It’s hunting season in Wyoming. The days are bright and warm, the evenings chilly, sometimes even frosty. Animals are beginning to move down the mountain, away from the cold air and early snow, into the eager sites of camouflaged men and women. I tolerate hunting season. My husband has always hunted, my father hunted, my sons are learning to hunt. We fill our freezer with pronghorn, elk, and deer meat every fall and we eat lean, grass fed dinners all year long. Hunting is part of our culture, something I accept and would likely defend. But I don’t participate and I’ve made the rookie mistake of anthropomorphizing countless furry targets.
My boys are all out after big game this weekend, so I’ve had plenty of time to think about how I will make another week’s attempt at flawless parenting. I’ve sorted through backpacks, smoothed out crumpled homework assignments, and washed 13 loads of laundry. I’ve planned the week’s meals and copied the week’s football games on to the family calendar. The routine is comforting. I have successfully created the illusion of control. I’ve got this.
Then I remember that I’d rather have my kiddos home playing kickball or riding their bikes than out shooting wild animals. I’m a bit stuck (And I hit this parenting wall often). Strangely, I think it’s about tolerance – when do I let my kids deal with yet another part of the world on their own? When do I turn them lose to decide what they believe, to decide how they will negotiate the sticky differences in people and culture? When do I tell them that not everybody thinks they should get to gun down their own steaks?
I’ve often told myself that I’m raising tolerant children. They’ve got a politically liberal mom and traditionally minded, conservative father. We’ve traveled and talked openly about the world, about human rights, and culture and our family’s (wildly differing) faiths. We complain about politics and take them to the polls with us. But when it comes right down to it, there are many things I just cannot tolerate and I feel desperate to make sure they won’t either.
I am intolerant of conversations that are anti-science or anti-intellectual; I refuse to acknowledge that marriage equality and LGBT rights are anything but top human rights priorities; I no longer have the patience to debate the legality of abortion or the reality of global climate change; do not argue with me about the necessity of vaccinations or fluoride in our water. The moon landing is real. Antidepressants work. Not all Muslims are evil.
My intolerable list is embarrassing, not because the list is full of trivial matters that shouldn’t occupy brain space, but simply because the list exists at all. The very concept that there are ideas that I cannot stand to be around indicates that I suck at tolerance.
Or does it? Maybe it’s just about choosing my battles. Most people do not change their minds about religion or fluoride. Maybe I should just keep quiet (Yeah, right. I can hear my Cody’s snicker now). Or maybe it’s about education –about the need to expose my children to more differences; maybe I need to seek understanding instead of seeking to be understood.
Frank and Luca came home from their pronghorn hunt with a dead animal and new camouflaged snow boots. I took one look at the Realtree™ boots, rolled my eyes, and tossed them in the mudroom in hopes that the boys would lose track of them in the pile of winter gear. Cody went back in and organized all of the boots, lining up my plain black boots next to the new camo. “Lighten up,” he said. I glared and said something rude.
The bottom line is I want to be a person who has the toughest conversations. I value all of my friendships – even with those who vehemently disagree with me. I do not want to live in a world where we all agree (talk about boring). Some of the most satisfying conversations begin with opposition and end with nodding. I don’t want my boys to miss out on those brilliant moments. So maybe my intolerable list isn’t completely useless. At least I am aware of my biggest biases; the first step is admission.