Letting Go of Right

“Our addiction to being right is a great block to the truth. It keeps us from the kind of openness that comes from confidence in our natural wisdom.” - Stephen Levine

 

 

I’ve spent the majority of my life being right. Or, at the very least, believing so.

 

Growing up in a right family being right was a tradition. A right of passage, passed down from one generation to the next; assumed most notably by those with the highest propensity for argument and/or power.

 

By default, parents were almost always right, assuming dominance over all those in their charge. Next in right, were those of modest to superior intellect who used facts, figures and references as measures of right. Third in right, were those with direct insight or experience in the given area of discussion, who used their hands-on experience to sway others to right with them. And finally, there were those whose voice or stature seized and dominated conversations. These violently gregarious folks relied almost exclusively on fear to emphasize their opinion and secure right.

 

Family debates were always a visually striking performance, with members from each contingency exerting their will to sway consensus their way. Being right on any particular topic—or major point within a topic—was seen as respect. When proven wrong people would defer, pivot and strike up a subject through which they perceived a win.

 

As a child I studied both the antics and the strategies deployed during a bout of right to leverage and regulate momentum in a conversation. These were some of the most deployed:

 

1. Personal Attacks: “Well if you’d open a book as much as you open your mouth perhaps you’d have a point worth discussing.”
 
2. Mischaracterization of the Original Point: “What do you know about interviewing? You’ve been at the same job for twenty years!”
 
3. Feigning Ignorance: “I don’t know what you’re talking about? Does anybody know what he’s talking about?”
 
4. Either-or-Conclusions: “Look, it comes down to this: either you’re working and contributing to society, or you’re a freeloading bum.”
 
5. Domino Theory: “If you would have just stayed in your lane you wouldn’t be going through this. *insert sardonic shrug*”
 
6. Circular Reasoning: “Welp, I don't know how else to make you get it; the Bible is the true word of God, because it's right there in the bible.”
 
7. Sweeping Generalizations: “You get what you pay for; I don't know what more I can tell you.”
 
8. Confuse and Distract: Person A: “I thought you said you would help me out with this project?” Person B: “Oh yeah—I just started working on this really cool new project with Christine, want to see how far we got?”
 
9. Hypocrisy Appeal: “How can you talk to me about eating meat when you’re wearing leather shoes?”
 
10. Sunk Cost Fallacy: “What do you mean it doesn’t make sense to go? I’ve already paid for it! You’re not wasting my hard-earned money.”
 
11. Appeal to Authority: “You don’t believe me? Let’s ask—*conveniently situated expert*—they'll prove it.”
 
12. Play on Words: “Nah, that’s not what happened—I said I wouldn’t speak to him again, not send him a text message. That’s different.”
 
13. Emotional Manipulation: “I can’t believe you would think that? Why would you think that? I'm so disappointed in you.”
 
14. Bandwagon Fallacy: “Look, everyone’s going! What's the big deal? 
 
15. Gross Oversimplification: “Well, all I know is: if you spare the rod, you spoil the child.”

Rarely—if ever—were arguments, disagreements and/or fights fair. It almost always came down to your ranking in the family. As a result, some people never won. Their arguments were usually immediately shut down and turned against them. God help the person who brought forth a weak poorly constructed argument. A verbal lashing of epic proportions would set the stage, but the true performance would be the recounting of the pitiful act to anyone within earshot for weeks, months and sometimes years to come. So, it simply did not benefit you to lose an argument. In my family you had to win.

 

To win meant you had to be on point. Decisive. Always willing to go low. How low? As low as needed to assume dominance. Now keep in mind, these weren’t cruel people. My family has been and continues to be members of a highly valued tribe. No one intentionally sought to hurt anyone. They simply needed to be right. To win. Because to lose could mean the loss of respect, power, and honor. So one in many ways had to go along to get along—eat, or be eaten.

 

To be honest, I never enjoyed the tension brought about as a result of heated family discussions. I never much enjoyed raising my voice or flailing my arms. But because power, control and dominance were at stake, I embodied the stance and deliverance of a man knowledgeable about any topic broached. Rarely if ever would I admit ignorance. My opinions were broad and compelling, cloaked in a veil of half-read, half-researched dogma that I wanted to be true. Not because it made sense as much as I wanted my voice, my thoughts, my beliefs to come alive in a world I did not fully understand, but dared not admit.

 

At some point having practiced hours on end and, having completed the most demanding of familial internships, I was right.

 

I had earned my place as someone who’s voice could command respect.

 

I had earned myself a seat at the table reserved exclusively for elders.

 

I suddenly had purpose.

 

I finally felt like somebody.

 

My family had given me a voice. A rich, powerful, booming voice and temperament I released out into the world. By the time I was 21 years-old my voice was superbly trained. I could—almost without fail—exploit any conversation to my advantage. And if by some chance reason failed, I could at-will project my voice clear across a room silencing it as if God himself had declared a decree. People would relent, offer the rights of the conversation to me and move about their way.

 

 

 

One of my closest friends to this day recounts stories of my most tyrannous years. He reminds me through stories to others of the Chris you didn’t—or depending on the circumstances—don't know. I always allow him to tell them. Always. Because each story reminds me of the monster I once was and the extended journey I have been on to recognize the toxic affect my personhood has had and can have on others.

 

This journey, however, has not been a steady linear road as much as it has been a windy, unpaved, graveled dirt road traveled mostly in bare feet.

 

On the way to letting go of right, I’ve made several pit-stops at a regular and familiar haunt of mine, the “I don’t want to be right, I just want the truth” tabernacle. It has often been a place of undeniable comfort. After all, it sounds nice, and honest and non-threatening. But more times than not it has served as a tidy, strategic impediment to the truth. In all of its niceness, it still hid the pervasive need to be right as established by "my" truth. As per my beliefs—which of course one should not only respect, but adopt.

 

It has taken many, many years to accept any need of mine to be right is directly connected to my beliefs about my self-worth. In being right, I am seen in the light of victor! In being proven wrong, I am seen in the light of loser. And a core value of first world cultures is the competitive drive to win, at any cost. Even if doing so ruins relational assignments, peace of mind and a sincere desire to grow and learn.

 

Recently, I’ve begun practicing neutrality. Particularly, when it comes to others. To not have an opinion about things, people and/or places that do not concern me. I’ve been practicing my ability to observe without opinion—without influence, without subjective concern. It’s different, and at times down right difficult. But what it’s teaching me is something I’ve always known but never quite had the courage or bandwidth to accept: That there is no right way to do anything. There is simply my way and then there is your way. If our goal, was simply to make it to this moment where our paths cross, what difference does it make how we each arrived? Welcome. Let's catch up.