Debate Without De Bad

Tips for more satisfying squabbling

I like to argue.

I do not, however, like conflict, so I generally seek out arguments solely over unimportant matters. Like whether or not Oreos are good cookies (they’re not). Or whether or not John McEnroe is a good tennis commentator (he’s really not). Or whether someone who comments on an event of any kind, and please god let it not be John McEnroe, should be called a “commentator” or a “commentor” (the latter, for obvious reasons, and please don’t get me started except why, having made the gut-roiling mistake of allowing “commentate” into the dictionary in the first place, would you compound the error with the massive absurdity that is “commentator”).

Many years ago, I used to dine every couple weeks with my boss, her boyfriend and a female colleague. Mark and I liked to argue, and because it’s important to define one’s terms know that to me that means animated, often emotional, even heated debate, but devoid of any actual rancor. At some point in the evening one of us would make an assertion, the other would leap quickly to the opposite stance, and the games would begin. We were having fun. What we didn’t realize—presumably because we were young men but I suppose there could be other plausible explanations—was our dining companions were decidedly not. Turns out they thought we were mad at each other, likely because even back in the 80s we had for some reason already equated animation with anger in the arguing arts.

I don’t like this and hereby call for it to change. Disagreeing without being disagreeable is one of the many critical life skills we should teach but don’t, like financial literacy and blowing your nose. I can do long division and diagram a sentence, for fuck’s sake, but I still tie my shoes using bunny ears. I promise it’s relevant.

After Trump won the first time, we joined an online effort to start conversations between Trump and Hilary voters because it seemed the right thing to do. After a few weeks of silence, it went away. In 2017 one of my favorite comedians, Sarah Silverman, did a show called I Love You, America, in which she’d spend time with Trump voters in a seriously funny, good-faith effort to narrow the chasm. It was smart and respectful and open and warm-hearted, and so was canceled after one season.

At least in my lifetime, we’ve never before been as on edge and deep in our bubbles. We’ve moved so far away from civil discourse no one has any idea how to even begin to turn ourselves around. Except, fortunately, me.

We begin by arguing with the moron in the mirror. It’s the fairest fight possible, because each side has the exact same everything. Who knows your weaknesses and strengths, buttons and triggers better than you? It’s like contract bridge—where each table plays the same hands—but better, as we’ve removed virtually every variable. Trick is to find things of which you are the most of two minds so each side gets full-throated sincerity. (Professional writer’s tip: If you’re at all worried you’re misusing a word, look it up. Like here I was going to use fulsome to modify sincerity, but I looked it up and whoa, I was way off.)

There’s a fairly steep learning curve involved here, because you’re going to have to make arguments that will make your feet sweat. But that may be the most important part, as taking a stance you don’t believe in forces you to dig deep and perhaps discover elements that resonate with you after all. And because it’s hard to imagine gaining much harmony with MAGA supporters given most of their core values immolate most of mine, one needs to max out on mediation tools. Listening is the first rung on my Ladder of Understanding, followed by assessing, slight confusion, and lightbulb-appearing-over-head as you reach the top rung. If a better understanding of the MAGA perspective would help neuter-to-demolish it, count me in. And since one of the only ways to get better at something is to practice—also the only reason I can think of I’m not a rock star—practice we shall.

So step one is you and the mirror. Step two is arguing with like-minded humans about unimportant things. Step three is tough, as you must find someone with opposite political views and argue with them about unimportant things. Few will do this willingly, so you may have to pay someone, but positive change as an adult always comes with some kind of price tag. Step four is arguing with the like-minded about politics/religion/money/parenting/IPAs and, if you’re feeling really confident, coffee. Step five, which if you navigate successfully you’ll earn a guest spot on The View, is, of course, arguing about things like freedom and justice and social responsibility with people who voted for wannabe fascists. Oops, that’s probably not a great opener to the most impactful (don’t worry, I have it set so if I use that word twice in one essay my screen melts) step of all.

And since mine is a full-service operation, a sample to get you started.

Socks With Sandals: Comfy and Practical or Cringey and Geriatric?

Me (comfy and practical): Who said comfort begins where your ankles end? Me, your mom, and Dr. Scholl, that’s who. Life isn’t painful enough, you need blisters on your plantar for what, your art? Here’s all you need to know: The earliest known pair of socks has split toes because the Ancient Egyptians, in addition to achieving remarkable breakthroughs in engineering, medicine, mathematics and more, knew sandals without socks suck. Romans too. That’s right, Ben Hur was a lie. Deal with it. Also, if you look at your feet, you’ll see why no one else wants to.

Mirror Me (cringey and geriatric): Have you ever been to Miami Beach or visited an old white guy in the summer? Is that a look you think works for anyone who can still recognize their feet? On the upside, it doesn’t matter what color or pattern sock you choose, because they will all look ridiculous. The glory of sandals is their minimalism; they provide minimal protection and maximum legal entry into beachside bars—what more do you want? Stuffing a full sock inside one-third of a shoe: 1) defeats the inherent purpose and life mission of the fractional shoe, 2) traps your fulsome (nope, not here either) prodigious foot funk inside where it can fester and procreate, instead of being carried by the wind somewhere, anywhere else, and 3) creates unnecessary laundry, a venal sin in my Church of the Holy Dryer Sheet.

Me: God you’re a moron!

Mirror Me: I’m a moron? You’re a moron! Wait, that makes me a moron too!

As you can see, things can quickly get existential if you’re not careful. But if you take the time to digest your argument before launching into your other argument—sit with it a bit before dismembering it—things will be less likely to devolve. And I firmly believe if you can manage, through the force of your own reason and logic, to genuinely convince yourself to change a previously solid position, you can not only induce a mild identity crisis but also convince your stupid brother-in-law none of the local libs feel owned by his big-ass Trump sign and all it really does is call attention to his oh-so-shitty lawn. And that, my friends, is a winning argument.