What we say when we don’t talk politics

I just returned from a four-day trip to Washington, D.C., to visit my daughter and help her settle into a new apartment. We bought the infrastructure of a modern life: kitchen utensils, lamps, throw pillows, and a toaster.

Without a car in the city, we gauged our shopping by what we could carry on foot. There was a retail system in place that we could negotiate easily in Columbia Heights (Target, Marshalls, and Bed, Bath, and Beyond). We knew where to look for different items at different stores. We made a plan, kept lists on the iPhone, and checked them off efficiently.

We also played hooky at night, treating ourselves to special outings. We had a nightcap at The Line, a converted church in Adams Morgan, ate dinner under the wisteria at Dupont’s Iron Gate, and shared the most delectable almond torte at Elle in Mount Pleasant.

I especially loved visiting with my daughter’s friends and neighbors on this trip. We hung out in beer gardens, played Uno at a neighborhood bar, and drank frozen margaritas on a picnic table as a spotty rain fell at the end of a humid day. It was a down-home kind of trip this time, just us girls. There were no visits to museums or to the Lincoln Memorial like usual. We just went about daily life, balancing chores with fun.

This trip was also different from others in one surprising way: no one I met in Washington talked politics. For the first time in years, I didn’t have a spontaneous conversation about the president or Congress or an upcoming election. Not with Uber drivers or cabbies, not with any of my daughter’s friends, barely even with my daughter.

The cab drive into the city from Reagan National Airport typically spawns at least one reference to the person in the Oval Office. But not this time. The absence of political talk made me wonder: are people just sick of talking about politics in this divisive environment? And if they aren’t talking, exactly what are they thinking.

This vacuum has been eerily present in my hometown as well as in my brief Washington encounter. It feels like people are just done talking about the madness. I wonder if they're hesitant to talk to one another, not knowing whether they are about to get into a verbal brawl. Or do they not care anymore about our political process, corrupt as it seems? (Insert your view of corruption here.) And what does it mean when we don’t even bother to shout our dissatisfaction from the rooftops about the surreal political and cultural moment we find ourselves in.

Maybe we’re all just too exhausted. Those of us with jobs are running more than full tilt. Technology forces us to be “on” 24/7 and our nine-to-five jobs often feel like we’re drinking from a fire hose. When we do have downtime, we’re bombarded with social media and, recently, with dozens of GDPR notices that we mostly ignore. This conspires to make us feel out of the loop, overwhelmed, discontented, or all of the above.

It’s no wonder that many of us shut down around our country’s political messiness. Who has the time to dig up indisputable facts that can overcome the prejudices of someone on the other side of the divide? So we stick to our own lanes, share our views with those who agree with us. The societal norms for negotiating a simple conversation seem to have vanished. Our cultural-political system suddenly feels ungoverned by rules. It's far easier to give up and go buy pillows at Target.

But what price are we paying for our inability to talk freely with one another? Are we complicit in the coarsening of American culture and its political dysfunction? Or is biting our tongues akin to a silent protest, a sort of necessary counterbalance to the unmitigated outrage that emanates from cable news, the White House, or our own personal social channels.

Maybe there is a new silent majority: the disgusted. It’s possible that quiet legions are just sitting back and waiting out the firestorm with an eagerness to speak only when it really counts, at the ballot box. Still, the silence makes me uneasy.

I keep hoping that we can face where we are, the times we live in, and exchange ideas. Because when we do, we turn toward, not away from, each other. And we need those connections, as testy as they may be, more than the unknowable silence.

I hope next time I’m in Washington the cabbie has the news on instead of background music. I hope we can use it as a launching point to discuss the latest political kerfuffle. I don’t care what side of the divide anyone is on. I just need to hear something. Because I feel bereft when I can’t hear what people are thinking. I imagine the worst—a disengaged American public. I'm guessing we can all agree that is an unsettling prospect. But without using our words, who is to know?

Jokes, lies, and tweets in the era of outrage

I went on a getaway this past weekend with some cherished high-school friends and, boy, did I need the mini vacation. I looked forward to this escape more than usual. My job has been especially stressful lately and my personal commitments piled high. Plus the undercurrent of the Comey-Cohen-Trump-Korea-Brokaw-Mueller news cycle during the past week seemed particularly toxic and overwhelming. I really needed a break.

The weekend provided a wonderful change of scenery and an electronic cleanse, which were the perfect ingredients for a refreshed attitude. My friends and I hung out, went to a concert, had fish-and-chips at a down-home restaurant, and gabbed into the night. I’d completely forgotten that the White House Correspondents’ Dinner was being broadcast the same night. I typically would have watched the show, but blissfully, this time, didn’t.

When my friends and I met the next morning for breakfast, a large-screen television at the hotel interrupted our news-free zone. The anchors were talking about the correspondents' dinner and the inappropriate jokes made by the host, comedian Michelle Wolf. Oh God, I thought. Really? The nasty discourse seemed inescapable. We decided to turn away and eat our omelets and sausages in peace, avoiding the partisan bickering and focusing on our respective plans for the day, which included a Red Sox game and a walk on the beach.

A little later that morning, one of my friends and I went back to the little cafeteria area for one last coffee before heading out. This time we were alone and it was hard to avoid the blaring voices of the talking heads on whatever news channel was on. The room was empty except for one hotel worker who was cleaning up the tables. This youngish man asked politely if we would mind if he continued cleaning while we talked.

As he swept the floors around us, the news anchors dissected the annual press dinner. At this point my friend and I, unable to block out the television chatter, started talking about the mean, often vulgar, rhetoric that has come to invade our days like an annoying soundtrack.

The hotel worker, hearing us talk, turned to us and said, “Isn’t it awful how they talk about the president like that?”

“Our president says terrible things about people all of the time,” I responded matter-of-factly. Because, well, it’s the truth. “The way he tweets and talks – he’s the one who has set this tone.”

Oh, man, I thought. Now I did it. Had I made a mistake? This was supposed to be a get-away-from-it-all zone, and here I was right back in it. Not only did I get caught up in politics, I just risked angering the young man, who’d been quite respectful to us.

“You’re right. You’re right!” he nodded his head. "You’re absolutely right.”

“We need to be able to respect the office of the president,” I said. “But it’s awfully hard to respect someone who acts like Trump.”

It was a forthright exchange and after a few more benign comments we left it at that. It was pretty clear that he was a Trump supporter. It was pretty clear that I was not. But this did not stop us from talking with one another. We didn’t sulk in silence or roll our eyes at each other because we sensed we were on the wrong side of the political divide.

We kept it simple, which may have been key. It doesn’t take much more than a kindergartner’s understanding of right and wrong to speak the truth about the vitriol that surrounds us.

And we avoided the outrage – either the fake or misinformed kind. We just had an honest conversation. I was glad he spoke up and broke the barrier of silence that many of us hide behind. He and I had no trouble communicating. We just talked to each other, you know, like humans. It didn’t have to be World War III.

What I didn’t say was as important. This wasn’t the moment to point out that the correspondents' dinner is a night dedicated to our first amendment rights that allow a comedian to be as raunchy and edgy as she wants. It wasn’t the right moment to point out that a 19-minute comedy act doesn’t hold a candle to more than a year’s worth of mean-spirited personal attacks from the President of the United States. It wasn’t the right moment to say that Sarah Huckabee Sanders could have handled the jokes with more grace and fewer obvious grimaces, virtually inviting people to run to her defense like a poor wounded damsel (she can dish it out but not take it, comes to mind). Even the conservative National Review found hypocrisy in the outcry over Wolf’s monologue.  

None of this needed to be said to the hotel worker. He was just trying to do his job. My friends and I were just trying to enjoy ourselves. And all of us were just trying to get along, which we did.

When I got home that night, I streamed Michelle Wolf’s act. Was it vulgar at times? Uh-huh. Was it mean-spirited? Yes, she’s a comedian; comedy is often rough-edged, especially during a roast like this one. While Wolf made the most fun of Trump (as expected for an administration in power), she also called out Hillary Clinton, CNN (for “breaking” the news) and lots of media celebrities, including Jake Tapper, Anderson Cooper, and Rachel Maddow. None of this was discussed in the news reports I heard. Instead the press was obsessed with the jokes about Sanders. It was a lopsided view of the event and laser-focused on stirring up controversy.

But the biggest, most overlooked takeaway of the night may have been this: while Trump held a campaign-style rally in Michigan as part of a boycott of the correspondents' dinner, Wolf beat the president at his own game. She made people feel uncomfortable, put them off balance, and got people talking. Wolf won the night in the reality entertainment sweepstakes. What a sad statement. And the media took the bait. Even sadder.

Days later, Wolf is the one we are still talking about in part because she spoke her truth. She was aided by Trump supporters who protested too much, forgetting first amendment rights when it was convenient for them. People may not have liked what Wolf said or how she said it, but she had the courage to deliver it and the right to say it her way, as a comedian. As of this writing, Wolf stands by every word. As she should. 

I think we all have to be courageous enough to speak our truth. But the delivery really matters and needs to be appropriate to the venue. Like the small exchange I had with the guy in the cafeteria, the truth is fairly obvious and can be shared without animus when you choose to get out behind your partisan fence. In the end, we can’t turn away from the truth. But in this toxic environment fueled by the president and some media outlets, we may have to relearn how to say it to each other.

The phantom thread that binds us

The first time I saw Phantom Thread, I wasn't in the mood for a challenging film. I was celebrating my birthday with my daughter who’d flown home from D.C. to surprise me. It was a swirling weekend of joy that started with dinner with friends who’d all been scheming with my daughter to surprise me on Friday night, followed by 48 delicious hours doing all of my favorite things with my favorite person in the world.

We stayed up into the wee hours streaming ridiculous television (American Crime Story, in which she told me when to close my eyes at the gruesome bits related to the Versace murderer’s crime spree). We ate at our favorite haunts — Nonie’s for breakfast and dinner at Del Rossi’s. And, of course, we saw a movie. Because I love being in a cinema more than any other thing on earth, and my daughter knew she’d have to indulge me.

It was the run up to Oscars and I was eager to see Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, which had just opened at the local cineplex. Anderson, a singular writing and directing talent, is not always a filmmaker whose work hits home for me. His fascination with odd and controlling men (The Master, There Will Be Blood) makes me uncomfortable and annoyed at times. I probably should have known better than to combine my exuberant weekend with the downer that can be an Anderson film. But how could I resist seeing Daniel Day-Lewis in his last acting role alongside the promise of women wearing fabulous fashion from the fifties?

It turned out to be the perfect mismatch. Our jubilant girls weekend ground to a halt when met face-to-face with Anderson’s meticulous, dysfunctional romance. A masterpiece it may be, but it felt devoid of emotional kindness, grace and love. The relationship at the core of the film was downright disturbing. My daughter and I stared at each other with bulging eyes and weary looks when the credits rolled. What was that? We pretty much hated it, went straight to Del Rossi’s, and drank a fair amount of wine.

Weeks later, my friend Mimi mentioned that she had just seen Phantom Thread and really liked it. Mimi, a discerning moviegoer, made me think that maybe I missed something the first time. Had I just not been in the mood for the film’s unconventional romance? It was nominated for six Academy Awards after all. In the spirit of being open minded about highly decorated films that I really sort of hate, I decided to see Phantom Thread a second time (à la La La Land).

Mimi and I agreed to see it together at our small local theater, which was hosting a movie club night. We not only saw the film but also talked about it afterward in a discussion group guided by a film teacher. Sure enough, once I’d seen the film again and listened to a very engaging talkback session, I saw many extraordinary elements of artistry. I had a stronger appreciation for its Hitchcockian references (the dissonant shards of amped-up music, the half-lit faces that left us searching for motives). The costumes were, of course, impeccable. The acting sublime.  The plot twists unexpected. All of it combined to display an auteur’s mastery.

And still, I really didn’t like the film. It was intentionally challenging and I usually like provocative filmmaking. But this film’s emotional core and the coolness of the characters’ interior lives were just too disturbing; it unnerved me. We don’t have control over much in our own lives, but we do have control over how we engage with people in our closest relationships. And this, this.

What I did love about the film was its carefully curated world. It was shot with just the right degree of graininess to evoke the era. It was edited, lit, and scored with unerring precision. Even its storyline, which didn’t try to please, was impressive in its uncompromising portrayal of two people in interdependent flawed love. Of course, I may never eat mushrooms again, but that’s another story.

At least the story flowed consistently. I could follow Phantom Thread start-to-finish. I may not have liked it, but I got it.

These days, in our own lives, I wish I could at least understand the storyline I don’t like. We’re forced to derive narrative flow from a concatenation of YouTube videos, Facebook posts, and unpredictable tweets. Bits and pieces of story bubble up and subside completely unattended. We weave them together to come up with our own version of any story. No wonder dissonance ensues in our culture.

This disruption is induced by Trump, who appears to like to keep people guessing virtually all of the time, and supported by 24/7 news coverage that elevates the smallest part of a story to breaking news. It’s all so overwhelming and difficult to parse into meaningful information that many of us have just looked away.

But I don’t want to look away. In some strange way, I wish our cultural moment was more like an Anderson film. I may not like it, but at least I could comprehend it. Without a clear narrative, we have no real story to hang onto. Nothing to inspire or guide us. We need story. But what we have is a steady stream of raw footage that makes no sense. Without a skilled editor even reality television is unwatchable.

Like the “phantom thread” of the film’s title — a reference to an overworked seamstress’s hands at night, which continue to go through the motions of rapid-paced stitching even when there is no cloth to sew — I keep trying to construct narrative based on years of experience. I keep seeking it, longing for it, expecting it. I keep trying maybe even when it’s not there.

That’s what we all share now. The invisible habit of democracy. The longing to find meaning in the American dream. The hope that it’ll all be all right. The expectation of unity and civility. If only we can keep knitting ourselves together, persistently, without thinking. I believe it’s just who we are as Americans to keep reaching out, to understand the path forward. It’s certainly who I hope we can still be.