The right to remain silent

Why I have given up arguing

They are at it again. On Twitter, on my family WhatsApp, even here in the hallowed precincts of oh-so-civilised Substack Notes. They are dissecting the voting history of every new Starmer cabinet appointment, pointing out why Starmer himself is basically Attilla The Hun in borrowed robes, They are not necessarily wrong. Politics is a dirty business. Compromises are made constantly. And I am all too aware that I’m never the first to man the barricades or even write to my elected representative.

But I’m not sure spending the next two hours in verbal combat is actually going to change any of that. I will probably end up going to bed with a headache.

I’m going to change the way that I respond to conversations like this. In fact, I’m not going to respond to them other than politely saying that I refuse to engage.

I’ve never been any good at arguing, and the more intellectual and data-driven the argument becomes, the more that applies. My husband once said I am the least competitive person he has ever met. In fact, almost any situation where I’m called upon to defend myself or my position renders me anxious and incoherent, flooding my brain with cortisol and pushing me towards disengagement or even shutdown. It’s probably rooted in being systematically silenced as a child, with a side order of undiagnosed autism or ADHD.

For most of my adult life this has had a disastrous effect on my self-confidence. I am part of a very intellectual, combative family. Fierce, heated political arguments are a big feature of our family gatherings, so much so that I eventually began to dread and even avoid such occasions. I felt that if I couldn’t don a metaphorical wig and defend myself in the Junior Common Room atmosphere of the Christmas dining table I had nothing to offer my family, that critical thinking or even basic intelligence was beyond me, and all I was good for was a bit of washing up. All this is based on the fact that I can no more prevail in a fast-moving intellectual discussion than I could win a point at Wimbledon after a long rally.

I’m not quite sure when the moment of realisation dawned on me, but by the time it did I’d had several mental health crises, been on anti-depressants for decades and had almost a year of therapy. At that point the penny dropped. My distaste for rational argument doesn’t make me irrational. I arrive at decisions thoughtfully and quietly: I make use of journalling, meditation and intuition. I do reason, but it takes me much longer than most of the people I live with, and I find expressing it confidently in words very challenging, particularly when I’m put on the spot.

So I’ve decided that I’m no longer going to engage in this kind of discussion. It does not play to my strengths. Many idealistic, deeply moral people, including one of my closest relatives, are saying extremely critical things about the new Starmer administration on the UK at the moment. Ditto Joe Biden, or the people who want him to withdraw, or to run, or whatever, though that is something I feel less pressured to express a view on. I hear them. I am far from being a dead-eyed, brainwashed acolyte of Starmer or anybody else in politics. But having lived through the chaos of the last 14 years in England, I can recognise the difference between an administration that has some concept of statesmanship and responsibility, and a privately educated bunch of chancers who can’t see beyond enriching their cronies and stick every untidy social problem into the too-difficult box. For now at least, I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Does this mean I’m hopelessly naïve? Perhaps, but at least I’m not expecting Nigel Farage or Donald Trump to make my country great again. I have a four-year-old grand child. That alone has convinced me that cynicism and disengagement are luxuries we can’t afford. Every human being makes bad decisions, unforced errors, compromises they’d rather not think about. If we tear into our leaders on the grounds of past miscalculations, we will end up with leaders who aren’t worthy of the name. And we have seen how that ends up.

I don’t want to cancel or close down other people’s arguments. But I want to be able to look at my beautiful little grand-daughter and not feel worried that she’s likely to live on this terrible planet for longer than me, or to have her life brutishly cut short. I want to believe things can get better, and I know myself well enough now to realise that if I carry on arguing, I will lose hope in my own resilience, wisdom and courage, and the future needs those things. Yes, even mine.

So by all means argue. But I may decline to argue back. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to spar with, even if you have to go on social media to do it.

Good luck.