Rancor is an anchor

Can I dial down my anger at people on "the other side"? Also: Book news!

Every so often—ok, very often, these days—I escape to New Hampshire’s White Mountains, my number one “happy place” (barf). Back in 2020, when I took my hiking up a notch, I started keeping track of the 4,000-footers I summited, and now I’m close to hiking all 48 of them. It’s fun to have a goal.

When I’m driving to the trailheads, often quite early in the morning, surrounded by the peaks, I get a delicious feeling of anticipation. I’m on the brink of escaping the everyday world, into a realm of spruce and rocks (oh, the rocks…) and roots and moss, and views of mountains beyond mountains beyond mountains.

But until I get there, I have to drive through a gauntlet of ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ and ‘Trump 2024’ and ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ and ‘Blue Lives Matter’ signs along the way. A defunct bakery in Twin Mountain has, in addition to a ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ sign, a hand-lettered sign that says: “First Amendment! Triggered yet?” I don’t even understand what this means (who’s triggered by the first amendment?) but, as Democrat, I’m pretty sure that I’m the target of this ire. Ugh.

New Hampshire is a purple state, and decidedly redder in the more rural parts. But the (rural-ish) White Mountain and Lakes regions are constantly flooded with hikers and skiiers and vacationers from more liberal Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York. I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming that all of the flags and signs and all the rest are intended in part to “trigger” us.

And, in my case, they do. That is, if being “triggered” means feeling angry and frustrated, hated and hateful, not to mention downright dismayed about the state of our country, which, I think it’s fair to say, is in the midst of a not-always-bloodless civil war.

But then, I put on my pack and hike up into the hills and all is (mostly) forgotten. People don’t tend to talk politics on the trail, and it’s rare to see political t-shirts or hats. On my most recent hike—a glorious two-night trek across the Presidential range with stays at two AMC huts—my hiking pal Marah and I shared a bunk room and dined side by side with folks who I’m pretty sure spanned a range of political views, based on some little “tells” in the course of conversations. And I know based on the “Hike the 4000-Footers” Facebook group I’m in that the range of political persuasions out on the trails is wider than one might think—especially of late, when so many more people are hiking.

But in the huts, we didn’t talk about current events or hot-button issues. Instead, we talked about hiking and gear and travel and hometowns and food and family and whatever else happened to come up.

Yet when the sixty-something thru-hiker from Texas across the table from me on our second night let drop a little comment about “bozos like Cuomo, with their pandemic restrictions,” I felt myself getting angry. Ironically, not so much because of the substance of the comment itself—I actually think the issue of pandemic restrictions was and still is very complex—but because I associate that stance with others that I find more unequivocally problematic.

But dammit, I didn’t want to feel angry at this person who had just passed me the bread, and who had been sharing stories of his family and his section hikes on the Appalachian trail—this person who had fancy waterproof socks but also duct-tape covering a tear on his jacket, who said that the pumpkin curry soup we were eating reminded him of something his wife made, and who loved being in the woods and on the mountaintops as much as I did.

And it’s weird; I almost felt like I was obligated to be angry, as a loyal member of Team Liberal.

But I made a concerted effort not to go there. I gently pushed the anger to the side. I tried to stay in the moment of our shared humanity, and the things that we had in common, known and unknown, rather than the things we might vehemently disagree on. It actually felt like a kind of mindfulness exercise: making the choice to focus on what my eyes and ears were telling me in that moment, rather than following my assumptions and stereotypes and fears and tribalistic impulses down a rabbit hole of anger and dismay.

It felt good. It felt like something I want to try to do more.

Now, let me qualify this a bit, because I can just hear my fellow liberals revving up their “yeah, but” engines: I am not saying I want to stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes and sing LA-LA-LA so I don’t have to feel icky sad mad feelings. I’m not talking about shrugging and saying “We can agree to disagree! Pass the peas!” when it comes to matters of major moral weight. I’m never going to cozy up to an unrepentant racist or transphobe, or trade recipes with a right-wing militia member or January 6 Capitol invader. And you can bet your bippy I’m going to stay mad at the people in positions of power who are curtailing rights and undermining democracy and blocking legislation that I believe would help improve life for all people, and at the pundits and propaganda peddlers who are stoking the flames.

But the kneejerk anger I so often feel toward ordinary people on the “other side,” usually without knowing a thing about them except that I know, or even just suspect, they’re not on my “team,” feels corrosive. Hypocritical (I don’t want them being reflexively angry at me). Indulgent, even. Because the fact is, aiming my anger at ordinary, individual people—as opposed to larger political and systemic realities, or those aforementioned powerful folks—doesn’t change the world for the better.

And seething and muttering “fuck you, asshole,” when a flag-flying pickup truck emblazoned with Trump stickers passes me on the highway isn’t accomplishing anything, except probably raising my cortisol levels, which leads to increased belly fat, and nobody needs that.

I don’t know. There’s a lot about our current political and cultural reality that really does make my heart hurt and my blood boil. And you can’t just turn off your feelings. But it seems that if I try, I can fiddle with the knobs a bit when it comes to fellow humans, such that my anger doesn’t completely overwhelm my empathy, my curiosity, and my belief in the inherent worth and dignity of all people.

Which, if nothing else, is good news for my belly.

Now. On a COMPLETELY different note! Things are moving with regard to my book!! Galleys for The Society of Shame are in the works, to send to reviewers and booksellers and the like, and pretty soon I’m going to reveal the cover. Here’s me forcing it upon unsuspecting tourists on the Swan Boats in the Public Garden, where I shot a cover reveal video. (Why the Swan Boats? You’ll find out soon!)

So….to see the cover, and some of the sillness that transpired in the park that day, kindly follow me on Facebook or Instagram. Or keep reading here. Either way, thank you.