The Argument For Arguing

On Sept. 11 our new world was a small town with a huge Main Street where everyone suddenly knew everyone else, wore the same colors, felt like kin. It's hard to imagine we could have huddled comfortably in such close quarters for very long.

A country founded by rebels and settled by refugees is a happily untidy place, slow to conform, quick to adjust. Another week passes, another adjustment: first came permission to laugh again, make fun of the President, shop; now comes the license to argue again--the "music of democracy," one House member mused last week. It was almost a relief to watch lawmakers who used to loathe one another make common cause in their loathing of John Ashcroft's antiterrorism bill. Did anyone actually mourn the death of bipartisanship? It was a bloodless phantom anyway: all lawmakers love their country and would do anything to defend it, and that includes doing their jobs, which is to disagree over how best to do this. Scholars argue over whether it is their job to try to understand the enemies' motives, or whether the effort reeks of apology and appeasement. New Yorkers argue over whether to rebuild the Twin Towers and whether to let Rudy be Mayor for Life. Minnesotans argue whether it's appropriate for state workers to strike during wartime.

The public arm wrestling is oddly consoling. No one argued about much of anything on Sept. 11; we were truly united, in shock and grief, and lingered there a while, finding safety in numbers. But it was disturbing to watch censors enforce intellectual curfews and hear of fights over the proper way to display an American flag. If people feel safe enough to argue in public again, maybe things really are moving back to normal.

It was getting awkward, holding hands all the time. We each move through all this rubble at our own pace, and it's not fair to hold others back or drag them along faster than their balance allows. People confess that they have stopped returning phone calls from longtime friends who have lost their footing. The conversation is getting too raw between those who believe the world has changed forever and those who may agree but still want to move on. You're wallowing in misery. No, you're in denial. But I can't sleep. I don't want to talk about it anymore. A Chicago psychotherapist goes to church in search of calm and respite. "I had to listen to 100 different versions of how horrendous an event this was," he says. "I didn't want to hear any more pain, to have more emotions thrown at me. The pastor felt that he needed to talk about whether people are being too patriotic and too gung-ho. That's fine. But that was not what I went there for."