It's not always politic to talk politics

Reasonable exchanges of opinion are off the table in this election year. It's Us versus Them, with each side righteously, unyieldingly certain of its correctness.

I'm Us, by the way; and if you disagree with my politics, you're Them. Unless you're you and you disagree with my politics--then you're Us and I'm Them. Get it? I know, it's all a little "Abbott and Costello Go to the Polls," only the questions are who's on the right and who's on the left, with absolutely no one taking the middle ground.

I am an outspoken supporter of my party and its candidates. I am rendered speechless by anyone who says, "Eh, I'm not interested in politics. It doesn't have anything to do with me." Being a citizen of this country yet claiming indifference to who's in charge of how it's run is like getting into a car blindfolded with a stranger at the wheel. "Give a damn!" I want to yell when someone claims not to care. "Vote for someone, anyone, just freaking vote!"

Well, just vote for my candidates.

For weeks I've been splashing my Facebook page with political messages, messages that are wildly supportive of my presidential choice and contemptuously derogatory toward the other guy. I might still be gleefully sharing away had I not seen a post that read something like this: "'Wow, your relentless posts about your candidate completely changed my point of view' said no one, ever."

After a moment spent admiring the cleverly sardonic wording, I faced the fact that that message may as well have been directed exclusively at me. Were any of the anti-my-guy posts changing my thinking? Nope. What they were doing was fanning my latent flame of resentment against Them.

So I've stopped politicizing my page. If someone asks me who I support and why I'll be glad to tell them, but I can't live at a hostile fever pitch until Election Day. My "anti" sentiments eat away at my serenity and my humility. All I truly can profess are my opinions, which are no more or less valid than anyone else's. Of course I believe I'm right. So does everyone on the other side. The only statement I can make that counts--and it will be made silently, without fanfare--will be in a voting booth in November.

I remember as a teenager asking my dad who he was voting for. He always refused to tell me. "It's nobody's business but mine," he'd say, brushing off my repeated attempts to get him to name names.

It infuriated me. Why would you support someone if you weren't even willing to say their name aloud? Now I wonder if he didn't have the right idea. If you don't broadcast your team loyalty you don't get into those flaming "us and them debates" that end up with everyone angry and no one's thinking changed one iota.

A few election seasons back I found myself talking politics with my friend James. James is a good man and a stellar friend. He has a dry wit, a sharp mind and a gentle soul. He also happens to be my political opposite. But hey, we were both adults, reasonable, intelligent people, good friends. Surely we could exchange points of view without raised voices or bloodshed, right?

Sure.

What began as a civil conversation quickly escalated into a debate, then deteriorated into an argument. I could feel my anger and frustration simmering, poised to boil over as I insisted on the rightness of "my" side. I imagine James felt the same way. He held his ground, I held mine. I doubt either of us heard a word the other had to say, so intent were we on making our own points. It was as if we were standing on either side of a high brick wall, throwing words at that impenetrable surface.

We managed to end the discussion before any harm was done. That decision probably saved our friendship. From then on we confined our discussions to work, family, music, books, writing, pets and other non-flammable topics. I learned a valuable lesson that day: It really is possible to love your friends and hate their politics.

It's also possible to support a candidate without alienating the people you care about who happen to not agree with you. My election year promise is to continue doing just that.

Deb Pascoe of Marquette is a freelance writer and a peer recovery coach for Child and Family Services of the U.P. A former columnist for The Mining Journal, her book, "Life With a View," a collection of her past columns, is available in area bookstores.