The Stand Off

My husband and I had an argument this morning, about returning phone calls and text messages, but it was really about who was right and who was wrong. The presumption being one can't be right unless the other is wrong. One can't validate his opinion without invalidating hers (and by using gender-biased possessives, I have communicated who I believe was right). But just yesterday, I was talking with my daughter about the importance of providing ample room for differing points of view, in the context of discussing the anti-Obama rhetoric expounded by her classmates. My daughter is way more people smart than I am, so she has managed to survive and make friends among people whose political beliefs differ from her own.

I grew up in the epicenter of the Free Speech Movement, Berkeley late sixties, yet watched as the Hippies evolved into what I call Conservative Liberals, people who always approach from a position of moral high ground, people who always know what is right, because they proclaim their opinions so. Self-righteousness used to be a dirty word when I was growing up. Now it is worn like a badge of honor.

When my children are bickering (a verb I use to describe any argument that has devolved to the repetition of "nuh-uh" and"uh-uh.") I tell them, "just agree to disagree," a phrase my daughter accepts, but my son dislikes for its inherent ambiguity. If there is a argument, someone should win, someone should lose. Someone should be right and the other person should be wrong.

My husband and I both enjoy arguing, when we play by the rules of engagement:

1. maintain a sense of humor
2. listen
3. agree to agree to disagree (i.e. be content with Stale Mate, as in chess, not matrimonial boredom)

We didn't do that this morning. We didn't argue, we fought, and broke all three rules.
When the house emptied and it was just me and the animals, I sat by the window trying to figure out whether he was right and I was wrong, or I was right and he was wrong, or we both were right, or both were wrong, or we were both right and wrong.

Then I heard a sound my 26-toed cat has never made inside. We were both sitting by the front window that looks out to the courtyard garden, me gathering my wits, him licking his butt. Or so I thought. Then he made an angry noise, a kind of growlish hiss. That's when I saw the stray ginger tabby sitting on the window ledge staring in at Bigfoot. The tabby has adopted our front yard and carport as his territory, but this is the first time I've seen him look in the window. So far, we've co-habitated, him owning the wilder parts of the garden and Bigfoot claiming the house and courtyard. The tabby stared with such unwavering intent, a stare that seemed to say, I'm considering expanding my territory and your front room will do just fine. Bigfoot bristled, but he's a naturally friendly cat, lets our Golden Retreiver puppy wrestle with him, lets our crabby old Border Collie nip at his face like a mad badger when she imagines he's planning to steal her kibble, so it was a half-hearted gesture. Clearly he was perplexed. His body language seeming to say should I fight this cat? Is it okay for him to be looking in my window? Shouldn't he be sleeping under the jojoba? Why isn't he playing by the rules of engagement? Or is he?

What kept them in a stand off was the thin pane of glass between them. "Fences make good neighbors." Is that what Frost said? So do windows. Without the glass, I'm pretty sure Bigfoot would've gotten his ass kicked. Despite his awesome moth-hunting skills, he lacks a killer instinct. The ginger cat needs one to survive, since our neighborhood has a bounty of stray cats. He's out battling in the real world, while Bigfoot enjoys the luxury of insulation. He should back down because his world is so much nicer than the ginger cat's.

Now I'm not saying I'm Bigfoot and my husband is the ginger cat, but we could learn from their eventual decision (aided by the window) to shrug their little cat shoulders and go their own ways, contented for now to agree to disagree.