A few days ago I had an argument with a friend. She got very passionate about the point she was trying to make, and I asked her to lower her voice and use softer words, so we can continue the exchange of opinions in a hospitable manner. ‘Why would you say that?”, she paused with a hurt expression on her face. ‘Why can’t you accept me for who I am?”.
I did accept her, to a certain limit. Had she not changed her approach, I would have left the room.
Rejecting an argument or an attitude is not equal to rejecting the person
I still appreciate my friend’s many qualities even if I won’t have her shout at me. I know how uncomfortable it feels to have someone disagree with you, but we need it and we should welcome it. Feeling bad about someone contradicting us is not their problem (even when they do it for the mere pleasure of upsetting us), it is ours. We need to let go of the I-must-be-always-right-otherwise-I-am-a-crappy-person illusion.
Acceptance is always conditioned
Thinking otherwise would be naïve and counterproductive. Parents accept their children if they eat their vegetables. If they look both sides before crossing the street. If they stay in school. If they have the right friends. If they marry well. If they love parents back. And so forth. Children are less demanding. They will accept their parents as long as they are loved. As for all other types of relationships, the ‘if’ factor seems obvious to me.
We do it to others as well
Re-ci-pro-ci-ti-ty. We ask to be accepted while we reject others, you know, for who they are. Anyone who got a divorce knows what I mean.
Being accepted does not mean we can stop making efforts
Good, lasting relationships are always the result of persistent effort made by all sides. We may live with the different opinions or lifestyles of the others, but we still need to see them caring for us and trying to, at least, not make our lives harder than they already are. Not doing that might get you free to say or do whatever you want, but you will do it all alone.
That’s what I tried to explain to my perplex friend yesterday. She didn’t like it, but I thought you might.
Showing posts with label tolerance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tolerance. Show all posts
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Less flower, more power
On Friday I rushed to Vama Veche hungry for sunshine, good music and a horizon line uninterrupted by buildings. I had been fantasizing all week about chocolate pancakes (bye bye diet, so long calories count), swimming, drinking beer on the beach, laying on the sand at night and gazing for hours at the star-soaked sky. I was prepared for that, but nothing had announced the lessons of courage and tolerance I came back home with.
For all you non-Romanian readers, Vama Veche is an iconic summer destination on the Romanian seaside, supposedly the summer capital of all hippies, rockers, unfulfilled artists of all kinds and any other sensitive, creative souls that resiliently distance themselves - some more than others - from the modern society and all its obvious flaws. It should be noted that while this was true for a few years in the 90s, more recently the village has been taken over by the heartless, improvised business men who charge Bucharest prices in the their cotton colorful disguises. In any case, Vama Veche remains one of the few local seaside options for people young at heart, or body (if you know the other resorts available, you understand).
But I digress, this is not a touristic review.
Vama Veche hosted this weekend a folk festival creatively named…. hooold for it… Folk You! So a lot of folk (you’d figure) and rock bands were invited to participate. In an interesting experiment, artists from completely different genres were also asked to contribute, probably in an attempt to point out that values, authenticity and passion are way higher than any hair style or instrument. An experiment or demonstration, as you wish, that failed terribly on Saturday evening.
Puya is a hip-hop artist that gradually made a name for himself in a place and at a time where speaking in rhymes about political and social issues was (is?) completely unsexy. His background in a well-known but controversial rap group apparently made him very unpopular with crowds like the one in Vama Veche. The hostility this particular audience felt became quickly apparent when Puya took the stage this weekend. Boos and swear words were pouring. A compact group of long-haired, pierced, tattooed, shirtless men were standing frozen in front of the stage, with their hands raised. As I approached them, I realized they were all giving Puya the middle finger. The rapper continued his show; the public got angrier, the shouting got louder. Puya and his crew became open targets for plastic bottles thrown forcefully at them. Puya continued unfazed, and kept dropping verses while making feints to avoid projectiles. He noticed, at a certain point, that the public in Vama Veche is more about the power than the flower, and I could not help but laugh despite the tragic circumstances.
For the first time in my life, I was scared to applaud an artist, but this weekend in Vama Veche I cheered for Puya looking over my shoulder. I cried looking at the screaming men and women who did not take five minutes to listen before attacking. Puya eventually interrupted the show and left the stage, the only wise thing to do in that situation. I tried to go backstage and tell him he did the most inspirational show I had seen in a long time, but no one was allowed there. So I’m telling him here, now.
I was impressed with the courage to stand in front of thousands of furious, irrational, drunk people and risk your safety to make a point. Not any point, but a valuable one.
I admired the inner strength and deep confidence in his work one must have to take so much rejection, yet continue to perform.
I applauded the professionalism of not missing a single beat, not one word in those awful circumstances.
As of Saturday night, I am a fan.
So Puya left and several hours later Vama Veche returned to being the iconic summer residence of flower-power devotees, you know, those peaceful, tolerant people who would rather make love instead of war. Still, somehow, I could not wait to get back home.
For all you non-Romanian readers, Vama Veche is an iconic summer destination on the Romanian seaside, supposedly the summer capital of all hippies, rockers, unfulfilled artists of all kinds and any other sensitive, creative souls that resiliently distance themselves - some more than others - from the modern society and all its obvious flaws. It should be noted that while this was true for a few years in the 90s, more recently the village has been taken over by the heartless, improvised business men who charge Bucharest prices in the their cotton colorful disguises. In any case, Vama Veche remains one of the few local seaside options for people young at heart, or body (if you know the other resorts available, you understand).
But I digress, this is not a touristic review.
Vama Veche hosted this weekend a folk festival creatively named…. hooold for it… Folk You! So a lot of folk (you’d figure) and rock bands were invited to participate. In an interesting experiment, artists from completely different genres were also asked to contribute, probably in an attempt to point out that values, authenticity and passion are way higher than any hair style or instrument. An experiment or demonstration, as you wish, that failed terribly on Saturday evening.
Puya is a hip-hop artist that gradually made a name for himself in a place and at a time where speaking in rhymes about political and social issues was (is?) completely unsexy. His background in a well-known but controversial rap group apparently made him very unpopular with crowds like the one in Vama Veche. The hostility this particular audience felt became quickly apparent when Puya took the stage this weekend. Boos and swear words were pouring. A compact group of long-haired, pierced, tattooed, shirtless men were standing frozen in front of the stage, with their hands raised. As I approached them, I realized they were all giving Puya the middle finger. The rapper continued his show; the public got angrier, the shouting got louder. Puya and his crew became open targets for plastic bottles thrown forcefully at them. Puya continued unfazed, and kept dropping verses while making feints to avoid projectiles. He noticed, at a certain point, that the public in Vama Veche is more about the power than the flower, and I could not help but laugh despite the tragic circumstances.
For the first time in my life, I was scared to applaud an artist, but this weekend in Vama Veche I cheered for Puya looking over my shoulder. I cried looking at the screaming men and women who did not take five minutes to listen before attacking. Puya eventually interrupted the show and left the stage, the only wise thing to do in that situation. I tried to go backstage and tell him he did the most inspirational show I had seen in a long time, but no one was allowed there. So I’m telling him here, now.
I was impressed with the courage to stand in front of thousands of furious, irrational, drunk people and risk your safety to make a point. Not any point, but a valuable one.
I admired the inner strength and deep confidence in his work one must have to take so much rejection, yet continue to perform.
I applauded the professionalism of not missing a single beat, not one word in those awful circumstances.
As of Saturday night, I am a fan.
So Puya left and several hours later Vama Veche returned to being the iconic summer residence of flower-power devotees, you know, those peaceful, tolerant people who would rather make love instead of war. Still, somehow, I could not wait to get back home.
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