‘Embrace disagreement.’
We practice arguing in our family.
Seriously. I do not like bickering, squabbling, whining, or any type of disagreement that is:
a) not based in some sort of legitimate evidence, facts, or accompanying relevant information - which includes relevant emotional information and feelings, and/or
b) has no end and no real potential to conclude, in a doable time frame with some level of mutual resolution. Not agreement necessarily, but resolution or amicable resolve to disagree respectfully.
But disagreeing? Learning to disagree is fundamental to being an interesting human being. It doesn’t mean you disagree on principle, per se. It means that you value yourself, your outlook on life, your perspective on something, the importance of your voice, and your interest in contributing something to disagree.
Importantly, it also means learning to listen and process others’ divergent thoughts on something.
Even if you’re not arguing, being able to practice disagreeing is fundamental to a well-lived life that says you are surrounding yourself with healthy, vibrant, intelligent opinions and other ways of looking at things.
It will help keep you on your toes, keep your mind nimble, and build stronger relationships - if you listen, show respect, agree (even if intuitively) on some common ground rules, and…have fun.
What are stories? Drama.
What is drama? Conflict.
What is conflict? Disagreement.
What is disagreement? A minimum of two characters agreeing to have a different perspective on something.
There are poor, unhealthy, destructive ways to disagree that can lead to severed relationships or violence. And there are healthy ways to disagree that bind, that bond, that exercise us emotionally, intellectually, and emotionally…and if nothing else, adds a little extra flavor to our day-to-day.
I can’t imagine a world without Stories. I don’t want one without. We all have one to tell. Some of us have our own, and perhaps borrow from others: please keep reading below.
Driving, pt. 1 : 3- and 6-year old
‘Once upon a time there was a young lady named Mama…’he begins, and goes on to tell various tales involving a boy (himself) and his Mom. A certain detail becomes evident to his older brother, who calls him out on it.
Hey, you’re taking my stories! That happened to me, not you!
He calmly responded to his older sibling with a breathtaking degree of calm moral superiority: ‘I am deciding who’s in the story because it’s my story.’
His older brother did not accept this: I’m older than you, so that means I was born before you. We’re all older than you.
He thought about this for a beat. A short beat before returning to the verbal fray: Well I’m starting to get old too.
Age supremacy demanded the elder not back down: Those are my stories! You’re just putting yourself in them!
I attempted to balance their need to work things out with their need for a wise guide-shaman-sensei, and gave my best: Well, when you’re telling stories, I said, then you can make up different parts of them. That’s up to him. That’s what’s fun about making up stories. It would be a different matter if he said it was a true story.
A quick aside: there’s a teen girl in Japanese history who fell in love with a guy in a temple while they were finding shelter from a massive fire. The very short version is that they were separated after the catastrophe. In an attempt to refind her love, she tried to set fire to the temple. In 17th century Japan, arson was a capital offense, and the mandatory penalty was death by burning at the stake. So this girl goes before the judge. Japan apparently had very strict laws mandating the death penalty for arson, including that of the attempted variety - possibly because of the tightly packed quarters and highly flammable building materials that could decimate a city rapidly.
So Japan was very strict on this. But they were also strict on another thing: a protection, on some level, of children. The minimum age to be executed was 16. This girl was 16. The judge had to uphold the law, but he was reluctant to do so.
He looked at the girl and asked her age. Sixteen, she said.
Are you certain you’re not…fifteen? The judge asked kindly.
The girl, confused, replied that No, I’m sixteen.
Are you positive that you’re not fifteen? The judge asked.
I’m sixteen, insisted the frightened, confused 16-year old.
Reluctant and sad, the judge saw no recourse but to order the sentence carried out, which it was. Tragic.
How is this relevant?
I tried to help my youngest son.
“That’s what’s fun about making up stories,” I told the two boys, and turned to the elder. “It would be a different matter if he said it was a true story.”
My youngest looked at me. It is a true story.
Umm, I said, you’re joking right?
No, he said confidently and casually. It’s a true story. They’re all true stories I’m telling.
The matter escalated. I recused myself.
Driving, pt 2 : game of _____.
A 12-year old coaches his 15-year old sister on an online chess match she is engaged in. He has been teaching all of us how to play, and his skills are far beyond any of us, although his sister - and current student - will catch up more rapidly than me. He did, however, inadvertently commit her to an unfortunate position concerning a rook, which led to her demise, which led to a mild and short-lasted squabble between passenger front and passenger right rear; a positioning which is awkward enough to make sustained physical squabbles difficult, which is possibly a good thing.
I vacillate between this, between NPR’s coverage of Ukraine, and anthems from Andrew W.K., and Judas Priest. Not old Judas Priest - which is great - but 2018 Judas Priest. They’ve held up better, in my opinion, than Metallica, Def Leppard, or Queensryche; three fellow bands from the 1980s who once made excellent music.
Seven super great metal anthems from the 80s.
You’ve Got Another Thing Coming - Judas Priest
Master of Puppets - Metallica
Eyes of a Stranger - Queensryche
Hide in the Rainbow - Dio
Animal - Def Leppard
Look What the Cat Dragged In - Poison
Sweet Child ‘O Mine - Guns ‘N’ Roses
A slight disagreement in good spirits.
They discussed different buildings and whether they might be A) a skate park or B) a library.
“Libraries are so pretty!” one exclaimed.
I agreed. All of us agreed. On a day of many disagreements, it was one thing we all agreed upon.
Shall we go to the skate park or the library?
I asked this question. I do not know why I ask questions like this, as it is a guaranteed certainty that one will say the former and one will say the latter.
The certainty of this guaranteed certainty was guaranteed again.
We went to a tractor place.
Yes, we went to look at tractors outside of my price range, although one asked if he could get a big one for his birthday. The model I’m looking at is around $23,500, which is approximately twenty-three thousand more than I have in my budget for a tractor. Unfortunately we also did not find one that fit into the birthday-present sort of price range.
Also, they did not agree on which tractor I should get, if I were getting one. My older one’s number-one feature priority was that it had to “…be a shady one.” In other words, it had to be a covered one. The kind where you can, you know, go grade a field, move some dirt, then park in the forest and watch television in comfort for few hours before returning home from a hard Sunday’s work.
We took a couple catalogs and pamphlets. They each got the best one. I know this because they each told me this separately.
Disagreement in the public library bathroom.
I examined the height of the urinal, and examined the height of my 3-year old, and being quite skilled with physics and geometry, calculated that he might need some help. He disagreed, but I disagreed with his disagreement, and I won, and we did wash our hands.
Get a paper towel over there, I ordered him.
I don’t want a paper towel, he said, bouncing to the automated hand drier.
Fine, I said as he dried his hands for the next five minutes, before heading to the paper towel dispenser.
Super nice how you asked, though!
Can we take the elevator? They pleaded with me.
No. I said. We are stair people, as I ascended the stairs.
A joint agreement, targeted at me.
I wish it wasn’t a school day, he stated.
What day do you wish it was? I asked.
A party day. he said. I wish it was a party day. And guess what Daddy?
What? I said.
I think, he said, sorry to say, but I think Mama likes parties more than you do.
Hmm, I said, interesting. What makes you say that?
Well, he said, she loves Gilmore Girls, and I think she’d like to have a Gilmore Girls party.
She does like Gilmore Girls, I said. I guess I hadn’t thought about the idea of having a Gilmore Girls party.
This led to a discussion of Gilmore Girls, and who else might like it. They decided, jointly, that both of them also really like Gilmore Girls, based on a few snippets they’ve seen.
They are also strongly in agreement that their mom likes parties a lot, and definitely much more than I do. This is consistent with something very important to both of them: their Mom is the best at everything, and any day where they get to do anything with her is possibly the best day ever.
They love their Mom very much. I get it.
I like parties too sometimes. Actually, the idea of a Gilmore Girls party sounds pretty cool.
Songs
Two boys singing Let It Go. We are out of step enough with current trends, that when we stumble upon them, it’s generally out of sync with the sonic bombardments I hear about many families facing. I am just loving their embracement of this song. It’s a great song, and I’m not tired of it, and I’m grateful for that.
So our 3-year old was singing it to himself ten years after the rest of the world, and when he was done, I quietly went and played it on Spotify, thinking he might want to sing along a second time with accompaniment. He joined me computer-side and assessed the song options before informing he didn’t want to hear the one we were listening to.
Which one do you want? I asked.
That one, he said, pointing to a Danish version.
I disagreed with his choice, as it is much more difficult for me to sing along to songs in Danish, partially due to the fact that I speak no Danish, but it was what he wanted, and I acquiesced, because sometimes I acquiesce.
Shortly thereafter it was followed up with iterations in French and Spanish. I did not agree with these either.
The river.
We found a lovely new-ish spot on the river to walk and talk and carve and whittle, and we seemed to be in agreement about how much fun we were having and how much we enjoyed it.
Shall we plan on coming back here soon? I asked.
Yeah, the older said, agreeing with me.
The younger leaped in with the asterisk. Yeah, we should come back…with Mama!
The older nodded. Oh yeah, this is where I want to come with Mama on our next date.
He looked up at me, then at his younger brother, and brought the patronization back full circle with a vengeance. You know what, he said to his younger, while I’m going on a date with Mama here, you can go on a date with Daddy somewhere?
The younger agreed with part of that. I want, he announced, to go on a date with Mama to eat hot dogs.
The older assessed this calmly. That’s a good idea, he said, that will be fun for you to go get hot dogs with Daddy.
The disagreement escalated from there.
Finally.
Finally, one-third of the family was in bed, and whatever responsibilities were to be accomplished were either accomplished or left for dead, and four of us sat on couches and considered what we might do with the remaining half hour together.
Let’s watch something. I announced. What do you want: finish Signs, or a little Arrested Development or Person of Interest?
Finish Signs. Said one.
Person of Interest. Said another.
I kind of feel like Arrested Development. Said the third.
I sighed, and picked up the remote. Sometimes I just love television. There’s also something cathartic about watching other people disagree.
