Freedom of Speech. That term is often defined as person’s right to articulate ideas and opinions without the fear of government censorship or retribution, or societal sanction. Lost in this, however, is the fact that the responsibility for ensuring that speech can truly be free, lies with the patience and mercy of the listener – not with the force and volume of the speaker.
I often hear people of a certain age, from certain ethnic backgrounds, speak of their kitchen tables as sacred places. For them, this was more than just a place where people ate. For many, the kitchen table was the center of family and social life, a place where critical conversations, important events, and indelible memories were forged.
For me, growing up, our kitchen table was more like a coliseum, or, perhaps, a pitch. Conversation and debate were considered sport in my house. The Table was the field around which that sport was played.
My mother was a Calabrian through-and-through. She worked as a forklift driver, stacking books in a McGraw Hill warehouse. She could slice meat with her words and dismember teamsters with an angry stare. On the other hand, Mom was ferociously loyal. Not only did she think more highly of you than you did, she refused to allow you to settle for anything less than her lofty expectations. She also made the best Linguine al Pescatore on the planet, and, irrespective of age or inclination, always served it with a glass of Chianti (the kind that came in a bottle wrapped in a basket).
My father is Lebanese and a retired schoolteacher. While serving in Germany, he was assigned the dangerous and strategically important role of “entertainer.” As he tells it, he performed for Elvis, beat Tony Bennett in a talent competition and had Ella Fitzgerald sing a song just to him. To this day, when Dad speaks, his point is often much less memorable than his punch line. Romantics might call him a modern day bard. Dramatists might call him a storyteller. My mother preferred the term “B.S.er.” My dad takes his grape leaves stuffed, his kibbeh raw, and his scotch from a plastic bottle.
My mother was the youngest of seven. Dad — the youngest of eleven. Our extended family, comprised of Italians and Lebanese — married to a whole bunch of other cultures in which debate is a contact sport, made for interesting family meals.
Everything was on The Table. Politics and religion blended seamlessly with fatayer sabanegh or zuppa de pesce. Race, sex, and current affairs were mixed with copious amounts of alcohol. Points were debated and ideas were critiqued — as much for their substance as for their presentation. If you made The Table think hard or laugh loud, you got extra points. Stumble over your words, make a point filled with logic-holes, get your facts mixed up; fuhgettaboutit. You became the object of feeding frenzy of one-liners and putdown jokes — all delivered with equal doses of sarcasm and affection.
One time, my Uncle Tubby, a hard-drinking Irishman who worked at an A.C. Delco plant, got into a debate about Mexico with one of my cousins who was an airline pilot. I remember my uncle saying, “Oh sure! It’s easy for you to be on their side. Your job isn’t going anywhere.” Then he turned and put an elbow in my brother’s side, and, with a toothy grin, snickered, “maybe Mr. Big-shot wants to learn Spanish. Not me, kiddo I’m too old to learn another language. I have a hard enough time with this one.”
‘Nuff said. It didn’t matter whether my cousin’s point had merit or not. That argument was over. Everyone sympathized with Uncle Tubby’s fears, if not his actual point. Then The Table moved onto a debate about whether Joe Pisarcik was or was not qualified to hold Ron Jaworski’s jock strap.
On another occasion, my Uncle John, a giant of a man who could eat his own weight in food, suggested that Anwar Sadat got what he deserved, my father screamed out in disgust, “You know what? Your ass is sucking whiskey bottles!”
The Table erupted in laughter. Nobody had any clue what that meant. Dad walked away in disgust. I can tell you, though, every person who was at The Table that evening, and who is still alive today, continues to use that phrase when pointing out any perceived prevarication. Dad lost the battle but won the war. More important, when he came back a few minutes later, he was met with a glass of scotch and a round of applause. He was laughed at. He laughed at himself. All was well. Next subject at that Table: Why do women always go for the gay guy?
I could go on for days, but I will spare you. My goal is not to wax nostalgic, but to point out that the principles that surrounded The Table seem to be ideas that are now missing in our society. People from disparate backgrounds and differing viewpoints can no longer speak their minds AND love one another. It seems we are compelled to do one or the other. There no longer seems to be room at The Table for those who disagree sharply, curse profusely, mock mercilessly, laugh shamelessly, yet love unconditionally.
“Donald Trump supporters are evil, stupid rednecks. Fact. Don’t associate with them.”
“Anyone who would vote for Hillary Clinton is a vile, corrupt, communist. No. We cannot discuss it. Get out.”
“Racism isn’t just alive and well in America; it’s baked into political policy. Don’t believe it? F-you.”
“Why should black lives matter more to me than they do to blacks? F-you too. End of discussion.”
“If you fly that flag you’re a bigot. We’re not staying here.”
“If you have a problem with someone flying this flag you’re a bigot. We don’t want you here.”
Before discussions even begin, battle lines are drawn. The end results find everyone sitting at their own table, talking only to themselves.
This is not at all what our founding fathers envisioned. Our country was never designed to be fragmented into “us vs. them,” or “our way is the only way and you are a terrible human being, dangerous to associate with, if you don’t agree.”
Quite the opposite, our country was built around the concepts of conflict, compromise, and common ground. The primary means to get at these concepts was through sharp debate and the clashing of opposing viewpoints.
Thick skin was a prerequisite. Longsuffering was a byproduct and a virtue.
Argue until the vote. Hold nothing back. If your idea doesn’t prevail, shut up; toe the line; make a more persuasive argument on the next issue.
Historian Ron Chernow, gives us a great example of this. He retells the story of John Adams arguing with Alexander Hamilton. In the thick of it, Adams wrote that Hamilton had “a superabundance of secretions which he could not find whores enough to draw off.”
Drop the mic! Everyone at the table groans. Hamilton slinks away. But then the two Federalists work together to get Thomas Jefferson to agree to the federal government paying off state debt incurred during the Revolution. In return Jefferson gets Washington D.C. as the nation’s capital.
Agree or not, that’s irrelevant.
Conflict. Compromise. Common ground.
They might not have liked each other (history gives us mixed messages on this subject). They often did not agree, but they all understood that, irrespective of their differences, they all actually wanted the best for the country. From that starting point, they would work together and achieve great things.
Somehow this has gone all catawumpus.
Today, if my side loses that must mean the vote was corrupt and everyone who voted against my point of view is stupid and/or evil. Rather than uniting, my side resists, obstructs, and organizes. Divisions widen. Progress slows. Ideas die. Coalitions erode. And democracy devolves into an “every man for himself” scrum.
Republicans have done it. Democrats have done it. Centrists and political agnostics have done it through apathy and antipathy.
I’m sure there are multiple issues that have lead us to this point.
Theologians might argue that our inherent selfishness leads to an unquenchable desire for self-elevation and a passionate distaste for compromise.
Ethicists might argue that generations of children brought up getting participation trophies has lead to a society in which everyone believes themselves to be a winner, but nobody knows how to lose.
Philosophers might suggest that Western societies have elevated independence and self-determination to such a level that everyone sees themselves as a leader and, therefore, nobody is willing to follow.
I’ll let those smarter than me question the source of the problem.
At my house, when arguments got too hot, or feelings got hurt, or someone stormed angrily into the other room, the solution always came in the form of Mom saying something like, “Hey! Lighten up. Have a cannoli.”
And then everyone came back to The Table for yet another healthy dose of Freedom of Speech.
