Ideas - The 2024 CBC Massey Lectures | # 2: Public conversations

Episode Date: November 19, 2024

In his second Massey Lecture, Ian Williams explores the power of conversation with strangers. He says humanity comes out when interacting with them. But how do we open ourselves up to connect with strangers while safeguarding our personal sovereignty? Williams believes we can learn a lot from our conversations with strangers and loved ones alike. 

My name is Graham Isidor. I have a progressive eye disease called keratoconus. Unmaying I'm losing my vision has been hard, but explaining it to other people has been harder. Lately, I've been trying to talk about it. Short Sighted is an attempt to explain what vision loss feels like by exploring how it sounds. By sharing my story, we get into all the things you don't see

about hidden disabilities. Short Sighted, from CBC's Personally, available now. This is a CBC Podcast. Welcome to Ideas. I'm Nala Ayyad. Welcome to Ideas. I'm Nala Ayed. And welcome to Inuksuk High School, the site of the first-ever Massey Lecture in Iqaluit, Nunavut. I co-hosted the evening with lawyer, activist, and community leader, Ayu Peter. Please welcome from this school the Inuksuk drum dancers. We gathered in the foyer of the school for a massy lecture unlike any other.

The evening opened with a performance by the Inuksuk drum dancers, and then Ian Williams took to the stage to talk about conversations with strangers. The feeling of a stranger walking towards you, wanting to talk, can be unsettling. A stranger can become an enemy. A stranger can also become a friend. And we meet them everywhere. In the streets, in the grocery

store, and in the vast, messy publics that make up our democracies. In the second 2024 CBC Massey lecture, Ian Williams asks what we can learn about public conversations from our interactions with strangers.

Ian Williams, the 2024 CBC Massey Lecturer, is the author of seven books of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. His first novel, Reproduction, won the Giller Prize in 2019 and he teaches creative writing at the University of Toronto. His Massey Lectures are called What I Mean to Say, Remaking Conversation in Our Time. In a talk about conversations, there are, of course, examples of conversations. Throughout this lecture, you'll hear writer James C. Fournier

and actor and producer Simuni Kisa-Nickelbein. Today on Ideas, from Anuksuk High School in Iqaluit, Nunavut, here's the second 2024 Massey Lecture, Ian Williams with Public Conversations. So as Nala mentioned, this is the first time that the Massey Lecturers have been up here to tell you. And so it's my first time up here as well. It was really wonderful just even flying in here from Ottawa. Like the clouds broke and we were starting to descend. And then there was all this rock below us.

Rock and some water and no trees, just grasses. And we got closer and closer and you could see the different colors of the grasses. I didn't know what to expect, but it felt otherworldly coming here. And then I realized that this is a part of the country, just like any other part of the country, where people are crossing and meeting and arrive here from different backgrounds, from all over the world. And so you're remote, as in you're far north, but you're a really essential part of the Canadian conversation. My lectures this year are about conversations, and tonight's lecture is about public conversations, about talking to strangers and about talking nationally to each other. And I think you might be expert in how to

talk to strangers, since so many people seem to be passing through the city. Every few months, probably someone new enters your life. You're not sure if they're going to stay. You're not sure how deeply you can connect with them. So the idea of a stranger is really present or top of mind, I think, for the people in this community. So thanks to JBC and Sim for being our actors on stage. This should be both entertaining and educational, part lecture, part theater. This chapter is called Public Conversations. Dialogue is what characters do to each other. That's from Elizabeth Bowen. is what characters do to each other. That's from Elizabeth Bowen. Just as when you buy a new car, say a Honda Civic, and start seeing it everywhere, I started noticing attempts everywhere to discuss difficult conversations. At work, there was a lunch presentation, and there was a new task force and there was a

difficult conversation circle again they were like a hot white Honda Civic that I saw everywhere the conversation circle was in a chapel the introductions went on for more than half an hour uninterrupted when my turn came around, I was low-key difficult. What's your name? Kenelby. Ian. What brings you here? I mean, what's your interest in difficult conversations? Well, lately I'm having trouble with small talk. When people ask me a well-meaning, polite question, I get irritated and ignore them. I was very grinch. I left before the introductions were over. Other people, though, got emotional when sharing what brought them to the group. One person used the word toxic. Someone else brought up Gaza. Another person said,

someone at work called me predatory and mercenary. Then someone said, I made an unpopular point about diversity and everyone in the group turned on me. Someone else said, I have a hard time talking to people from different backgrounds. I don't have anything in common with them. Someone lamented, and I can't talk to the younger generation. They're sensitive. And I can't talk to the younger generation. They're sensitive. Someone said, I don't have a problem talking to anyone, but they must agree to my ground rules. A woman my mother's age admitted that she was a judgmental person who had strong moral stances on things. Could you teach me how to tell people they're wrong?

She was my favorite. To speak is to do. In speech, we love, we beg, we create, we injure, we repair, we marry. There's power to affect real change in the world through words. We declare something to be so, and it is so. This fusion between word and action is clear from Let There Be Light. Don't Talk to Strangers. Most of us grew up with this commandment.

It was for our own protection, even though we live in a generally safe society. The chances of physical injury from spontaneously engaging with a stranger are low. Statistically, you're at greater risk of being harmed by someone you know. These days, the emphasis is less on the stranger than it is on the behavior. We should teach children to identify strange behavior, whether the source is an uncle or a stranger. For example, if someone, regardless of who it is, asks a little kid to keep a secret from mommy, that's strange behavior. The stranger as a concept is fascinating. We recognize them as human in a limited sense, perhaps even merely biological, but they remain without detail and history. We relate to them in

simple, superficial, largely avoidant ways. Our interactions with them are governed by a social contract where we respect their right to exist without caring whether they do or not. Consequently, our behavior is contradictory and unpredictable. We can be exceedingly polite and uncharacteristically rude. We make the hotel bed and we refuse to flush. We call them sir and we call them psycho. Strangers puzzle us. We put in our earbuds to avoid hearing them chew,

and then we confide in them things we haven't even told our loved ones. A stranger is a character. A stranger is almost a person. It's as if their humanity is activated only once we interact with them. Here's another white Honda Civic. Back at the difficult conversation circle, someone told the story of an autistic boy at camp who didn't talk to anyone, just walked around in his own world, dragging a rope behind him.

One day, the speaker said she picked up the other end of the rope and held it to her ear. The autistic boy put the other end to his mouth, and for the first time, he spoke at camp. It sometimes takes an act of creativity to enter someone else's world. And that's hard to do if you're worried about being polite. Would you mind terribly if we talked about politeness? Our conversations with strangers are governed by politeness. There's a script for just about anything, from job interviews to dates. Here's a script from a consulting firm for talking to a stranger in the grocery store

checkout line. Wow, it is really busy today. Choose one of the following questions. Is it always this busy? Looks like you got a lot of work done today. I always pick the wrong checkout line. I always pick the wrong checkout line. My, is it always this busy? Yes, dinner time. It gets busy in here. Oh, sorry. My name is Jamesy.

Jamesy Uyunga. I'm new to Iqaluit. Hi, Jamesy. My name is Simuni. Simuni Nguyunga. Simuni. Did I get that right? Yes, Simuni. Nice to meet you. Have you lived in Iqaluit long? Yes, I was born here. Oh. It is my turn. Have a nice day. Olu kati arid. Thanks. You too.

At first, I wasn't sure what this script was supposed to do. I'd probably be similarly mystified about motive if this conversation were happening to me. But the newcomer's small talk strategy is a display of friendliness. The two strangers are supposed to swap numbers, meet for tea, discover common interests if we choose to continue the play. And there is indeed something appealing about knowing what to say and what response to expect. indeed something appealing about knowing what to say and what response to expect. Politeness determines how open we can be, and it zaps us when we go too far. Our embarrassment is proof that the electric fence of politeness has been breached. In a relatively simple transaction in Japan, say, in a grocery store, the cashier has several options for thanking me for buying lozenges. In English, she might say nothing. She might say thanks or thank you. Zero, one,

or two syllables. But not so in Japanese. She can say arigato. Five syllables. Arigato gozaimasu. arigato, five syllables, arigato gozaimasu, ten syllables, arigato gozaimashita, 11 syllables. Constantly thanking people in Japan does indeed tire one's jaw and can seem excessive to English speakers. Over a lifetime, all of those syllables probably add up to war and peace. But the point here is that politeness is more elaborate than civility. It requires extra effort. Okay, for the etymology nerds, the word polite is rooted in the Latin word politis, from which we also get the word polish. German sociologist Norbert Elias makes a more daring etymological leap between the words polite, police, and politics. He claims that, quote, civilization or politismos is nothing but the long evolutionary process of human beings learning how to control bodily function, speech, and attitudes, resulting in effective methods of self-control and social control.

For the history nerds, it's no accident that the modern form of politeness passes through 17th and 18th century France, where politeness and politics blur. Court society enforced codes of behavior on courtiers, which led them to subordinate themselves to an increasingly centralized political system. I find the idea of subordination interesting. Politeness emerged as a way for us to get along. We agreed to certain inconveniences for the greater good, the way we might consent to taxation to create traffic signals for cars to get along. Politeness was intended to serve us, to reduce complexity

and idiosyncrasy. But too often, we subordinate ourselves to it, bending our truths, withholding fairly tame observations under the social control of politeness. Used rock, good condition. My conversation with a stranger began on Kijiji. I was landscaping my yard and came across an ad that read, used rocks, good condition. Who could resist? I messaged the seller on the app. Hi there. Strange ad, Used Rocks, Good Condition.

I'd like to get a couple of large ones, but I'm not sure if I can lift them or transport them in my Civic. I'm a man of average strength. How did you move them around your yard? And are you around today? Yes, I am home. Do you have another person who can help? I can also help you.

You can text me at XXXXXXXXX. At this point, we switched modes and he was surrounded by my text friends. I told him when I was available. He shared his address. We set up a time to meet. Then he added, I'm not sure if we will be able to lift it. I am 62 years old,

weight 115 pounds, with arthritis in my wrist, but I will try to help. Anyways, it has different sizes. No worries about helping, but I can be there in about 30 minutes. Okay. So I went to his house.

His neighborhood featured classic 1980s urban planning, wide lots, a convenience store anchoring a strip mall, and four Catholic schools in the short distance between the highway and his house. He was a wiry man who looked like he could be Gandhi's athletic brother. The rocks were originally the wall of a pond that he dug up years ago and rolled to the far edge of his property near a ravine. To get the rocks into my car, we had to hoist them over a fence, roll them on a dolly, hike them upstairs along the side of his house to the driveway. them on a dolly, hiked them upstairs along the side of his house to the driveway. But we did it. He still had a lot of rocks left, but I was mindful of the weight on my suspension.

I told him I might come back later that day for some more. He advised me to put a rock on the passenger seat and others in the back seat, like a family, and then others in the trunk. a family. And then others in the trunk. He told me he was Guyanese. He said my hair smelled nice. Coconut, I said. He told me about the neighborhood, an injury he had. And as he was lowering the garage door, he said, I love you, brother. Then when the door was almost shut and my face or response didn't matter, he said, God bless you. This is the moment where I press pause and replay. I love you, brother. God bless you. This is where the stranger was yearning to become more than a stranger. Yet from my perspective, the scripts that he was activating were risky and unappealing. I wondered whether the conversation was really a conversion project. His farewell seemed archaic yet charged, unlike the benignity of say adios,

adios, or bless you. Was I embarrassed for him? He had said it as the garage door was closing. He had said it as the garage door was closing. Was he a frightened but dutiful Christian? Was he afraid of seeing my reaction? I thought about all of this on the drive home, past the four Catholic schools. My interaction with him could have ended at this point. I mean, I had the rocks after all. But later that evening, I texted him. Hi, Rockman. I'll skip today and maybe come back

on Thursday for more rocks. I'll confirm with you beforehand. Rockman is an awesome name. My name is Bobby. We were on a first name basis. He outlined a new process for transporting the rocks, sent me his email address to e-transfer the funds, told me to come by when it wasn't raining. I asked him, how much should I send you for these rocks? But I was thinking, how absurd that I'm paying for rocks. What if these weren't even on his property and he's just selling me rocks from the ravine? He responded, you decide. You look like a reasonable man. The sweetness of this man in his garage didn't leave me. A few minutes later, I wrote,

Hey Rockstar, do you have any advice on how to kill a weed tree from the root? Salt? Vinegar? He suggested driving a copper nail or spike into the main trunk, digging around the root, and pouring a few gallons of waste car engine oil. Sounded brutal. I thanked him. Then he said it again. You take care now, and God bless you.

What else could I do? I hearted the message. I really wanted to know why he kept referencing God. He was testing me. Was I a person to him or an object who came into personhood after conversion? I did not want to enter into theological discussions with this man. This was yet another natural point to cut the stranger off. The next morning, he messaged me, reopening a closed conversation. Just remember, there are lots of gods and religions. I didn't want these teasers anymore. I wanted his intentions known. I wrote back directly. So what religion are you? An agonizingly long time later, but really only a few seconds, he wrote back one word. Holiness. I did not respond.

Holiness is the right name for my religion. I did not respond. Later that day, he said someone else wanted the used rocks, good condition. I want to ask you first because I don't want to agree to sell it to someone else if you will be taking it. I can keep it for you if you decide to take them. Just keep a five for me. My answers had become terse. Another longish message from him, it all felt avoidant, so I jumped tracks to address the conversation neither of us was having. I don't know your spiritual leader. I'll google around. Then Rockstar told me a name and added, The pastor, a true man of God, he is not a fake, and it's no way you can go wrong if you listen to them. I did not respond. The following day,

7 a.m., Rockstar messaged me the longest message yet. Religion is Christian, but according to my pastor, God say to be holy and not all these man-made religion. God tell Moses to tell all the children of Israel to be holy. God is our father and we have to be the same as God. And God is holy. Am I right or wrong? Anyways, the guy never contacted me back for the rock, so it's all yours. This was the beginning of a pitch. The right or wrong threw me.

I was being asked to make a decision that was both for myself and about his reasoning. Maybe this was the kind of man who needed to be right. If I said he was right, then that would be like joining his religion. If I said he was wrong, then he'd come at me with evidence, passages, interpretations. It was lose-lose. I asked myself, what was the truth? And I wrote, yeah, there are so many Christian denominations all insisting that they're right. I don't know if you're right or wrong. Your approach sounds refreshingly simple though. Then I told him that I was going away for a couple of weeks, true and convenient, and he said, as if he were my father, Okay, have a safe trip. May God bless you and keep you safe.

Temporarily, this stranger and I had filled a need in each other's lives. I was his young convert in progress. He was my dad with advice and goodwill. I am not whatever religion he is, and he is not whatever I am. And my impulse toward caution with him is much weaker than the warmth I feel for this stranger. Difficult conversations across divisions do not have to end in ecumenical compromise to be considered worthwhile. We could give each other a fair hearing and remain apart, if not unmoved. The goal is not to be in agreement, not to have an opinion takeover, but to recognize, even honor, the other's sovereignty. but to recognize, even honor, the other's sovereignty.

It is enough to be regarded fully and to be at peace with difference. Rockman was forthcoming. But what if you wanted to talk with a stranger about something charged? On Ideas, you're listening to the 2024 CBC Massey Lectures, What I Mean to Say, Remaking Conversation in Our Time, by novelist and poet Ian Williams. You can hear Ideas on CBC Radio 1 in Canada, on US Public Radio,

across North America on Sirius XM, on World Radio Paris, in Australia on ABC Radio National, and around the world at cbc.ca slash ideas. You can also find us on the CBC News app and wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Nala Ayed. My name is Graham Isidore. I have a progressive eye disease called keratoconus.

And being I'm losing my vision has been hard. But explaining it to other people has been harder. Lately, I've been trying to talk about it. Short-sighted is an attempt to explain what vision loss feels like by exploring how it sounds. By sharing my story, we get into all the things you don't see about hidden disabilities. Short-sighted, from CBC's Personally, available now. Short-sighted from CBC's Personally, available now.

In the second 2024 CBC Massey lecture, novelist and poet Ian Williams explores the idea of the stranger and what our interactions with strangers can teach us about living well with others. We recorded this lecture in Iqaluit, Nunavut, during an evening full of music. Right now, you're listening to throat singers Selena Kalik and Kathleen Merritt holding a musical conversation. You'll hear more of their performance in an upcoming episode of Ideas.

This was a historic night for us. Not only was it the first Massey lecture in Iqaluit, it was also the first time we've translated a Massey lecture into an indigenous language. From Inuksuk High School, here again is Ian Williams with Public Conversations. Williams with Public Conversations. The American poet Claudia Rankin was on a mission to understand whiteness. But how do you, where do you even begin with a project like that? The Rankin Experiment.

While staring at the oak trees in her Connecticut backyard, Rankin had an epiphany. She would ask, quote, random white men how they understood their privilege. I imagined myself a middle-aged black woman walking up to strangers to do so. Now, imagine the courage it would take to do this. Hi, white stranger buying a donut. You know you're white, right?

I was wondering about the benefits you've enjoyed today. Or maybe your approach would be less direct. Hi, white stranger buying a donut. You like hockey? I have a friend who likes hockey. Maybe you know him. He's originally Scottish. His name's Todd.

You'd be reversing the typical kind of identity ambush where racialized people are reminded about race and meant to respond from that sliver of her identity in everyday situations. A few weeks after her epiphany, Rankin realized that she was surrounded by white men in airport lounges and first-class cabins while traveling. She and the white men could potentially spend hours together, which was great for her mission, but if the conversation backfired, oh, what an awkward flight that would be. Her first attempt would have been enough to make me give up the experiment altogether. attempt would have been enough to make me give up the experiment altogether. A white man stepped in front of her in the first class boarding line, and when she pointed out that she was ahead of him, he shifted behind her and said to another white man, you never know who they're letting into first class these days. They did not have a conversation. I mean, could they? Some conversations are not difficult, but impossible,

no? In an encounter in a different city, Rankin was again standing in line when a group of white men decided to form another line beside her instead of joining the line behind her. Rankin said to the white man in front of her, Now that's the height of white male privilege. Risky. I might have just clenched my fist in my pocket. The man laughed, smiled all the way to his seat, and wished her a good flight. No real conversation there, just a quick exchange, but we can see Rankin growing bolder and inching forward toward a proper conversation.

Now, this encounter was meant to be overheard by the white men in the parallel line, just as the you-never-know-who-they're-letting-into-first-class-these-days conversation was meant to be overheard by Rankin. There are conversations in which we are positioned as a secondary audience, not as a direct partner. And as such, we are rendered mute and functionally invisible. I would propose that most of the public and preserved conversations in history, or at least the effects of these conversations, conversations were exchanged between white men, while the rest of us were indirectly addressed and excluded from commenting, even on matters that affected us primarily. Here we go a third time. Rankin was on yet another flight in the first class cabin.

The flight attendant served everyone except her. Finally, the third time Rankin was skipped over for service, a white man sitting next to her said to the flight attendant, This is incredible. You have brought me two drinks in the time you have forgotten to bring her one. The flight attendant quickly brought Rankin a cup of juice. I feel that this is the white stranger with whom Rankin could have had the race conversation. He is considerate. They quickly strike up a good rapport about South African resorts and safaris,

but they don't have the race conversation. Again, something holds her back. She wants the conversation to be pleasant. The point here is that a difficult conversation doesn't always happen on the first attempt. Our courage balks. We want to be liked. We don't want to disrupt even a stranger's impression of us as polite. Just as a child messes up grammar in learning how to speak,

we will break many rules in learning how to speak socially. Do that enough times and together we will arrive at a new language. Okay, fourth time's the charm. At another gate, another city, Rankin asks a stranger directly about white privilege when the conversation goes in that direction. Their flight has been delayed. They commiserate. The white man asks about her job and Rankin tells him that she's a writer and a professor at Yale. He tells her that his son didn't get into Yale because

it's tough when you can't play the diversity card. Rankin isn't sure how to respond at first. The stranger has revealed a sentiment usually held secret, has said the quiet part loud, and Rankin's next move in the conversation will be critical in maintaining trust. She takes a breath but says nothing. The man continues, The Asians are flooding the Ivy Leagues. At that point, Rankin finally accomplishes her mission. It's a delicate subject, so I'll give you the exact words. I've been thinking about white male privilege, and I wonder if you think about yours or your son's. Not me. I've worked hard for everything that I have.

What if I said I wasn't referring to generations of economic wealth to Mayflower wealth and connections? I'm speaking simply about living. Do you get flagged by the TSA? Not usually. I get priority access with my credit card. So do I. But I still get stopped. Are you able to move in and out of public spaces without being questioned as to why you are there? Do people rush forward asking you how they can help you? I get your point. Wisely, Rankin realized that if she continued in this direction, the conversation would come to an

end. So she turned the conversation to less charged subjects. And as happens in good conversations, the unresolved subject came up again. This time, it's the stranger who returns to it. He tells Rankin that his son's best friend was Asian and had been admitted to Yale. Perhaps Rankin here feels herself being called onto account for Yale's decision, but she retreats from explanation. Instead, she performs a remarkable feat of empathy, one so rarely extended to racialized people. She writes, I reminded myself that I was there only to listen. Just listen. Don't think I reminded myself.

Know what it is to parent. Know what it is to love. Know what it is to be white. Know what it is to expect what white people could have, whether or not luck or economics allow you to have it. Know what it is to resent. The book that results from Claudia Rankin's experiment with strangers, Just Us, is subtitled An American Conversation. National Conversations Ideally, democracy works through a trickle-up effect, where the will of ordinary citizens is escalated through elected representatives to a legislature. The original conversations, I imagine, move from living rooms to village squares and town halls,

or from private spaces to public ones. Physical public space is important for democracy. This is where we articulate our values and consider opposing viewpoints, where we change our minds, where we gather, talk, and protest. Hence, libraries are not solely about books. Neither are community centers simply about pools. But there are locations of civic infrastructure that we can use as conversational meeting places to reinvigorate our democracies. In Canada, we have to be deliberate about finding locations, occasions, and reasons to gather frequently. Even the annual co-op or condo association meeting presents a microcosm of political democracy. For example, at these meetings, there are reports of our status, ideas for change, discussion, dissent, voting, elected officials, a sense of obligation, yet voluntary participation in the whole process,

yet voluntary participation in the whole process, agendas weighing the public good against self-interest, outrage at the cost of the new security cameras, protests against the increasing maintenance fees, and ultimately, an acknowledgement that we have to live together and share common space. The co-op and democracy alike are founded on consensus and majority rule. Majority now takes the form of the greatest number of voices as well as the loudest voices, both of which can be disastrous when the ideology they advance is flawed. The internet offers another model of democracy. It allows us to bypass laddering up a chain of representatives to speak directly to whomever we want in whatever way we want.

With the same amount of effort, we can talk to friends or family on a messaging app, or we can talk back to strangers in comment sections, or we can talk at our elected officials directly on social media. The internet had so much potential for democracy. I'm sorry to speak in the past tense. We also know that the internet is an equally good model of dictatorship, where we select the voices we want to hear, surround ourselves in their confirmation, and behead everyone else. Another white civic, this time via the university's email bulletin. I saw a new initiative on civil discourse, and the purpose? To engage in and promote productive

and respectful dialogue on all kinds of topics. A few months after that announcement, there were pro-Palestinian encampments on campus. Tents were set up in the heart of campus near where graduations occur. Students demanded that the university cut ties with Israeli universities and divest from investments that support the Israeli government. We employees got periodic email updates, assuring us that the administration was having conversations with student representatives from the camp,

but would not disclose the substance of these conversations. A private space was necessary for trust. Meanwhile, in legacy news outlets, the students had a very different view. If this administration thinks that they can threaten us by giving us the runaround over emails and in private conversations, they have something coming. The language of demands unsettles me. I understand that a demand makes people in power pay attention much more than a request does. But I question what kind of conversation flows around a rock. Is it a conversation or a negotiation? A negotiation or a navigation? From the student's point of view,

there's a time to speak and a time to shout. And if the powers are several stories above you, then the only way they hear what you're saying is if a group of you stands at the bottom of the tower and shouts. But what can you hear above your own shouting? At least with the new initiative to promote conversation, both parties can get into the same room so the students don't lose their voices before the conversation begins. Here's a problem for you matchmakers to solve. It's a thought experiment of a marriage between the political right and left.

Cameron and Candice have been married for four years. The last two have been rocky. He's amassed a lot of debt, moved them to a large, unaffordable house in a gentrifying neighborhood. She'd call it sketchy. He's filled it with screens, game consoles, panini makers, iPhones, a pool. He has already spent the money from his startup business. He has dreams of starting another startup. And at the moment, they can only afford minimum payments on their credit cards. Candace can trace back this predicament to the man she fell in love with, a spontaneous, generous man who wept at touching Christmas commercials. That man has become a reckless, unstable, confusing mess. When they fight, he's explosive, teary, self-righteous,

all within an hour. He threatened to burn the house down. From Cameron's point of view, Candace has become self-absorbed and obsessed with money above people, pleasure, and principle. Every time she shifts their debt to a 0% credit card, she lectures him about the role of men within a family. He's constantly being compared to her father, who, truth be told, was racist and sexist and made his money through unmentionable exploitative practices. Candace disciplines the kids too harshly. Everything has a rule. She has turned to the religion of her childhood, and the kids come home singing songs about blood and slain lambs. When he and Candace fight, she quotes scripture at him. But behind this merciless, severe killjoy is the woman he married, smart, responsible, meticulously put together like a sexy librarian. But four years later,

Cameron can't live in the prison of Candace's rules. Candace can't live in the sandcastle of Cameron's dreams. She has threatened to leave him, take the kids, and get a restraining order. He, as I mentioned, threatened to burn the house down with her in it. Fixable? As I see it, the arc of national conversations follows three phases. The arc of national conversations follows three phases. Phase one, exploration of options, usually in binary terms. National conversations are typically disputes between whether the old order should continue or a new one be established. Disputes between what was and what could be. Citizens who support the old ways usually have handpicked evidence to support their

preference, such as prosperity and peace, while minimizing the problems of the past, like inequality and subjugation. Citizens in the could-be camp don't have concrete references, except perhaps in the distant past. They are, after all, imagining a future. They have the limitless, unprovable hope of the imagination. This is why elections are often choices between experience and hope. On one side, we have slogans like, Make America Great Again. Believe in America. Read My Lips. No New Taxes. On the other side, we get slogans like Both sides love promises. This tension between sticking with the old and pursuing the new is akin to whether Candace should remain married to Cameron or move on to a new, potentially better relationship with husband 2.0.

Phase 2. Polarization, Entrenchment of Position, and Deepening of Division. This part of the conversation is even louder than the first. Candace and Cameron's relationship breaks down, fingers are pointed, divorce proceedings are initiated. In times of crisis, activists agitate so that people are forced to choose a single side. That's why the rhetoric tends to be so extreme, to help people clarify their values on an issue and commit to a path of action. Progressive American podcaster Ezra Klein doesn't believe that polarization is always bad. He warns, the alternative to polarization often isn't consensus but suppression. In a non-polarized space, we occupy a state resembling peace.

But really, it's simply the entrenchment of the status quo. No fights, but no progress. In a polarized situation, neither side is always right. Each side, in fact, fails spectacularly. And when things come crashing down, the national conversation shifts. Reparation. The common meaning of reparation in the civil domain is redress, usually material and economic, in response to anything from a grievance to an atrocity.

The easy way out for the responsible party is to issue a public apology, usually from someone in power, our prime minister with eyebrows tented and fog coming out of his mouth. The Canadian government has apologized to indigenous peoples for residential schools, to the Sikh, Muslim, and Hindu communities for the Komagata Maru incident in which passengers were denied entry into Canada. It has apologized to LGBTQ plus communities for oppression and persecution. The ideal intent of reparation, though, is not performative. Rather, it should repair the relationship between the two parties. In our romantic example between Candace and Cameron, the desire to repair gives birth to

the questions, what would we need to change for them to get back together? What does each party need to do? And sometimes these attempts are dramatic. Cameron will make a grand apology for not being the responsible man Candace wants. He will shed tears. He will threaten to hurt himself. He will buy her a diamond ring, then return it when she says, this is exactly my point about your spending. Grand gestures are usually patterned from movies and novels, from fictional situations, and they make assumptions about what the other person wants. But there's another way to repair. We could just ask.

Cameron could begin with, I should have consulted you about the bouncy castle, but I wanted our kids to be happy, and I don't think all the finger wagging is making them happy. So what do we need to change to be happy again? And at least one party must forgive the other on some level. Candace may accept the apology, but still withhold the credit cards from Big Spender. All of this assumes that reconciliation is possible. The conversation is sometimes about whether to go forward alone or with a new partner. Candice might say, you can go on, but I'll stay here and resent you. Or, I don't care if you're sorry. I'm moving forward with husband 2..0. Or we can live in the same city, share the

kids, and split the values. We can practice tolerance for the sake of our own happiness and our inevitable shared future. We can each work in the same garden together, but I won't get into bed with you again. Cameron may want a happy ending, while Candace just wants an ending. Closure. And then what? Polarization. Division into two sharply contrasting groups or sets of opinions.

When we think about polarization these days, we're thinking about the expanse between the views of the left and the right, but also of the intractable entrenchment of those views, how deeply the heels are dug in. Ezra Klein has despairing observations about polarization, particularly as it plays out in American politics. He writes, We are so locked into our political identities that there is virtually no candidate, no information, no condition that can force us to change our minds. We will justify almost anything or anyone so long as it helps our side. And the result is a politics devoid of guardrails, standards, persuasion, or accountability. One strategy Klein offers for managing polarization is to pay attention to identity and the ways that it is being activated or weaponized for political gain. After reading an inflammatory post, ask,

what identity is that article invoking? What identity is making you defensive? What does it feel like when you are getting pushed back into an identity? Can you notice when it happens? Klein also suggests a return to the local. We currently have a satellite view of our interconnectedness, of national and international news, except, you know, with exclusions that encompass certain countries and a continent. Klein recommends a return to our communities. We give too much attention to national politics,

which we can do very little to change, and too little attention to local politics, where our voices can matter much more. In our attempt to have big national conversations, we neglect talking to our neighbor, whose earnest face and valiant efforts with his lawn might go further to depolarizing our world than a thousand online comments in a national newspaper. Here are two considerations for having these big conversations. First, the truth of our conversation or of our communication matters. Truth matters. Whether we speak about the events of the physical world, the virtual world, or our internal worlds. Truth here means a shared reality. When we disagree about the basic tenets of reality, our conversations have little common foundation from which they can expand.

It's not impossible, just difficult. And worse, when we disagree, sometimes it's hard to know which person is living in the fiction. The second consideration involves sincerity. A special kind of problem emerges when we couple disinformation with sincerity. Imagine a passionate conversation in which one partner is informed and the other misinformed. The business of sincerity is another way of suggesting that intention matters. Because some people speak more strongly than others, we take that as an invitation to speak strongly to them, as if they could not possibly be sensitive souls or have a translation error. For our part, it's worth identifying our intentions, at least to ourselves. Are they coming across? Could some of the tension in this conversation

be traced back to a poor execution of my intentions? Do I simply want to be heard? Do I want to persuade? Do I want to interact with someone? There's a door cam TikTok video of an elderly white woman visiting her black neighbor to complain about lights that are disturbing her. Apparently, they are very bright and they keep her up at night. She holds open the screen door during the confrontation on video. He stands patiently in his do-rag. He says, we went through this before. She says, I have to put pillows over my window so I could sleep. They go back and forth like this.

The man explains that when cops came in the past, they inspected his property and determined that the lights were not shining in her window. He says, I'll tell you this. I'll turn them off at 10 o'clock. She apologizes. He brushes it away. He says, I got you. Then he speaks to the real problem, which has nothing to do with the lights. He says, you know what it is? I think you just need to come over when you're lonely.

Talk. She is speechless for a moment. She puts her hands to her face. I'm sorry, she says. I'm sorry. And the video cuts out. Thank you. Thank you to our readers.

On Ideas, you've been listening to Public Conversations. It's the second of the 2024 CBC Massey Lectures, What I Mean to Say, by novelist and poet Ian Williams. This lecture was recorded at Inuksuk High School in Iqaluit, Nunavut. The music you heard throughout this program was performed on stage that evening by the Inuksuk drum dancers, led by Mary Piercy Lewis, and by Iqaluit musicians Selena Kalik and Kathleen Merritt. Thank you to Tim Hoyt, Tess Thurber, and Samantha McDermott at Inuksuk High School for welcoming us to the school. A huge thank you to Jamie Sifornie, our consulting producer in Iqaluit, and Simyuni Kisa Nikkelbein. Both of them were readers in today's program. Thank you also to Ayu Peter for co-hosting the lecture with me.

Thank you to John Manzo and Kevon Nelson for technical production, and to Inurvik for translating the text into Inuktitut and providing simultaneous interpretation of Ian's lecture. A bilingual copy of this lecture will soon be available in public libraries across Nunavut. Thank you to Ron Noling, Crimson McAvoy, and Trevor Dunsaith for working with us on this project, and to the CBC Library Partnerships Program for making our week in Iqaluit possible.

You can get the entire 2024 CBC Massey Lecture Series at cbc.ca slash masseys after the broadcast week. Your local bookseller will have the book version of the lectures. What I mean to say, remaking conversation in our time. Our partners in the Massey Lecture Series are Massey College at the University of Toronto and House of Anansi Press. The Massey Lecture Series is produced by Pauline Holdsworth and Philip Coulter. Online production by Althea Manassan, Ben Shannon, and Sinisa Jolic. Thank you.