Election Day
Every Election Day, I mourn a friendship killed by political “discourse.”
I met this friend in college. He was brilliant and intense, with a finely tuned sense of humor steeped in Monty Python and Firesign Theater. He was also kind and thoughtful. When I came to Washington, DC, in 1993 for a job interview, my friend—by then a bureaucrat living in Northern Virginia—offered me a futon to sleep on.
One evening, our conversation veered into politics. I mostly just listened as he talked—and talk he did, with breathtaking ferocity. At one point, his phone rang: “Hello? … Oh, hi, Mom. Hey, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of a tirade.” He hung up and jumped right back in.
I’d never given my own political opinions much critical thought before then—like many people, I just followed my parents’ lead. My discomfort at that moment had less to do with the fact that I found myself disagreeing with my friend's views, and more to do with my feeling suddenly trapped in a conversation I wasn't enjoying.
Anyway, I took that job, and I moved to Northern Virginia in 1994. My friend visited often. My wife and I and our three kids enjoyed his company. He was as funny and as smart as ever. He especially engaged my older son with an encyclopedic knowledge of history, the military and world affairs. We didn't do politics much, beyond the occasional passing reference or glancing blow. He did bring collections of news clippings and cartoons that illustrated his political world view—but he rarely spoke about them beyond, “I’ll just leave these with you.”
Fast forward a couple of years. The online universe was rapidly expanding. The Clinton-Dole campaign was in full swing. My friend had started emailing his tirades to every address he could find. He was blogging before blogging was cool.
He wrote with eloquent outrage. He knew his subject and he showed his work. But his words often had a dismissive and one-sided edge. He hurled mean zingers that stung like paper cuts. I don’t mind hearing a viewpoint I disagree with, but I don’t care to be insulted. He invited responses, though—and so, protected by the ether from having to confront him face-to-face, I clicked “Reply All” and shot back with my own dull barbs.
I admit, I aimed more at his tone and style than at the substance of his arguments. (Pot v. kettle, I realize now.) It was quickly apparent I’d struck a nerve, and our friendship had changed. Over the next few months, I repeatedly tried to make amends—but I think he mistakenly heard me apologizing for my opinions, not for having been a jerk about expressing them.
He kept me on his mailing list, though, and I still weighed in on his screeds now and then, trying to stay constructive while stressing my core belief that in what passes for political discourse these days, there’s plenty of spin, hypocrisy, hyperbole and willful ignorance on both sides. I took him to task for name-calling, and for broad-brushing people with political labels.
During one especially overblown media feeding frenzy following a “racially charged” gaffe du jour, my friend raged in a way that, to my ear, made him guilty of the very thing he was raging against. I chimed in and described his logic as (in a word) bigoted.
I think that was the kill shot. Soon afterward, he sent me a formal, businesslike e-mail requesting the return of a book he’d lent me (or a check in lieu thereof). I mailed the book back, along with a brief, conciliatory note. That was maybe 15 years ago. I’ve written him a few times since then, but I’ve never heard back. I still try to keep track of him through mutual friends.
These days I’m reluctant to enter into political conversations, even with like-minded people. In my first year of Facebooking (I joined shortly before Election Day in 2008), I made a few “statements” with my status updates. To what should have been my utter lack of surprise, I regretted it.
So I’m cynical. My only strongly held beliefs are (1) that politics is an inherently corrupt enterprise, and (2) that the crass and cynical manipulation of public opinion through the complicit media is a lousy way to promote the general welfare.
The American political playing field is an ethical desert in a philosophical wasteland with shifting and illusory moral boundaries. We foolishly expect the players to be paragons of personal and civic virtue, even as we gleefully slobber over the salacious details of their downfalls. The corporate media, greedy for advertising dollars, pander to us with equal delight—the Man Behind the Curtain, egging on an endless game of power fueled by shadowy influence, greasy money and cutthroat tactics. Inside, it’s as luridly twisted as a spy novel; outside, it’s as patently, stupidly fake as professional wrestling.
And we totally buy into it, like hormonally stoked middle-schoolers. We counter smug moral flatulence with flaming spitballs of snide hilarity. We click “like” on every bloated claim and twisted statistic, re-tweet every potshot, forward every lie. Politicians call this “a spirited national debate”—their way of saying, “I would sooner crap on the other side’s dinner plate than make peace with them.”
It does make for better television.
I’m still fascinated by the conversation. But unless it’s something I feel passionately about—and frankly, few issues make that cut—I choose not to engage. I don’t believe the “debate” gets us anywhere except more deeply entrenched in our own pigheaded certainties.
I met this friend in college. He was brilliant and intense, with a finely tuned sense of humor steeped in Monty Python and Firesign Theater. He was also kind and thoughtful. When I came to Washington, DC, in 1993 for a job interview, my friend—by then a bureaucrat living in Northern Virginia—offered me a futon to sleep on.
One evening, our conversation veered into politics. I mostly just listened as he talked—and talk he did, with breathtaking ferocity. At one point, his phone rang: “Hello? … Oh, hi, Mom. Hey, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of a tirade.” He hung up and jumped right back in.
I’d never given my own political opinions much critical thought before then—like many people, I just followed my parents’ lead. My discomfort at that moment had less to do with the fact that I found myself disagreeing with my friend's views, and more to do with my feeling suddenly trapped in a conversation I wasn't enjoying.
Anyway, I took that job, and I moved to Northern Virginia in 1994. My friend visited often. My wife and I and our three kids enjoyed his company. He was as funny and as smart as ever. He especially engaged my older son with an encyclopedic knowledge of history, the military and world affairs. We didn't do politics much, beyond the occasional passing reference or glancing blow. He did bring collections of news clippings and cartoons that illustrated his political world view—but he rarely spoke about them beyond, “I’ll just leave these with you.”
Fast forward a couple of years. The online universe was rapidly expanding. The Clinton-Dole campaign was in full swing. My friend had started emailing his tirades to every address he could find. He was blogging before blogging was cool.
He wrote with eloquent outrage. He knew his subject and he showed his work. But his words often had a dismissive and one-sided edge. He hurled mean zingers that stung like paper cuts. I don’t mind hearing a viewpoint I disagree with, but I don’t care to be insulted. He invited responses, though—and so, protected by the ether from having to confront him face-to-face, I clicked “Reply All” and shot back with my own dull barbs.
I admit, I aimed more at his tone and style than at the substance of his arguments. (Pot v. kettle, I realize now.) It was quickly apparent I’d struck a nerve, and our friendship had changed. Over the next few months, I repeatedly tried to make amends—but I think he mistakenly heard me apologizing for my opinions, not for having been a jerk about expressing them.
He kept me on his mailing list, though, and I still weighed in on his screeds now and then, trying to stay constructive while stressing my core belief that in what passes for political discourse these days, there’s plenty of spin, hypocrisy, hyperbole and willful ignorance on both sides. I took him to task for name-calling, and for broad-brushing people with political labels.
During one especially overblown media feeding frenzy following a “racially charged” gaffe du jour, my friend raged in a way that, to my ear, made him guilty of the very thing he was raging against. I chimed in and described his logic as (in a word) bigoted.
I think that was the kill shot. Soon afterward, he sent me a formal, businesslike e-mail requesting the return of a book he’d lent me (or a check in lieu thereof). I mailed the book back, along with a brief, conciliatory note. That was maybe 15 years ago. I’ve written him a few times since then, but I’ve never heard back. I still try to keep track of him through mutual friends.
These days I’m reluctant to enter into political conversations, even with like-minded people. In my first year of Facebooking (I joined shortly before Election Day in 2008), I made a few “statements” with my status updates. To what should have been my utter lack of surprise, I regretted it.
So I’m cynical. My only strongly held beliefs are (1) that politics is an inherently corrupt enterprise, and (2) that the crass and cynical manipulation of public opinion through the complicit media is a lousy way to promote the general welfare.
The American political playing field is an ethical desert in a philosophical wasteland with shifting and illusory moral boundaries. We foolishly expect the players to be paragons of personal and civic virtue, even as we gleefully slobber over the salacious details of their downfalls. The corporate media, greedy for advertising dollars, pander to us with equal delight—the Man Behind the Curtain, egging on an endless game of power fueled by shadowy influence, greasy money and cutthroat tactics. Inside, it’s as luridly twisted as a spy novel; outside, it’s as patently, stupidly fake as professional wrestling.
And we totally buy into it, like hormonally stoked middle-schoolers. We counter smug moral flatulence with flaming spitballs of snide hilarity. We click “like” on every bloated claim and twisted statistic, re-tweet every potshot, forward every lie. Politicians call this “a spirited national debate”—their way of saying, “I would sooner crap on the other side’s dinner plate than make peace with them.”
It does make for better television.
I’m still fascinated by the conversation. But unless it’s something I feel passionately about—and frankly, few issues make that cut—I choose not to engage. I don’t believe the “debate” gets us anywhere except more deeply entrenched in our own pigheaded certainties.
If only we could all just quit taking the other side’s bait, stop with the tirades and insults, admit the fallibility of our opinions, and just talk to each other like … y’know … friends?
Nah.
© 2012 Robert Thurston
Nah.
© 2012 Robert Thurston
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