Back home in Arkansas on Saturday evening, everything was as it should’ve been: dinner on the table and lively political banter roaring back and forth across the dining room.
At some point in the process — I’m not sure whether we were talking about Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, the parties’ national conventions, gun control or immigration policy — my wife’s eyes glazed over, her mind escaping to a world where no one cared about politics or ever, ever talked about them. Later, a topic that revealed some disagreement between my parents and I rose to a crescendo, causing my 7-year-old daughter Zayley to interrupt.
“You guys please stop fighting,” she said.
My mother very quickly, and very accurately replied, “Honey, we’re not fighting. We’re not mad at all. Listening to each other is how we learn to understand each other.”
At first, she looked puzzled, even disbelieving. But then she nodded and said, “OK. Continue. I’m listening.”
Whether she understood or cared about the politics, at this point, is of little concern to me. What I hope stuck, however, was what my mom told her.
Politics, religion, sports, it didn’t matter. When I came up, I was taught to question everything, research everything through credible sources and never co-opt someone’s beliefs without first being able to articulate their merit. Because the rule was “If you don’t know why you believe something, then you don’t really believe it.”
In my household growing up, no one was above cross examination. We did not assume just because the preacher said something it was biblical. We got the reference and looked in the Good Book ourselves. I was taught to ask about rules I didn’t understand and be leery of anyone unwilling to explain them. When I declared, at age 8, what presidential candidate I “supported” in the 1992 election — which just so happened to be the one for whom my parents voted — I had to give them three policies of his I supported and why before they would take me seriously. It was a tall order for an 8-year-old, and my understanding certainly matched my wanting maturity level at the time, but I suppose I did it to their satisfaction.
The dinner table was often where we took our political, social, religious and sports fandom stances out for a spin, engaging in spirited, productive and respectful debate between swallows. Sometimes we changed each other’s minds on subjects. Sometimes not. But we always strengthened our own understanding of our positions in the process and, most importantly, sought to understand each other’s differences.
Maybe as my wife and I attempt to teach these principles to our three daughters, we’ll find a less intense way than the one I learned. But the core tenets will remain: Know what you believe, respect others’ right to disagree and learn more about yourself and others from that disagreement. Otherwise, I suppose, it’s just noise.
Zack Plair is the managing editor for The Dispatch.
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