Meandering Through Difficult Conversations
Lists, Bodies, "White Tears," and the Conversational Secret Sauce
Even though I prepared diligently, I still stumbled my way through the conversation. I had advice. I knew my subject. I prayed a lot.
And in a final win, I had a list next to me that read:
Listen.
Love.
Keep to subject.
But it wasn’t enough. Or maybe it was.
How do you know if you were successful on your end of a conversation if the conversation ends poorly?
Conversation fail
For a season I worked for a church. I had a stupid title—“The Connections Chick,” which ultimately meant I was a mix between a the ultimate greeter and women’s ministry leader.
On Sunday mornings, I would be pulled aside and introduced to all the first-timers who came to our church services. If we clicked—and even if we didn’t—I would invite the new women out to coffee. Despite some strange coffee dates, I usually met my goal to make people feel welcome and cared for. Lastly, I funneled the women into the women’s ministry, which I helped lead. I also co-directed the small group ministry, and a few other things in this job, but now I am just getting sidetracked. (Note: as a writer, I should edit that last sentence out. But in order to depict being a “great conversationalist,” I’m going to keep it in).
One time, I caught up with a new couple who I almost missed as they left. I can still remember the angles of our bodies, half in the dark auditorium, half in the light from the foyer. However, I don’t remember the conversation as well as the scene. I just know I asked them the same basic question, exactly the same way more than once. I couldn’t connect or get them to answer in more than a word or two. There I was, Dory from Nemo, reintroducing myself and asking the same thing. Their faces looked at me like I was a weirdo while mine burned with shame.
That’s one story of countless conversations that failed.
The #1 secret to being a great conversationalist
People think I am a great conversationalist. Or at least, I’ve been told I am—and not just from my quiet husband who brings me as his sidekick for social situations. But I am not convinced. I babble a lot, fumble over questions, and in hard conversations I tend to shut down.
So if I really am a “great conversationalist,” I have a secret sauce:
Be willing to suck at conversation.
I am not as much a great conversationalist as I am at being willing to converse. Conversing, even if it means not editing out what should be edited. Trying to talk, even if it means being willing to look like a dork. Persevering through awkward stumbling words, even through tears.
Tears
Crying is tricky during conversations. For a long time, there was one looping, reoccurring, miserable conversation that happened at least a couple times a year with my husband. I am sure it is familiar to many of us. It is called . . .
The Talk About Money.
I didn’t do well with it. I felt attacked and always got defensive. His tone was all business and he’d wear his friendly, “I will kill you” facial expression. Granted, he often wears that facial expression, even while doing his most favorite things. But it always seemed especially personal in The Talk About Money. In response to the tone and facial expression, my emotions would often take over and my brain would shut down. When that happened, no matter how much I didn’t want to, I would usually cry.
I hate crying in conversations. But if it is a hard one, even if it doesn’t feel personal at the moment, I just do. This is especially bothersome, as I know it can feel manipulative on the other side. Am I just trying to get my own way?
Confession: sometimes I am pouting. But more often, I am anxious and freaked out, overwhelmed by the decisions that need to be made. Or maybe I am crying because I am frustrated at myself, now illogically stumbling because my brain has shut down in some sort of emotional self-protection mode that I can’t figure out how to switch “off.”
(I hate it when that happens.)
The other reason I cry is because my body is alerting me that I have deeper things that need to be processed or addressed. Strangely, these deeper things might not have anything to do with the subject at hand—like money. Later, I might realize I started crying because I didn’t realize “that opportunity” from five years ago was finally lost and I need to grieve it. My mind doesn’t know what’s happening inside, but my body does.
Moving my body
One time my therapist had an interesting recommendation to help me have a hard conversation. I had told her how I thought it would go, based on past experiences that I described in detail. She noticed that I had a particular seating arrangement and she asked me to sit in a different place the next time a hard conversation went down. I found it amazing that shifting my stance actually greatly helped.
Even the littlest changes in routine or habits can empower us to not replicate past negative conversations.
White tears
It goes to show that our histories, or traumas, can have a powerful effect on how we converse. And this just isn’t seen in personal conversations, it can also be cultural or systemic, like in racism.
There is a concept called, “white tears.” A white woman crying can be a very negative thing from a historical perspective for Black Americans. A white woman crying would cause the white community to come protectively around her, which also ended up being a reason for many injustices against Blacks, such as lynchings. I’ve listened to anti-racist training that pointed out that even now, a white woman crying during a difficult racial conversation can often sidetrack healing. People will stop focusing on the POC’s perspective, feeling the need to comfort or protect the white crying woman in the room.
I totally imagine this happening and see how frustrating it would be to the POC who has very real experiences to address. But although I’ve gotten better at compartmentalizing emotions to deal with later, I often still cry. Sure, maybe if the conversation was in a group setting, I could quietly back away to not distract. But what if it is a one-on-one conversation? Those aren’t hypothetical to me. I have engaged in multiple hard conversations about race. And I might or might not have cried.
Honestly, I’d probably just have to own up to being human, while continuing help to point the conversation to where it needs to go—off of me.
Regrets or no regrets?
Regardless of what the difficult conversation looks like, the worst part is always after it has finished. Sometimes I will find myself still analyzing it for days, weeks, or years afterwards. Remembering can be a curse. And that is why I keep finding myself back at the beginning of this article…
In retrospect, I had a lot of regrets:
Did I respond clearly? I only realized later that was an issue. I should have addressed it! But how could you address it, Elisa, when you didn’t know it was an issue? Wait—did it just seem like I was caving in? After all, I wasn’t trying to prove my point—I was just trying to understand. Does that mean she doesn’t know I had a logical argument? Logic aside, somehow I didn’t make her feel loved. How is that? I tried so hard! Or was she determined to not be loved? Did it even matter to her?
In retrospect I had no regrets:
I followed my list! I am glad I affirmed my commitment and redirected it back to her, so I could hear what she felt. I was open-minded, too! Even though I didn’t agree on everything or always follow her logic, at least I did the right thing. That, I am sure of.
Well, unless I didn’t do the right thing as the conversation did end poorly…