To Listen Slant
I participated in a conversation yesterday about safety and policing in our communities. But this wasn’t just any conversation: it was an organized dialogue on civil discourse meant to provide an alternative to the argumentative, winner-take-all style that govern our politics. Before beginning, participants were given a briefing booklet outlining three potential options that we would discuss. These broached real and serious questions: should our police and citizens work together more conscientiously? What would make our policing more just for all? How does heavily arming our police force alter its relationships with the community?
Because of the emotional and meaningful nature of these questions, the facilitators briefed us on some common rules. Everyone must be respectful and open. Participants should be honest. No one should dominate. All were encouraged to participate. Everyone must truly listen.
In a less-contrived setting, the discussion groups would have drawn from the local community and intentionally represented those with stakes in these issues. But because it was a practice session, designed for those of us learning how to host such forums, my cohort consisted of 14 academics and community practitioners. The participants largely held distinguished academic pedigrees, were comfortable with multisyllabic words, and leaned left politically. As one participant reflected, the discussion was polished.
Before the conversation began, I quickly realized that there were necessary voices missing from this test case. Where was the voice of law enforcement? Those living in the most vulnerable neighborhoods? Those who had experienced crime? How could we truly practice being open and reserving judgment when we were leisurely chatting with those whom we agreed in the distanced and analytical way so common to experts? How could we model empathetic listening when everyone had similar points of view? As the conversation progressed, I became even more concerned that the viewpoints were one-sided. Participants fluidly discussed structural injustice, unequal access, living wage, militarized police, and racialized imprisonment. Although contested terms in some circles, these were offered almost casually, buttressed by shared research and common news sources.
As my students know well, I am a bit of an imp. I like to mix things up. I’m restless with the same old thing. I resist easy answers. I’m concerned when there’s no dissenting voice. And in our conversation, there was no dissenting voice.
Can you see where this is going?
Tapping into my inner actress, and steeling myself for some negative reactions, I waited for the right opportunity to become the voice of personal responsibility. I allowed the conversation to progress for about 10 minutes or so before I pounced. One woman expressed her concern for kids who had unequal access to schools. In her view, how could we hold people responsible for crimes when they had so few chances at the start? Breathing deeply to clear my jitters, I looked to the moderator for permission to speak. “But what about personal responsibility,” I asked when given the go-ahead. “Weren’t the parents responsible for their children? It’s not the government’s or school’s responsibility to raise these children correctly. Furthermore,” I continued, “what about those who had worked hard to be in neighborhoods with better schools? There are many examples of people from humble origins changing their futures and giving their children better education and access than they had as kids. Why were such efforts considered part of the public good when they weren’t individually good?” My tone wasn’t demeaning or rude but it was defensive. Necessarily so, I thought. From my character’s perspective, there was not one person who had given a voice or point of view that resonated with her experience or feelings.
If my colleague Deborah Dunn had been in my group, then the gig would have been up, as they say. She would have rolled her eyes and tried to muffle her laughter. It wouldn’t have taken long for my true intentions to emerge. But these people didn’t know me. And I discovered rather quickly from their reactions that they had no idea that I was acting.
After my comments, I watched as the circle became palpably tense. Body language changed. Faces once open became shuttered. Lines replaced lips. Shoulders and arms tightened. Eyes narrowed. Based on the clear non-verbal reactions, I prepared myself for push back. Someone was bound to engage with my premises. I anticipated someone asking me what I meant by public good. I thought that at least the moderator would follow up with additional questions.
When the next person spoke, however, she didn’t respond to me at all. She guided the conversation in a different direction — back toward solutions she felt comfortable discussing. And everyone else followed along. I sat back as the group continued to consider racial profiling and the effects of army surplus distributions to municipal police departments. Then, someone who hadn’t spoken explained that her friend was a police officer and that when kids have personal connections to police that are positive, that changes our perceptions of law enforcement. I affirmed her observation, adding that “these kinds of concerns are best dealt with on the local level without interference from outsiders who think they know best for the whole community.” I thought this could help to bridge my ideas with the groups’ but I realized quickly that, by this point, no one wanted to be associated with me. A few minutes later, when one gentleman mentioned local actions, I chimed in to agree that there was increased efficacy in local versus national solutions. Astonishingly quickly, he disassociated his ideas with mine. Regardless of what I said or did at that point, I was the group pariah.
At the end of a dialogue, the moderators guided the group to reflect on the conversation, starting with areas of common ground. Participants made several points about how we valued similar things, neatly sidestepping my unwelcome intrusion. After several minutes of this, I couldn’t stand the cold shoulder any longer. I asked the moderator if it would be okay to offer a quick sidebar and she agreed. And then, I confessed. I explained that I didn’t actually believe what I said but I had been playing a part because I noticed our group lacked diversity. But faced with the reality that I actually had to eat dinner with these very people in 10 minutes, I gave up the ruse so that I could enjoy my meal. The reaction was overwhelming relief. People audibly exhaled followed by nervous laughter. Some were quick to admit that they had shut me down the minute I uttered the phrase “personal responsibility,” which for some triggered negative past interactions with conservative friends and family. One woman suggested (seriously) that I leave my academic post and pursue an acting career.
Once the shock wore off, I explained how marginalized I felt as the lone voice of dissension. It seemed especially clear after my second and third comments that people weren’t really hearing me. And how obvious it was that my opinion was not valued. “I was surprised,” I said to one of the moderators, “that you didn’t ask me any follow-up questions.” She took ownership of this, humbly admitting that she wasn’t able to because she couldn’t really grasp what I was saying. Without hesitation, one of the participants wryly retorted, “It’s because you don’t speak conservative.”
In the moderators’ and group’s defense, they were not expecting an academic colleague to use such an argument. I ambushed them. When leading a dialogue in the community, they would have had more thorough training on typical reactions. They would have expected a broader range of perspectives. Also, I had chosen my words for maximum impact. I knew that personal responsibility was a loaded term among liberals and I used it precisely for that reason. A community member might not have responded with the same desire to provoke.
So what should we make of this story?
Emily Dickinson writes “tell the truth but tell it slant…” As the nineteenth century poet knew, our cultures, experiences, passions, and personalities shape how we grapple with our worlds. Individuals live only part of the story. As such, we require the experiences, cultures, personalities, and passions of others to show us what we miss. And yet, researchers have discovered that we are hardwired to listen to those who agree with us. This is an acute paradox. We require a richer, more diverse pool of beliefs and feelings to truly grapple with the human condition and to work together as a nation. But, nevertheless, we are captivated by our own slant. We’ve only learned to listen to those with whom we agree.
My chief lesson from this experience, in fact, was a personally damning one. Watching the reactions of my peers to my less-than-popular viewpoints quickly became horrifying. How have I done this very thing to those who disagree with me? Have I imagined myself as a listener when in reality my body language was telling a very different story? Who has felt unsafe around me? Where have I ignored and discounted and minimized? It didn’t take much reflection to figure out that, in this social experiment, I am the chief of sinners.
As the poet suggests, we all listen slant. But perhaps, with postures of humility and openness, we can listen in larger, more diverse communities. Do the hard and self-sacrificing work to really hear what our fellow human beings are saying and feeling and living. Perhaps, when we listen together, “the Truth will dazzle gradually” and we can finally hear.
