Your turn at the Soapbox

So my friends run this blog called “Your turn at the Soapbox.” Which is cool. I like the fact that my friends have such varied political views and that they are willing to talk about them. The want me to post on that blog too. And I guess I will. I am a little pissed that they decided to call me a long-haired, emo-sissy. Not that their calling me names bothers me per se. I’ve known this bunch of guys since high-school. I am however bugged that this is what political discussion has come to mean. If I disagree with you, you simply call me names and try to make me look bad so that you look right. There is no cooperation, no attempt to persuade, no chance to work together on finding a common solution. I think it hurts more that my friends call me a liberal. I have never posted on the blog, and frankly my political views are not well formed and all over the map. They do not fit neatly into one ideology. Despite this fact my friends think that they have me all figured out and they are ready to pull out the labels and names and say things like “...spew out all that liberal sissified poetry you call art...” I am not sure that even makes sense. It’s just an attempt at fancy name calling. The thing that is even sadder is I know that my friends are only half serious. But the people who discuss politics for a living and want to be taken seriously are even worse. Ann Coulter’s calling John Edwards a “faggot” is a perfect example. If I called one of my co-workers that word, I could be fired; and yet somehow it’s o.k. to use it in public discourse. I hate talking politics with anyone because the response I get from people is always the same if they agree with me, they call the people who don’t names. If they don’t agree with me they call me names. It’s always discouraging. In fact I think there are two major problems with Americans my age. The first is what I have been describing. If I disagree with you, you are (insert political, racial, sexual, intelligence insult or other slur or slander here). The other is if I am messed up it’s someone or something else’s fault, and I am not responsible. We need to own up to these things. Our grandparents would be ashamed of the way we act. Oh and my hair was never really that long.