Politics and dinnertime conversation are not friends. They make good enemies. A biting comment thrown from the mouth of a loved one takes a conversation from enjoyable to angry in a minimal amount of time. Five bystanders sit around the dining room table, exchanging glances as one of our own refuses to back down. This type of conversation is forbidden; it is left at the door next to your shoes as you enter the house. The potential comments and your political views are put on the backburner as you step over the threshold. Although my family is headstrong, we value our unity more than winning debates.
My family is an eclectic group. My father, a reasonably conservative republican married my mother, a fairly liberal democrat. The rest is history. My family includes an art major, a political science major, an education major, and an international business major, as well as two parents who grew up in troubled times that begged for change. All of these experiences and interests have shaped our differing, sometimes contrasting, opinions.
The memories of family dinners when I was a child were cheerful. But as we all grew older, an elephant made its home in our dining room. Politics have always been an off limit topic because we value each other’s views and feelings. But this elephant finally triumphed; it took one step on our dinner table and smashed our harmony.
About two weeks ago, my mom called “dinner” from the dining room, and we all filed down the stairs, eager to fill our bellies. We took our respective places at the dinner table, and the conversation took its usual place, weaving in and out of everyone’s day. But all it takes is one comment, a vague but potentially deadly string of words to quiet everyone. The comment caught everyone off guard, which forced the conversation to turn to silence. The clinking of utensils and plates echoed throughout the room, as did the words “Barack Osama” which had spilled from my brother’s mouth only moments before. My mother took a deep breath and responded in a soothing, gentle voice. But regardless of her tone, we erupted in chaos. Our different political opinions showed their true colors as we argued this point to the death. The end result was stomping feet on the stairs and bedroom doors slammed, leaving our dinner table looking like a fire drill. We were not thinking about our unfinished meals, but about the anger we felt because of these different opinions.
The argument finally comes to a formal stop through email apologies and messages attempting to justify one-another’s opinions, because we cannot find the confidence to discuss these things again face to face. To my brother’s message, “I truly believe in all of my heart that the outcome of this particular election will lead to an era of unsurpassed socialism, which could ultimately lead to civil war or bloody revolution.” my reply was simply, “We do not talk politics at the dinner table.”