Please tell me something: Where did real conversations go to?

Maybe it's my age. Possibly it’s a look back in envy at the friends my mother had and all-night dinners and parties where kids were always present.

Lots of laughter induced, I am sure, by the amount of alcohol consumed. I am sure my mother never knew who would show up, and all were welcome in this large six-flat in Lincoln Park that seemed more like one big home than six separate households. People flowed between them with doors wide open. A cast of characters, most of whom were professional writers for local papers and some accomplished authors. Antique dealers, a documentary film producer, and a few bar owners. Throw in an architect, a mechanic for the city, some public relations practitioners, and you had a great spectrum of intellect and street-savvy people all making ok money and trying to raise kids in the city.  Conversations went on all night.  No phones to look at, no big screen TV. Eyes locked on the speaker and dialed in for the next person to add to or make a witty remark to. Nothing was cleaned that night. Everyone woke to tables filled with plates, glasses wine bottles, and ashtrays filled.  If you were lucky, there was a frying pan that was clean, scrambled eggs were made and trips were made to the Belden Deli for bagels.

Do not get me wrong. I can be the king of small talk, particularly as it relates to strangers. If you are getting gas at the pump across from me, I say something. If you are waiting in line at the grocer, in an elevator, at a doctor's office, sitting at the next table over from me at a restaurant. Rarely have these overtures been met with any resistance. In fact, there will be a young man joining us for Thanksgiving from New Jersey. I started a conversation with his father at a Thai restaurant in New York. We discussed children, and he said he had a son in Chicago who, after graduating from U of C, got a job here. He said that he worried about him sometimes. I offered to introduce him to my family, and if he had any issues, he could reach out to us. Nasir now joins us for family get-togethers.  His father could not be more grateful for that famous Midwestern hospitality and the guy who out of the blue struck up a conversation with him.

On the other hand, my frustration arises out of more intimate settings with friends and family. If I hear someone talk about a streaming series, they are watching, I am tempted to stab my hand with a fork.  My children are smart and kind, but at dinner, they seem to be far more interested in the menu and beer selection and the “hand-crafted” cocktail selection than the world moving at warp speed around them.  We far too often engage in the low-hanging fruit of politics, almost feeding right into the hands of the media that, like nothing more than to whip us up and have us ginned up for the next broadcast.  In no way am I making light of real issues that confront us in this wacky new world of national politics.  All the energy spent by all of us is far better directed towards the circles we move in that can actually move the needle.  People go dark fast, and all the negative energy (channeling my wife now) has an accumulative effect.  And since when did someone have to be right to the point of an argument? Can someone hold an opinion different from yours, and you simply understand their right to hold that opinion?  While we remain in a hyper-critical, highly scrutinized, highly self-righteous review over every word uttered, opinions and ideas do not get expressed. Suppression of open and free dialogue weakens the commonwealth.

It’s been a long time since someone truly held my attention telling a story or discussing a fascinating topic.  Why do we stay away from the important things and drift to the mundane? ( See above )  My wife typically complains that I talk too loud and often get too animated while in public settings with friends.  I am a storyteller and go all in on engagement. I do my best to draw the same from the people I am with.  Sometimes, this works, and more often than not, it's not meant with the same fervor.  That is when the internal plea goes off in my head. Please tell me something. Not what you ate last week. Not about your new car.  Not about how bad something is. At our last family dinner celebrating a birthday, I could not bear it any longer.  Heads buried in menus trying to figure out how to order the first most expensive thing wrapped in the 2nd most expensive thing I acted. At that moment of silence, my voice was probably raised, which seemed to startle everyone. I blurted out the command.  Each one of you has to tell us something that is going on in your life. I don’t care what it is. Something at work, something about your relationship, something you read, something in the news.  

Please tell me something.  I could see anxiety set in on a few faces, which made me a bit sad.  How could it be hard to do a bit of public speaking in front of your family? The expectation is now set, and maybe they won't show up for the next dinner, but I doubt it.  They love their filet Mignon stuffed with lobster when Dad is paying.