following stories with impunity? How many of the “following stories”?
Let’s start with basic attitudes toward news. For me, the news is required reading/viewing. I try to write with nuance about some difficult and complex issues, and there’s no way to do that without a great deal of input, both hard news and diverse analysis. For others, news might guide them in how to vote, which charities to support, or where to roll up their sleeves and help out.
My understanding of my faith also plays a role. It tells me that every human being bears the image of God, and that God cares deeply, massively, for those who suffer. So I’m called to care deeply for them too. The way I can connect with their stories, their situations, is (in part) through the news.
News is everywhere these days. We have 24/7 news stations. A myriad of websites are always available, always telling stories. Some of us throwbacks still get the newspaper every day.
The problem is, the macro-level stories and issues take time to develop—usually months or years. So these news media, needing something to fill the space, tell slight variations of the same story from one day to the next.
It’s a barrage.
And with each day’s news, the decision comes up again—especially in stories that involve suffering. Watch too many of these, and we risk becoming desensitized. There’s a limit to how much we can take. It’s why a lot of people either check out entirely or (as I’ve done) go on news fasts.
On the other hand, maybe the next story provides an insight I never had before. Or the story on suffering in Syria tells (as it often does) of this mother in that city who has lost x children in the conflict. If I miss the story, I lose the insight, or I fail to connect with this particular divine image bearer.
Of course, this isn’t just true of news from faraway lands. How many stories about our local homeless folks do we need to hear before the same difficult decision—to watch or not to watch this segment, on this night—faces us?
Ultimately, we make the decision story by story, day by day. And I don’t think it gets easier. Have you found a good way to absorb news stories without going to overload? How much news do you need?
My opinion on government gun policy is starting to shift. That shift fills me with dread—and the reason, I think, may say a lot about why dialogue is such a hard sell.
Let’s start with my own biases. Temperamentally, I am as close to pacifist as you can get without actually being pacifist. Guns hold no appeal for me whatever (beyond the curiosity I have about pretty much everything). I grew up on Bambi. For most of my life, then, my thoughts on gun control were pretty much a default on the pro side.
But recent events have nudged me into more reflection. My experiments with gun dialogue (last month and in 2012) put me in contact with gun owners and their stories about why they value their guns, the enjoyment of pursuits associated with guns, the security they feel in owning a gun and knowing how to use it. Moreover, after pondering the Second Amendment, I can see how the standard gun owner’s interpretation may have some merit.
Bottom line: I can still support commonsense measures like background checks and waiting periods. But now, whenever cries to reduce gun ownership permeate the public square, I can’t quite join in—as much as my Bambi instinct still wants me to.
But this post is not about guns. It’s about why the shift scares me.
There are several reasons, but one towers above them all: some of the most important people in my social network—dear friends, immediate relatives, colleagues who might influence the course of my career—are vociferously anti-gun. I can think of a family member whose wisdom and love I would not do without…a colleague whose family has suffered several murders due to gun violence…a Catholic writer who shares many of my sensibilities but whose wrath grows with each mass shooting.
Will they abandon me now that I’m expressing a different opinion, even if just slightly different?
You might argue that it’s unlikely, and you’d probably be right. But in our current culture, friends and colleagues do part ways over disagreements like this. Consider the “harmonious” traditional family that fractures when a daughter comes out as gay, or good neighbors who find themselves on opposing sides when a casino comes to town. The notion that “if they abandon you over this, they weren’t real friends (or colleagues, or loved ones) anyway” is far too simplistic.
Now consider that I feel this dread strongly enough to hold my tongue around certain people—and I’m a dialogue person. How can I expect folks who are unfamiliar with dialogue to enter in when the risk is so high: when they might lose not only their basic convictions, but even their friends? How can those of us who care deeply about dialogue demonstrate that, in fact, the reward is worth the risk?