Eliz

At least about this we can all agree: our politics are more partisan than ever. People with opposing views seem like crazed aliens to one another. The bitter rage frightens me, and not just the rage in other people. I have strong views, myself, and reading certain opinions that clash with mine can make me hyperventilate. I have two questions. Why is my reaction so over the top? And how can I humanize the other side?

I started to think about this more seriously after Trump won the 2016 election, when loathing of the opponent became so extreme. Moved to do something, I tried to find pro-Trump and pro-Hillary voters willing to sit down—in my living room, with some wine, cheese, and a professional moderator—in a joint effort to understand one another. The goal was not to change opinions but only to give a human face to the “enemy.”

My friends, who like me had voted for Hillary, viewed my idea as a doomed and excruciating experiment. They were afraid they’d have a melt-down and want to strangle members of the other side. Understandably, the Trump voters were afraid of being attacked,

Out of options, I decided to try talking with my sister-in-law, Ronnie, a Trump zealot, whom I’d been pretending didn’t exist. I doubted I’d learn much from talking with just one person, but I cornered her at a family gathering. Ronnie cheerfully agreed to both my proposal and its basic rule: only explaining, no arguing. Her mind set became clear with her first answer:

Elizabeth: How do you see the anti-Trump protesters? As sincere? As poor losers?

Ronnie: They’re deluded! They believe things about Trump that aren’t true!”

Immediately, we passed through the looking glass into a world where nearly everything was reversed. Ronnie believed things about Hillary that I  believed weren’t true. For Ronnie, Trump could do no wrong. She viewed him though a rose-colored filter that I didn’t have. As I saw it, she was in love.

We talked for an hour and agreed about nothing, but I came away with a much better feeling about Ronnie—and, by extension, about other Trump supporters. I was touched by her willingness to dialogue and her quick pulling back whenever I stopped her from arguing. Given the completely different set of facts she worked from, I could see the logic in her views. I stopped viewing Ronnie as the enemy—knowing how heady love can be—however deluded I thought she was.

The experience encouraged me not to give up, and, just then, I started reading about a grass-roots organization, Braver Angels, that was holding workshops between Reds and Blues, with the goal of reducing polarization. It seemed to be having success. It relied on volunteers to organize locally; two people, one Red, one Blue, would each recruit seven participants of their persuasion and together find a venue. The organization would supply a coordinator who’d advise the two volunteers and run the workshop. I was in.

The town where my husband I have a weekend house is a semi-rural, coastal area an hour from Boston. It’s a real place, not a resort town, and is equally divided politically: 50-50 Reds and Blues. Perfect!

A friend of a friend agreed to be my Republican partner, and we were assigned a coordinator and a date for the workshop. My partner and I met every Saturday morning to get to know one another and to plan. As with Ronnie, we were on opposite ends of the political spectrum, but we stuck to the rules, and I quickly came to like him.

But I began to get nervous. He was dragging his feet. I’d quickly found my seven participants (as well as many independent observers); he had not yet begun to recruit. The town library turned down my request to host the workshop, but I was luckier with the Quaker Meeting House. I was doing all the work!

Finally, my partner called to say he couldn’t go through with it. “Coming out” politically could cost him his local reputation. He was genuinely regretful and explained what had led to this worry. Hearing his story, I could not be angry. Following his suggestion, I called the head of the local Republican Party, but the result was a near perfect replay. The woman accepted; we met; I did all the work; and she never recruited a single person. With the date of the workshop nearing, I got on the phone, all day every day—for weeks—and managed to recruit two Red participants. I’d been at this for a year and had never tried so hard to do anything in my life, and I failed. You cannot have a workshop, without equal numbers on both sides.

Still, despite the frustration, I’d found the answers to my two questions.

First, I think that we are driven to the edge of madness when we confront opposing opinions based on alternative facts, “facts” that make the views mutually exclusive. If “they” are right, “we” are 100% wrong and vice versa. Most issues about which people disagree are complex and involve differing priorities or perspectives, not the all-or-nothing choice our present politics provides. As a result, it is not just our considered thoughts that are challenged but our sense of reality. What pushes us beyond tolerance is a dispute about knowing the real from the unreal—which is the definition of sanity. There can only be one reality; is it my understanding or your looking-glass version? When someone references alternative facts, we want to scream, “Are you CRAZY? How can you believe such a thing???”

But you can bring yourself back down to earth, if you can tweak those same words to generate a different meaning: “How is it that you believe such a thing?” In other words, how did you come to believe what you believe? The key is to temporarily switch off your outrage by activating your curiosity.

We all come to our opinions because of myriad influences: the political atmosphere in which we grew up, experiences we’ve had at school and work, personal catastrophes, transcendent moments, all the events of our lives that brought us to this moment. In the other’s shoes, we might have shared their views. So, if we can engage our internal detective, we may be able to understand why our opponent ended up with their current belief system.

It has always surprised me that whenever I’ve worked with someone to bridge the chasm between our opinions, I’ve felt a surge of affection for them. I understood this when I came upon something the author Jillian Hess had written: “Curiosity is a kind of love, a state of profound interest…” With that in mind, it makes sense that listening and being listened to—putting ourselves in the other’s life—brings out the best in each of us.

My initial interchange with Ronnie was much like the ones that followed. We ended with our political passion intact—but with a change of heart about each other.

As Ronnie and I left the restaurant, one pro-Trump remark—about how his business smarts would save us—was one too many. My hard-won restraint gave way to a volcanic tirade about the man’s unfitness for office, his abhorrent appointees, and the dire threat to democracy he presented. My face was on fire; I gasped for breath. And then we both burst out laughing.