greatly to find quarrel in a straw

When I worked in London I was the only female, the only American, and the only person in our office to talk back to our boss. Well, by talk back, I mean argue. He gave me a hard time about being American (especially after President Bush decided 9-11 was an excuse to go to war and take more lives). He gave me a hard time about things that I liked (Starbucks mochas). He always knew what buttons to push, making me ever so glad that we had a long lunch break where a pint was an acceptable meal. Over one glass of ale, I was ranting how Malcolm drove me crazy. To which the quietest of my co-workers said pointedly, but you like it.

He got me. I think I might have choked on a swallow of my beer… but I realized it was stupid to deny it. I like debating… even when it flusters me to confusion. I like arguing about something and stretching my understanding just far enough to make the next testimony against my opponent. And… you know what? I even like that when I’m done I might realize what I was arguing to defend might be wrong.

Do I ever admit that I’m wrong? It might take a while. It might take a dozen of those debates before I let another interpretation of truth seep in. Or those arguments stay with me as I trip through life’s experiences and I see how another person’s truth might hold some validity. In high school I argued ferociously against abortion. I was on the debate team and kept a thick folder of arguments to arm my debates, including the arguments of my opponents… that slowly started to make sense as my life’s path twisted around another corner.

To those of you who read this with whom I disagree, I want you to know, I respect your different opinion. And though I might have to swallow some beer to digest the things you believe, I am glad that you share them. Because it forces me to look at my own arguments and question the validity or stupidity of them. It prompts me to write here. It prompts me to say outrageous things. But it keeps me thinking and gazing through that looking glass to wonder… well, what if it was like something else?

And sometimes that looking glass gives me a reflection of myself, by which I catch myself and realize my rants need some validation. Or… some honesty.

And here’s one thought that has gotten stuck in my brain like a burr that won’t disengage from a cotton sock. I have been called on – on more than one occasion recently– about how I rant about intolerance then turn around and lock my brain in a similar refusal to accept those who see the world differently. Yup. I do that. I know I do. I feel badly… sort of. Maybe it’s just because someone caught me with my hand in the cookie jar that I’m going to fess up. Or maybe it’s because I actually care about my soul having some shred of integrity. 

I acknowledge my hypocrisy. I’m going to admit it. But the thing that really turns my head inside out and inside again like a bad drug trip is trying to appreciate the goodness of allowing the freedom of hate mongering. In one of my debates, someone gave me a morsel of Voltaire (whom I adore), “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” I used to think that. I used to believe that one should live and let live. Not any more. I have shut down my brain about some ideas. Because some ideas should just go away and stop breeding.

I don’t tolerate the spread of hatred. And maybe that is a contradiction of terms, because I basically say that I don’t tolerate intolerance. Maybe that is a black mark against integrity. Maybe that weakens the validity of what I argue. Maybe… that means I don’t love freedom as much. But I do love people. And I love the idea of being kind to another person. I don’t love any thought that uses fear and a misrepresentation of truth as catalysts towards winning. That’s… that’s not presenting a legitimate argument to our debate. Nor do I appreciate ‘humor’ that degrades a person because of race, class, or sexuality. I don’t think there is a place for jokes that trivialize the end of a life. Maybe that makes my mind closed to ideas. But those are ideas I don’t want leeching into my brain tugging at sympathy.

I say again that I respect disagreement. If everyone agreed with everything I thought… well, then I would find some reason to immediately question myself. I just don’t have a place in my mind for argument that is fueled by fear and a lack of information. It doesn’t make me a better person to forgive it. It may make me a hypocrite.  But I would rather be a hypocrite with a smudge on her integrity than a person who lets ignorance and intolerance spin their web in the air unchallenged.  

I wonder what Malcolm would say about that.