Sans Fig Leaf

Previous
Index
Next

Email

w

"It's never about what it's about"

16 December, 2002

Several years ago, at a gathering of friends, one person had just recently found a compact disc recording of a Christmas album her parents had owned when she was a child. She wanted to play it for everyone. Upon hearing some of the album, a couple of the people present made some disparaging remarks about the music. Soon we had a full-blown argument about what qualifies as good music, particularly Christmas music, going. It was getting very heated.

A friend who often acts as peacemaker in that group, observed, "It's like insulting someone's childhood and family when you make fun of their Christmas music. It's not about the music. It's about what the music means to each person."

And with that insight, everyone was able to take a deep breath, relax, and discuss childhood holiday memories in a friendly way.

Part of the reason the argument had become so heated was because people were talking past each other. One friend couldn't understand why another was so upset about something which seemed so trivial. Particularly when we had engaged in lively disagreements about music previously.

Disagreements often boil down to that. It isn't about what it's about. It's about what it means to each person, and how they feel about those meanings.

Take footballs, for instance. When my four-year-old godson sees a football, he thinks of running around outside with someone he loves. For much of my childhood through my early teens, when I saw a football all I could think about were big guys who liked to beat me up, coaches and p.e. teachers who ridiculed me, and uncomfortable holiday family gatherings where all the "real men" watched the game while everyone else had to be quiet in the kitchen.

During that time, if the subject of football came up, I tuned out. If a friend was enthusing about his favorite team or player I would grumble something and want to change the subject. When a group of friends wanted to talk about their favorite teams or watch a game, I felt left out. Sometimes I would get angry and not quite realize why. I expected my friends to understand how much I disliked football, to be sensitive enough to my wants to do something else that would include me. But I didn't explain it. Instead I would sulk, or fall asleep, or find something else to do.

High school during football season was odd. I was in band, so every time there was a home game I had to show up. We would play some music during the game at certain times. We would do a half-time show, marching around out there in our dorky uniforms. I had to watch every home game, and a certain number of the away games, because sometimes they'd load us on a bus and take us with them. There were a couple guys on the team I had a crush on. So I developed a very vague interest in how the game turned out, and specifically how the guys I liked did during the game. But I still had a lot of negative associations with the game.

One day, I finally did tell one of my friends how much I disliked the sport and that I'd rather eat glass than listen to him go on and on about the recent game. Instead of making a joke about it or shrugging it off, he asked me some question, and soon determined that I didn't know the rules of the game. I had sat through who knows how many games at that point, and had never quite understood what was going on. I had some vague idea. I knew how many points some things were worth. I knew that one of the guys I had a thing for played Noseguard, and another was a Fullback, but I had no idea what those positions did or what the strategies and tactics of the game were.

So he explained it to me. All about downs, team positions, various kinds of plays, offensive and defensive strategies, and penalties. It helped. When I could understand what was going on on the field, the game started to be interesting. I actually started to care what would happen next. I would get excited and cheer and scream and holler.

When I told this story to an acquaintence a few years later, he was shocked that my dad had never explained the game to me. He couldn't understand why a football fan wouldn't explain to his son the basics of the game. The thing is, I can't honestly say that my father never tried. I don't remember him ever explaining it to me, but that doesn't mean there weren't some attempts.

For most of my life I didn't understand my father. I think he found me just as perplexing. For a variety of reasons I avoided spending time with him from an early age. When I thought about this in later years, I usually focused on the fact that I was afraid of his abusive tendencies. Then one day something made me look at it from his point of view. I started to understand how frustrating it must have been for a young father to feel rejected by his own son. Whether the son had good reason or not, the rejection must still have hurt a lot. Which would have just made it easier to lash out at the son.

Does that mean it was my fault that we had a rotten relationship? No. The relationship was in bad shape before I was even four years old, and you can't hold a child of less than four to blame for something as complex as a father-son relationship. But neither does it mean that all the responsibility for the problems lay with him. There were opportunities when other adults could have intervened in a constructive way. As I got older and developed some independence, I could have made more of an effort to repair the broken relationship, or even forge a new one. I didn't make any serious attempt to fix things until just a few years ago. With us each living in such different worlds, and so far apart, I know we can never have the kind of relationship protrayed in "wholesome family movies."

I can, however, use those experiences as a guide to avoid problems in present and future friendships. And, perhaps, to offer some advice to others.

It's not about who's right and who's wrong. It's not about who's smarter or who's stronger. It's not about who's popular and who isn't. None of those things matter as much as loving and being loved. Love isn't something that just happens. It's not just "what comes naturally" and the warm feeling that lingers afterward.

Love takes work and sacrifice. It takes listening to another person's words, deeds, and their heart. It takes making room in your heart for them, and opening yourself up to feel what they feel. You have to be able to understand that another person can have a completely different view of the world than you do, and that it may be just as valid as yours.

It's not about what it's about. It's about empathy and acceptance even when you don't understand.