When I pull together a group of warring parties to begin a mediation my first message to them is about respect. No matter how you feel about those across the table from you – the rancher, the mining company, the environmentalist, the federal agency, the local business, the community activist – I insist on a level of respect. Number two is listening. If you are to sit at my table you must be able to keep your mouth shut, and hopefully your mind open, long enough for the “others” to explain their needs and wants. That may sound simple but it is actually asking a lot of people who may have been battling each other in court, in the press, or on the streets for a long time, and who may be so frightened and/or angry that their passion is almost uncontrollable. Sound familiar?
These two rules – respect and listen – have been trampled by both sides in the current political debate. I’m disturbed by friends and those I respect who call the “other” despicable, crazy, irrational, evil, believing with every fiber of their being that they are right and reasonable. Why won’t they listen to us, they ask? What more facts, intellect, and moral outrage can we throw at them?
I received an email recently with the subject line: “One More Reason to Hate the GOP.” I deleted it and sunk further into depression. Is that what this is about, piling up reasons to hate? I put myself in the shoes of the “other.” For me the “other” is a Trump supporter, but it’s an exercise for anyone on any side. How would it feel to be scorned, insulted, and laughed at for decades as low life, white trash, rednecks, uneducated ignoramuses who watch reality tv and don’t know what’s good for them, not to mention being victimized by an economy that is making it harder to survive? I’d be mad as hell at those liberal snobs who think they know what’s best and don’t seem to care a hoot about me or want to listen to what I have to say.
A few months ago my husband and I were watching TV and a mouse ran out from under the console, across the carpet and disappeared behind a bookshelf. Mice are a chronic problem, but this brazenness was too much. We suddenly felt the balance of power shifting; we were in danger of losing control in our own house.
“Animal shelter. Tomorrow,” we said in unison. We had been talking about getting a couple of cats, good mousers, for awhile. Our previous pair of shelter cats, Fluffy and Party Boy, were unrelated and never got along. It pained us that they shunned each other, and that when the aging Party Boy disappeared into the arroyo and never returned, Fluffy showed not one trace of sadness, but acted vindicated, as if the house was finally all hers.
Now catless for several years, we had strong opinions about what we wanted: two female sisters. They would love each other. And they would not display some of the undesirable male traits like spraying the sofa and the geraniums. Yes. We had our bottom line. We would take any cats — any age, any color, any length of hair, any number of toes, tail or no tail — as long as they were sisters.