Etiquette and speaking up

I had the occasion, over the summer, to make some new friends, and to observe myself doing so.  At such moments, I try to present myself more or less unedited. Why spend time together if you can't be yourself with someone?

Conventional etiquette, social rules promoted by my proper Midwestern American mother, dictated avoidance of controversy at the table or other social gatherings—but I wanted to talk about the issues and changes that have jolted us, the storms both political and physical. How can one chat only about light topics (movies, sports, the summer festivals) while our local stadium filled with refugees who cross the Canadian border daily? So I did not.

That's not to say I jumped off the high board, and I do not want to rile my hosts. Sometimes I test the waters, noting, for example, that Bob Dylan, whom we saw in concert in July, chose to croon mostly '40s pop standards until his biting encore, "Blowing in the Wind".

Because I'm a dual US and Canadian citizen, persons I barely know ask me to parse the psyche of the American voter, especially those who ardently support Donald Trump. So I will speak, without expecting agreement.

I find facts an ally. Sometimes I've had to listen more than speak, and have had moments of dislocation. When a friend praised the "refreshing openness" of the US President, I asked this committed environmentalist what he thought of that administration's revoked legislation or reduced enforcement regarding environmental issues.

I find, too, that others want to talk about the difficult, the messy, the incomprehensible. When hosts, signalling they were not afraid of substance, wondered what their guests thought about the removal of a plaque that commemorated Jefferson Davis from a downtown Montréal site, I was grateful.

"Please, Bill," my mother would beg, "don't get into politics tonight." And I do remember some shouting. She was happy to have my father's intelligence (edified by his beloved Chicago Tribune) aimed against certain interests; she just didn't want it to obscure the glories of her roast beef and cherry pie.

My friend Beth, author of the beautifully-written blog the cassandra pages, wrote a post on speaking out, showing up, and replacing handwringing with action. I could not say it better.

Because present-day Nazis and related groups claim their space, stating that they have substantial support from elected officials, I speak. I also try to listen, respect difference, and keep my critical thinking skills sharp. (My antennae go up when I hear, in either official language, "ces gens là"; "those people".)

I have learned how fear, scarcity and insularity affect tolerance. How belief systems implanted early in life may be re-examined, and how much courage it takes for someone to say, "I've changed my mind" or even "I didn't know about that."

Sometimes there's a cost. The fiancée of a family friend decided she'd had enough of biting her tongue during family visits and after years of silence, decided to take her stand. After a rocky visit, she said, "My mother and father are open enough to listen, but my brother won't. I don't hope to change their minds, but I want to be heard."

Pass the peas, and pass the word: the etiquette is abridged, Mom. At the table, I will still eat with my mouth closed, but I will also open it to talk about these times.