The Power of Conversation

When It's Not Nearly as Bad as It Seems

I do not like talking on the phone. I may have trouble anticipating the conversation, so I end up saying something stupid or stammering. Alternatively, I may anticipate the conversation too much and be thrown off when it goes in another direction. I am scared of seeming dumb or silly or small. It's just you and me and our silly telephone line.

That's how I feel when I sit down for a conversation. Sometimes I'm lucky, and the words sweep me off my feet. They fly out without a chance of being thwarted, and my thoughts make sense and are communicated clearly. Sometimes that doesn't happen, and I am left dreading the next time I may have to speak. 

There has always, however, been a part of me that cannot be denied. My love for debate. I was never on any Speech & Debate team, but my dinner table always felt like one. Both of my parents are economists. My father is a professor, and my mother is a consultant (former professor). If I believed something to be true, I had to back it up with everything I had because you best believe it was about to be ripped to shreds by the two smarties at the table. I got good at debating with my father about political issues. I learned to always know your sources and yours sources' sources. I became confident and fiery.

And then the laundry room...

I was stuffing my dirty clothes in the overpriced washer at the Meininger Hotel when someone behind me asked, "Have you heard of this thing called, 'Appropriation?'" I turned around to see that question came from a bearded backpacker in the corner of the shared kitchen. He could have passed as Santa Claus if not for his thick accent. This here fella was from Southern Tennessee. He reminded me of a chunkier version of my uncle Kenny Mac (who is also too-hick-for-his-own-good). 

I replied, "Yeah, like cultural appropriation?" 

He nodded. 

"As an actor, it's a constant conversation. We need to know where the line is because, our careers depend on taking on the lives of others," I said.

He proceeded to explain his feelings on the subject, mentioning that coal miners invented blue jeans ("But who is saying anything about that?").

I attempted explaining the difference lies in oppression and cultural understanding...

Interrupted.

This man will not let me finish a sentence.

He invites me, "How about you pick up a history book?"

I reply, "I have. Many."

He uses many antiquated descriptors for people, usually reducing individuals to the abstracted color of their skin. He calls his best friend's daughter a "stupid little slut."

I attempt to start every point with: "I think I may come from a school of thought than you because..."

I am sweating.

More and more, he allows me to reach the ends of my sentences. I am gaining traction.

I mention the fact that some people treat me differently because of the way that I move through the world. He takes a moment to eye ball me from my moppy head of hair to the soles of my Birkenstocks. He forms his own opinions of me. How lovely.

Finally, for whatever reason, I find myself monologging. I don't know what happened, but he stopped fighting me for one moment to hear me out. I explain that each one of us walks a different path in life than any other because of the way that we look and the assumptions others make about us. A person of color in America walks differently than the man I was talking to. The man I was talking to walks differently than I do. I will never know what it is like to walk the path of the man I was talking to, just like he will never know what it is like to walk the path of any person of color in America. That is, unless you can connect and share and give and listen. 

I hoped that he heard a word of what I said. Those thirty minutes.

Before I left he said, "You know, no one wants to have a conversation. The Left doesn't want to hear it."

I hanged up my still-sopping clothes in the bathroom to dry.