I Don’t Want to Lose This Friendship, But…

I was watching Casablanca with an old friend. We were at the scene where the Nazis begin singing the German patriotic anthem, “Die Wacht am Rhein” as they gather menacingly at Rick’s bar.

In response, patrons drown them out by singing “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem. It’s a strong scene—true patriots responding to aggression through the beauty and strength of the song. And it always makes me cry.

But my friend looked over at me, laughing. “They just all of a sudden started singing,” she said. “Why? How silly.”

Perhaps she noticed my tears, perhaps not.

“I love this scene,” I answered lamely.

“Really?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” I said, and we silently continued watching.

Neither of us asked the other one about her response. I did not ask why she thought it was funny. I was thrown, a little aghast. I have no idea why she didn’t ask me why I loved what she thought was silly.

This happened several years ago, and I have thought about it many times. This friend is a conservative and I am a liberal, so I wondered if our response had something to do with how our brains are wired.

Research has shown that conservatives are more likely to respond to external threats while liberals focus more on internal stimuli, and Republicans are more attuned to messages of fear and are less likely to take risks than Democrats.

The brains of conservatives and liberals are physically different, suggesting perhaps that people move toward one party or the other because of neurological reasons. And why messages of fear resonate more with conservatives and calls for change appeal to liberals.

So, why did my friend think this scene was funny while I found it immensely touching and inspirational? The patrons took a huge risk by singing, so did that make her too uncomfortable to be able to take seriously? And what threat had she seen? I saw the threat of silence and the power of song. What about her?

Do you know what might have helped me figure this out? I could have simply asked her. But I didn’t, and I haven’t in the years since. This happens to me often—I get stunned by an opinion that is so different from my reality that I am paralyzed.

I wonder I shake my head—internally, of course—and I stew. I cannot think of a response for hours, sometimes days, occasionally years. Long after the opportunity to start a conversation has passed.

The problem is that I usually don’t know what questions to ask, or how. Or, more importantly, when. This wasn’t even a political discussion, and it happened before 2016 before we got noticeably divided, but this friend and I hadn’t been able to talk about anything remotely political for years.

In the past seven years, our relationship has fractured even more. The root of our disagreement is just that we see different worlds of threats and possibilities. Our personalities, so beautifully matched in other areas, have a giant glitch when it comes to politics. Do I want politics to kill our friendship? No. Politics has killed too many things.

How to engage?

Political communications experts suggest asking non-judgmental questions and honestly listening to the answers to bridge this divide.

I had the perfect opportunity to engage with my friend non-politically and to possibly understand our differing worldviews. After the movie ended, I could have simply asked, “I know you didn’t enjoy that movie and I get that there’s no reason for us to share the same taste.

But I so love the scene where they sing, and am curious to understand why we saw that so differently.” Then I let her talk, I listen, ask follow-up questions, and maybe get some understanding of how she rolls.

Wouldn’t that have been good? It’s too late now—she’s likely forgotten the movie. But it has been an ongoing lesson for me. I know how to ask questions—I taught student journalists to do it for decades and I have done it myself for even longer. But that was always in a pre-determined setting, usually an interview that was already scheduled.

What I haven’t mastered is the on-the-fly, personal questioning. And I have taught students to listen, to allow silence so the other person has a chance to think and formulate a response. But on a personal level, I cannot do that. As in many instances in my life, I give great advice—I just don’t always follow it.

The power of why

I’ve taught students that, of the essential questions—who, what, when, where, why and how—why often holds the most power. It gets us to the underside of the story, to the motivation, to the humanity.

It can also be the most difficult because people don’t completely understand why the believe or act as they do. But asking the question makes them think about the answer and, even if you don’t get honest of full response, you have at least started a real discussion.

For me, it’s important to know the first step to a meaningful conversation can be so simple. Why? Why do you say that? Limit it to what they have said, which is an observable fact. I’ve worked on tone to make it clear I am truly interested in the response and am not just offering a snarky barb. Yes, this is difficult.

Not only am I better at snarky barbs, but I have compassion fatigue. Still, I want to maintain this friendship. We can continue on avoidance mode, or I could try to understand, and the first option allows our wounds to grow and fester.

I am often flummoxed by this friend’s comments but this one stands out as a defining wall between us—how can she find one of the most moving scenes in cinema history funny? Still, I want her in my life and I want to understand her and others I love, even if I disagree mightily with them. I am not going to change them and they will not change me.

Understanding one another is a different animal, though. That means I have to begin a discussion that doesn’t threaten either of us. Why helps me jump slowly into the shallow end? Going deeper will take listening and remaining non-judgmental, which is the hard part. But I won’t ever get there if I don’t even know how to start.

My long-term relationships deserve that, no matter how exhausted I am.