Making Conversation

The social part.

A year and a half ago I attended the wedding of my brother to a really great woman.

We had met about a year before, at a family gathering. We don’t live anywhere near each other, so we hadn’t visited in between, but I enjoyed her company and was happy that my brother met her.

It was a small wedding. They had both been married before and didn’t see any reason to make a big affair of it. Family and a few close friends. Maybe fifty people, including children. They asked me to do a reading at the ceremony, which was quite an honor.

Then came the party after. The social part. The part I really dislike.

My husband wasn’t with me. When he is, I can defer to him. He’s only slightly more comfortable in crowds than I am, but he’s much better at small talk. This time, he had decided not to attend.

So I was sitting at a table with one of my sisters when a couple joined us. They were probably in their fifties.

Most of the people at this wedding were members of a specific church. That church has its own culture, its own language, its own hierarchy of importance. I was raised in that church but haven’t attended in over thirty years. I don’t move comfortably in that world anymore.

The couple began talking about their lives—where their children had gone to college, the missions those children had served, how well everyone was doing. Prosperous. Accomplished. Approved.

I listened. I stayed polite. None of it meant much to me, but I didn’t say that.

My sister could keep up easily. She had served a mission herself and attended one of those colleges. She knew the vocabulary.

They asked me about myself, and the fact that I had joined the military came up.

I served our country. I was one of millions of men and women who make sure that people like them have the safety and freedom to attend the colleges they choose and go on the missions they value.

I could see it immediately. A wall went up. Disdain. Contempt. I had not followed the path.

From there, things went downhill.

I became difficult. I disagreed with everything they said. I stopped trying to smooth anything over. I was confrontational. I was rude.

It wasn’t a good way to handle it. I know that. Not mature. Not the way to make friends and influence people.

But they had already discounted me. The moment they realized I didn’t share their way of thinking, I was done in their eyes. At that point, I didn’t care much about being agreeable.

It was like watching myself revert to some pre-sapiens primate, flinging poo at adversaries.

Not my finest hour.

Still, I didn’t curse at anyone. Small mercies.

I’ve replayed that evening more times than I care to admit, and it hasn’t taught me to be gentler or more accommodating. What it clarified is where my patience ends. I am willing to be polite. I am willing to be quiet. I am not willing to be diminished to make other people comfortable with the lives they approve of. If that means some bridges don’t survive contact, so be it. Not every burned bridge is a loss. Some are simply boundaries made visible.