In early April, during the depths of the “first” quarantine, Phoebe had a series of Vesuvian eruptions, the kind only a teenager can unleash; limbs flailing, snot spraying like lava spouts. Apparently. the Coronavirus was a pox sent specifically to destroy her life, and we were the worst parents in human history. My prompt for clarification about whether she was referring specifically to homo sapiens or any human species was not warmly received.
These tantrums, punctuated by accusations of neglect and threats of self-harm, were both frightening and perplexing. Finally, she would flame out, like one of those extra-long fire place matches, her tall frame crumbling on the bed like ash.
After a few explosive weeks, we boiled the kettle and convened as a family on the patio. We talked and listened for two hours. The early parental refrain, “use your words honey,” never really loses utility.
In the calm embrace of chamomile, Phoebe found her words, channeling emotions into sentences. She felt disempowered, enraged and despairing. There seemed to be no end in sight for the shoddy on-line schooling, the loneliness of social isolation, cancelled plans, and way too much nuclear family.
These acute pressures are suspended on a continuous cortisol drip of worry over climate catastrophe and societal unraveling. Our children have a low-level sense of impending doom, one that I never had as an adolescent chasing balls on various courts. This spectre of Armageddon contributes to a wanton recklessness, often summed up with a flippant “What does it matter anyways? The world is going to end.”
We learned that COVID had stripped Phoebe of what she relies on to maintain a semblance of equanimity; the symbiosis of friendship. Love her as we do, we can’t provide that for her. She finds a solace and shared identity that can be only accessed through her contemporaries. I suppose, we all do.
After a lengthy dissertation on germ theory and social distancing - which, to her credit, Phoebe respectfully indulged - we devised a way for her to merge bubbles with her best friend after they had both quarantined for two weeks.
We created space. She found words as vessels for her feelings. From words, conversation sprung forth. And through conversation, we understood each other and found common ground. The simple is often so hard.
Dialogue is not just a healthy recipe for families.
In many ways, society is having a tantrum right now. We are screaming over each other. Black Lives Matter. All Lives Matter. Wear a mask. COVID is over. Defund the Police. Law & Order.
Indeed, now is the time to step boldly into our civic responsibilities and fight for our convictions, to shorten the arc of the moral universe. At the same time, liberal democracy is predicated on pluralism, a tolerance for a multiplicity of ideas. We need to cultivate public forums for the free, thoughtful exchange of ideas among individuals, such that moral virtue can cream to the top.
Brene Brown says, “People are hard to hate close up. Move in.”
It can be awkward and painful to engage directly with those who we see as adversaries, but these are the exchanges that will truly tip the balance for universal principles. And even when we are tempted to scream on Facebook, can we find the words and the grace to imagine that we are truly face to face? To both listen and make our best and most thoughtfully researched case?
Social media is without doubt an incredible organizing tool. But how can we communicate if we don’t actually talk to one another?
Consider the recent rulings by the Supreme Court in favor LGBTQ rights and the preservation of DACA. The Court can certainly be swayed by political loyalty and there are other significant judgments with which I do not agree. However, the assent for the majority in the Title VII case that protects gay and transgender people in the workplace was written by Neil Gorsuch, a conservative jurist appointed by this administration. This rare modern example of moral clarity taking primacy over political affiliation may not have been possible without the traditions of the Supreme Court, arguably one of the last vestiges of thorough and respectful debate. Indeed, the adjudication of the case itself turned on a nuanced interpretation of the words, “because of sex.”
The power of expansive conversation can bend people’s ideological predispositions.
The atomization and polarization of our society has been intensified by social media, the primary forum through which we “connect.” In a world largely devoid of religious affiliation and hazy national fealty, social media provides us with the opportunity to express our individual “political” identity. And it’s powerful - but dangerous. Our individual humanity is nuanced and complex. And social media, a strange non-consensual psychological experiment, radically tests our inter-relatedness. How can we properly express our identity or deeply held beliefs in 280 characters or less? Is it no wonder that we’re just hollering in an echo-chamber? Ask yourself, would you make that comment if that person was sitting across the table? Is social media expression predominantly private acts happening in public?
The posting of mawkish quote cards and viral memes (of which I am admittedly guilty) are often, at best, performative and, at worst, amplifications of unexcavated ideas. Science and media are imperfect institutions, but they are founded on traditions of rigor. And when they are systemically undermined, when there is no objective or even inter-subjective fact grounding us in a shared understanding of ‘reality,’ we all become easy prey to the hysteria of the moment. It becomes tantalizing to post wobbly notions of conspirituality. How many of us are guilty of posting a meme or slogan and becoming a vector for an idea that we don’t completely understand? I’ve surely done it.
Consider, for example, Defund the Police. On the surface, to some, it feels potentially radical and divisive. Without investigation, the slogan might suggest the complete abandonment of law enforcement, which some do support. But once this policy is thoroughly unpacked and discussed, there is so much common ground to share. Why should police be dealing with the mentally ill, managing domestic disputes or doling out parking tickets? Who could outright reject the reallocation of funding to address homelessness and drug addiction? Whatever your political persuasion, isn’t there a conversation here?
Further, if we took the time to learn the history of American policing and mass incarceration from militias to slave patrols, from the “professionalization” of police post-Prohibition to Nixon’s Southern strategy, from Rockefeller drug laws to the War on Drugs, from the Crime Bill to mandatory minimum sentences, from three strikes to the privatization of prisons; If we had a honest and meticulous discussion about policing and criminal justice, I cannot believe that 95% of people would not believe in wholesale reform.
This is not about gradualism, it is about a systemic change that requires words to both inspire and write law. This is not about compromising beliefs, it’s about committing to them so deeply that you are willing to bear them witness. This is not about arming yourself with vitriolic barbs, it is about fortifying yourself with unassailable rigor.
If we have any hope of actually communicating with one another, the words we use matter.
Call me a dreamer, but I haven’t given up on people’s intrinsic goodness and flexibility. I simply believe that enough of us need to find the patience and the words to have the brave thorny conversations.
The human species is unique in that we can cooperate at scale through the exchange of words. It is communication that has thrust us to the top of the food chain, and its dearth that can transmute us into warring locust swarms. Words matter so much right now.
Seismic upheaval often cultivates fertile ground for deep connection. The soulversation we had with Phoebe in April was the outgrowth of jarring emotional tectonics. What makes a family work also makes a society work. This past 4 months (perhaps 4 years) have been raw and challenging, with hope and despair pulling at both ends of a frayed lace. But don’t we all feel the portent of a generational moment?
Can we sit down around millions of tables, digital and wooden, to speak from the heart and listen with the soul? It’s a tall order. But the alternative looks like a nation of teenagers on a bender. What stands between us and the world our hearts know is possible may be thousands of knotty thoughtful conversations.