You don’t have to agree with me for us to be friends

I was 19 and terrified to realize that my supervisor for the summer was an openly gay man. It was the late 1980s, and I was from a sheltered community where “such people” were rare. Realizing that me, Molly Mormon, would have to interact with Flamboyant Paul made me think I’d made a mistake in taking that mall job on the east coast.

My suspicions were confirmed when I met my coworkers who immediately jumped in with predictable knocks on my religion when they heard I was from Utah. The fact that I didn’t join in on their drinking party as we unloaded the new freight didn’t help much. I was an easy target. My work environment was initially very uncomfortable, but since it was for only three months, I decided to grit my teeth and bear it.

I frequently noticed Paul watching me, and only much later did I realize that he must have understood what it felt like to be the object of scorn. One afternoon, when the store was quiet and I was dutifully putting away stock while Paul sat at the register with paperwork, he suddenly blurted, “Dogs!”

I looked up, surprised.

“Do you like dogs?” Paul asked.

Confused by the random question, I said, “I grew up with a small, white mutt named Fluffy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We had him since I was a toddler. When I moved away to college, he’d grown very old and smelly and was going blind. He wandered off shortly after I left. My mom was devastated and my parents searched everywhere, but no one ever saw him again. As if when I left, he knew he should die.”

When I saw how aghast Paul was, I wondered why I’d chosen to relate such a depressing story.

But then Paul burst out with, “That is the SADDEST dog story I’ve ever heard! But I LOVE IT! I love sad dog stories! Ok, I’ve got one—listen to this!” And he went on to relate an even sadder dog story. I have no idea what it was anymore, but I found myself smiling and sniffling at the same time.

I realized Paul had been looking for something to talk about with the quiet, awkward Mormon girl who worked in his store, and finally we connected on dogs.

He told me all about the Great Dane puppy he and his boyfriend were raising, and we spent the whole afternoon talking dogs.

The next day I hesitantly mentioned, “Right now, I have a fish tank.”

Paul clapped his hands and said, “And WE want to get a fish tank! Tell me all about yours!”

For the rest of the summer we chatted every day, and when I left, I hugged Paul with genuine tears in my eyes while Paul sobbed, because we had become friends.

Paul demonstrated that I can still be friends with someone even if I don’t agree with their beliefs or behavior. Our relationship was based on what we had in common, and after three months, that was quite a lot.

About ten years later I was teaching a college writing class where the main project was a 15-page persuasive research paper. I had a very cocky and confident student who I’ll call Doug. I brought articles to class to analyze different points of view, and Doug made it point to quiz me on what leanings I had toward the issues, then launched in to argue against me. While I found him rather boorish, he certainly did liven up the class.

Soon he was meeting with me after class to dig deeper into a certain issue which I suspected was for his paper. He even took notes about my position. Sure enough, when he turned in the project, the little stinker had taken a position the polar opposite of mine. In fact, he argued against me, point-by-point.

When I handed back the papers a few weeks later, cocky Doug appeared worried, for once. He hastily thumbed to the last page, looked at his grade, and gasped.

His peers, who had been reading through his drafts—and warning him, too, about not directly writing against me—leaned over to see his grade. They, too, gasped, and one of them said, because Doug was speechless, “You gave him a 98%? But he argued against you!” (He had a few grammar issues, after all, to warrant losing a few points.)

“I know,” I said, “and marvelously, too. He almost persuaded me to his line of thinking.”

When Doug finally looked up at me, he was grinning. “I thought you’d hate it!”

“I did,” I told him, grinning back. “Because you made such darned good arguments.”

When the semester ended a couple days later, he gave me a quick hug as thanks, and we parted as friends with mutual respect. We didn’t have to agree with each other to appreciate each other.

Over the years I’ve discovered different kinds of people who I appreciate. For example, I’d never become Amish, but I wholly admire the life they live and how they remain mostly untouched by the outside world. I don’t want to convert to Judaism, but I deeply respect their culture, tenacity, and temerity. While I’ll never be a Muslim, I’ve gained greater understanding for them, primarily through chatting with a sweet Muslim family at a university dinner, and discovering how much we had in common.

I have many friends who, while not of my faith, still show support for what we do. On occasion I post pictures and stories about my children who are serving as LDS missionaries, and among those who comment kindly and like the posts are Lutherans, Baptists, and even a “recuperating atheist.” None of them are likely to join my church, but they’re happy to see the experiences of my children, as I am to see the successes of theirs.

We call this kind of appreciation and behavior “civility.” 

And despite what the news and social media would have us believe, it’s still a widely-held virtue, at least among many people I am blessed to associate with.

I have acquaintances who put up with my quirks and ideas without agreeing with them. One friend, who knows I’m trying to go vegetarian, delights in telling me how much meat she consumed that week. It’s friendly teasing, and I barb her back because we know we are safe with each other; we respect each other’s differences.

If I insisted that the only friends I’d have would be those who believed as I do in every last thing, I’d have no friends. I wouldn’t even be married, because there are number of issues on which my husband and I will never agree. Still, we manage around those, as we have for twenty-eight years, roll our eyes at each on occasion, then simply move on to one of many other things wherein we do agree.

No one in my family has precisely the same views on politics, music, literature, food, or education as I do. Yet still I love and appreciate all of them.

Indeed, if we all believed the same about everything, we’d be instantly bored with each other.

We need each other’s differences to challenge us, open us, expand us, and make us take second and third looks at what we thought we knew. We really don’t want homogeneity; we really need variety!

I’ve noticed that people tend to get fixated on rightness and wrongness. It’s been my experience that for a few key issues, usually dealing with life and death and personal agency, there are clear rights and wrongs.

But for the millions of other things we can bicker about, it really doesn’t matter. (I’ve heard people argue vehemently if cookies should be crunchy or chewy, of all stupid things.)*

Many dissimilar approaches can all be “right.” For example, what the “right” dress or music or meal may be for my adult daughters will not be the “right” one for me.

And I think there are times when all of us may be “wrong,” so what does “rightness” matter except to make more enemies in an argument where no winners can exist?

Civility doesn’t worry about who’s right. Civility chooses to exist despite its surroundings.


My gay friend Paul never approached the topic of religion, nor did I approach the nature of his sexuality, except to ask where he found such a gorgeous man who could have been cast as Superman. We avoided the topics we knew might cause a rift, because we wanted to be friends.

Friendships can form even between people who spent an entire semester debating opposites sides, because of mutual respect for the other’s opinions. It’s been nearly 20 years, but I still think fondly of Doug.

I refuse to believe these incidents, or that civility itself, are from a past era, because I still see civility occurring among thoughtful, intelligent people all around me. Civility does not ...mean the mere outward gentleness of speech cultivated for the occasion, but an inborn gentleness and desire to do the opponent good. - Mahatma Gandhi

I see acts of kindness despite idiosyncrasies, and patience with others’ peculiarities. I frequently witness joy in differences. And if you want to be my friend even though I’ve got some strange ideas, I’d love to be friends with you, as long as you promise to keep me on my toes.

Let’s make civility fashionable again.


“When people govern themselves honestly, there’s little need for mediation. ”
~Book 5, Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti

Of all the lists we make . . .

I sat once next to a man in his seventies at the doctor’s office who was making a list. In bold letters written in a blue Sharpie, impossible not to see on the yellow legal pad, were the words: WHAT I STILL WANT.

As I glanced at the title of his page, I smiled and randomly thought of students I’ve had in the past. The most interesting were the ones coming back to college, also wanting something.

First I thought of the middle aged mom with seven children at home who wanted to support her family. She told me the first day of class that she wouldn’t be there too often, but she’d always have a teenager there to take notes and turn in her homework, and would that be all right? She worked full time at the hospital as an LPN, and was also going to school full time to earn her RN, because a couple of years ago her husband—the family’s wage-earner until recently—was struck with Multiple Sclerosis and was now confined to a wheelchair.

Yes, I could work with her to get her what she wanted, because I found myself wanting to be that selfless, devoted, and driven.

Then there was the recently widowed grandmother who, for her 65th birthday, decided she’d give herself a present and go back to school, starting with taking my business writing class. She was more prepared each day than I was, and spanked the class with her grades. I wanted one of her in every class I taught, for all the depth of thought she brought to the discussions.

Then I remembered the 40-something Mexican immigrant, who, although he had a good job, wanted to prove to his daughters that an education was important, so he was coming back to school to earn an associate’s degree. He was also a part-time actor, with an over-the-top personality, and was the loudest and most entertaining student I could’ve ever wanted.

And then there was the 50-something entrepreneur who apologized that he’d miss a few days because he frequently flew to Europe for work. I later learned it was in his private jet, and when I saw an article in the newspaper about him, realized he was a self-made millionaire several times over. But he always regretted dropping out of college and was “treating” himself to a degree in his spare time. He emailed me his writing assignments when he was over the Atlantic, and I wanted all of my students to take their educations as seriously as he did.

There were dozens of other students I’ve had over the years, with interesting lives and goals they never finished and regrets they were trying to reverse, and I remembered a great deal of them as I sat in the doctor’s office waiting, and I hoped they all got what they wanted.

“Wanna see it?” the old man next to me beamed, and I was relieved he was holding up his paper instead of the odd growth on his arm.

“Looks interesting.”

“It’s what I still want in life,” he explained unnecessarily and pointed to the list more than fifty items long and growing.

I took it obligingly and expected to be amazed.

I was.

Not in a good way.

The list didn’t read like a bucket list of sorts, or a wish list for his descendants, or pearls of wisdom he wanted to share.

I felt instead as if I was reading my 10-year-old’s Christmas list, a boy who was deliberately clueless to the needs of anyone else, and seemed to think we could generate money simply by buying fewer vegetables.

Some items on the old man’s list were amusing.

#4—a decent set of nose clips that don’t come off when I dive in the pool.

But, as I glanced sidelong at the hefty man whose breathing was a bit labored, I wondered just how many years it’d been since he dived into anything deeper than a bowl of pudding.

I began to squirm as I read other items.

#12 Cruise to Alaska—with the seafood buffets (because Sterling’s grandkids gave him that, and I have more grandkids than he does)

#27  Someone to remodel the bathroom. (Preferably one of those TV shows, not my sons because they don’t do as fine as work, and their wives will want to paint it again.)

#48 New taller vinyl fence in the yard (so I don’t have to see the tops of the neighbor kids’ heads when they’re outside)

And so the list went on, and I realized the very definition of Crotchety Old Goat was sitting next to me.

But when I came to the end of the list, I began to have just a glimmer of hope.

#56  A plain wooden coffin.

Until I saw:

(Except if someone will spend a few thousand dollars to give me proper send-off, I want one of those highly painted caskets—always thought that’d be a classy way to go).

I slid the page back over to him, disappointed. For someone of his age, and according to the old faded tattoo on his arm, someone who served in Viet Nam and knew about hardship and sacrifice and serving others, I’d expected something a little less . . . childish.

And I wondered snarkily for a moment what this man did with his social security payments taken from my paycheck.

I also thought about my former students who found a deeper purpose in life than just planning to get more stuff than “Sterling” had by the end.  (Whoever Sterling was, I hoped for his sake this old guy lived far, far away from him, but I suspected Sterling was his brother.)

I also remembered the verse in Proverbs that says, “ . . . with all they getting, get understanding.” I looked into the eyes of the man next to me, and there was something hard and cold in them. He was obsessed with the getting, but in all the years he’d been on the earth, he’d tragically missed the understanding.

“So what happens if you don’t get all of that on your list?” I cautiously asked.

He blinked rapidly as if that thought had never crossed his mind. “Well, I’ll be giving a copy of that list to all my kids and grandkids. They usually give me useless stuff for Christmas and birthdays. Just how many pictures of children and by children can one man use, right? Can’t keep any of them straight, anyway, even when they label the pictures. No, I’ll get all of this,” he said confidently as he slipped the yellow page into a folder. “My wife says I’m nuts, but at this stage in my life I deserve to get what I want.”

Fortunately at that moment the person I was waiting for was ready to leave. I nodded politely to the old man as I left, and wondered if his descendants knew that he saw them only as objects to boost his getting, rather than as people to treasure. I rather suspected they did, and wouldn’t be weeping too much over his simple wooden casket.

I promised myself that day that if ever I got that old and felt the need to make a list, it’d better be of stuff I planned to give, not take.

Even if the coffin was one of those glossily painted numbers that looks like it was designed for a departing Vegas showgirl, nothing I took from the world would fit in it anyway. All that remains is what we give.