I have blogged for quite some time; yet, I was oblivious to flame wars and the consequences of these. When posting, I have received comments that were upsetting, even hurtful; still I never knew. Recently, I stumbled on some hot blogosphere coals. I saw how art imitates life, and life can be ugly. Political posturing is that; yet, once pronouncements are made, some think them personal. I offer a story and ask for discussion. Please read, reflect, and share your thoughts.
“It is time to go to school,” mother calls gently. “No, I don’t wanna!” I scream. I continue, “You can’t make me.” “Oh yes, I can!” she exclaims. Now she is getting angry. I start calling her names and then I decide to play the martyr. I say sobbingly, “You don’t love me anymore.” Finally, I resort to lecturing her on the finer points of how to best raise a child. I speak to her of what it means to be part of a loving family. I cite chapter and verse, for surely she does not understand. If she loved me, she would let me be.
She defends herself against my barbarous claims. She attempts to provide examples. I rant; I rage. Who does she think she is? She does not own me. I am autonomous. I know what is best for me. We battle, we argue, and reluctantly, I trudge off to school.
For me, school is a calm place. I excel in this environment.
I study, I learn, I am rarely challenged. My teachers love me. The other students think I am the best, the brightest, and I am. Students, staff, faculty, and administrators admire me. They appreciate my evenhandedness, and my peaceful approach to life. They consider me a facilitator, a comrade, and a friend. Though I am still a student, I have been given ample responsibilities.
In school, I am one of many, though I am acknowledged as an authority. Teachers never question my statements, for I repeat what they have taught me. On occasion, I may argue a position that they present, though the exchange is civil. We are discussing only “facts.” There are no personal attacks. For me, classroom training is tranquil. I may struggle to succeed on a test; projects might be problematic, still no one is importuning my truth.
Then why did I quarrel with my Mom about attending school? Might it be because she “gets me where I live?” When Mom or any mentor questions my reality, I feel ill at ease. I am content knowing what I know, being as I am, and posturing in a manner that is “acceptable.” I want no one to “rock my world” with a jolt and if they do, I will slam them and damn them. I will work to eliminate their presence.
Does this story sound familiar? Do the events parallel those that you experience?
Parents, patriarchs, matriarchs, and the majority of us are rarely trained in communication. We speak and think this means we will be understood. When we are not we want to explain; however, often we are feeling defensive. Those that do not wish to absorb our words have their own reasons, resentments, and umbrage. They take these out on us. We challenge their truth and they, in turn, test our tolerance.
What was meant to be informative, an opportunity to discuss becomes a vicious battle. Many are left wounded. They walk, they talk, and they lay dead among us.
I have been witness to recent rallies. Now, I feel compelled to share my sad cries. In my own sphere, I have attempted to speak to all of those participating in futile fights. I wrote, in hopes of advancing peace. For the most part, my words were ignored, avoided, or absorbed only by those ready to be released from what they once thought was reality.
Some learn lessons gracefully, willingly; there are those that want to. Others would rather not accept a challenge. Perhaps the adrenalin that anger supplies was the rush they preferred. Possibly, the familiar is easier for these persons to accept. I know not. I only know that I am very sad for our shared loses.
At some time may we walk together, down a path of peace. May we open our heart to those that have hurt us deeply, and may those warriors of conventional wisdom evolve. May those that know what they know discover a place where they feel safe and wish to consider more.
I offer no links, how unlike me. I trust you dear reader, know how to find these. Possibly, you participated in weaving a wicked tapestry. If you need my assistance in locating resources, please ask, and you shall receive.
I hope you agree; this tale is a telling one. It speaks to a ubiquitous theme. People present their stories, their truth and it rattles us. Their words might feel as attacks; their manner may be aggressive. We engage; however we are enraged and it is evident. Attacks on each side became personal. Facts are used as fuel. They wound us, as bullets do.
Exchanges and experiences such as those mentioned in this missive are not unique to a situation. They surround us. Sadly, misunderstandings flourish everywhere. In every home, in personal relationships, in business, and even on the streets, people speak and their words are considered weapons. We are societies of the walking wounded.
I use this narrative to share a story that is familiar to all of us; it is our life. I hope that you will choose to reflect and become more conscious of what you, I, we create. We can choose, chaos or calm.
Betsy L. Angert Be-Think
