On Neutral Ground
About eighteen months ago, in a state of acute anxiety, I ventured into a Yankee beach town to buy a house. My goal was to soften the blow of widowhood. This included escaping the demagoguery of a governor consistently belittling people of my political persuasion—a treachery I could bear when I had a partner who shared my views.
It was on that house-buying trip that I met Bill, with whom I figuratively danced a silent minuet until we established that we were on the same side of the proverbial political aisle. Then we both breathed an audible sigh of relief—mine bigger than his because I had been wondering if I would find like-minded people in this town. I’d been conditioned to believe one must dwell among political allies just to breathe normally. Here was proof that I could find some in Yankeeland.
But after a year in my new home, my views changed. Not my political views, per se, but my ideas on how to engage with politics. How people position themselves on either side of that broad political aisle is no longer the first, fifth, or even fifteenth thing I think about when commingling with folks. I am still steadfast in my leftist views, but no longer enter relationships with my metaphorical sword drawn. No political buttons, T-shirts, or bumper stickers. I answer questions honestly, but don’t expound on my beliefs, or dwell on being correct.
I have another local friend—Ian. We play music together a couple times a month, and he calls me at least once a week just to check in. Shortly after I arrived in the neighborhood, Ian agreed to be the emergency contact for significant others I left behind when I moved here. I know if I’m in a fix, I can call on him for help. I also know he and I are polar opposites when it comes to politics. It’s something we don’t talk much about. But even when the conversation has touched on something political, there’s been no argument. Just a mutual agreement to let it go.
Oddly, this friendship is more sound than the one I’d earlier established with Bill. I believe it’s because politics is not the glue that binds us. Where Bill grouses at length—because I’m a safe person to grouse to—Ian agrees with me that life is too short to spend it grumbling.
Now, there’s definitely merit in having a friend with whom you can grumble. And swear. And feel superior to folks with opposing political viewpoints. But if that’s the basis for the friendship, it can be tiring. It takes a lot of energy to be angry out loud.
And, as it turns out, if you take political commentary out of the equation, it’s easier to discover how many things you have in common with people—especially those across the great divide.
I don’t see much of Bill anymore. The last couple times I saw him, he asked how I can associate so easily with Ian and other mutual acquaintances who are our political opposites. I told him we just don’t talk about it. Bill was mystified.
I’m discovering that when it comes to personal interactions, it’s a mistake to be proudly red or blue. Advertising one’s political allegiance activates electrical current in the aisle so that we dare not cross. Rather than be supercharged, that space between us should be neutral ground. An area where we can shake hands instead of shaking fists. A safe place to meet and say, “I see you. And I like what I see, even when we disagree.”