I need the interruption, by Doug McVadon

I expect the interruption. I need the interruption. I talk until it comes. 

If it doesn’t, I will talk past my point, way past, until the listener is distracted and nervous about interrupting me. And still I talk, thinking it’s THEIR responsibility to speak up and drop that whole polite façade and be direct with me.

I don’t take straight talk as offensive, and you would know why if you spent a few hours with my mother. 

If you spent time with Mom and me, you would see how unerringly direct she is with me.

Put that down! (Not, “please don’t mess with that.”)

Douglas, come here and help me with this. (Not, “do you have a minute?”)

I know better than to think that that style really works, but I still don't really get it when people complain that I interrupted. I usually think, duh, how else does anyone get to talk?

I think of conversations like a game, running through a field, avoiding rocks and stumps, figuring things out along the way, racing to get up as soon as I can whenever I get knocked down.  

We ran in a pack of five, with Mom nipping at our heels and endlessly comparing us with each other by her glances and tone of voice, until we learned the rules.

My brother Kevin took us aside on Thanksgiving Day to let us in on some of the rules we were missing. With typical McVadon authority, he closed the white paneled French doors and turned to face us, taking a seat cross-legged on the floor. “Here’s what you need to understand about dogs…” 

He proceeded to give us a very heartfelt primer on dog behavior, predicting accurately that our new Lab/pit bull terrier mix puppy, will identify and relate to me as the Alpha dog since I am male (how do they know?) and then to Melinda and then to Meredith, and that’s what she does. She will walk right past Melinda to sniff and greet me, but if we aren’t there she acts overjoyed to see Meredith, and when Melinda is the only one home she is showered with Lacey’s undivided affection.

When the dog misbehaves, Kevin strongly grabs it by the head and holds it sideways against the carpet, holding the dog’s neck firmly against the ground saying “NO!” one time, then quickly releasing it. It is not what they teach in a training class, but it IS what the older male dogs do to the puppies when they get out of line: a quick neck pin with a jaw full of canine teeth. Wonder what the equivalent is with humans?

Mom just barked when we were growing up, or thwacked us in the temple with her middle finger like she was flicking away a bug, and we thought it was normal. Whenever someone spent too much energy cajoling and persuading, she’d say, “Sometimes what people need is a swift kick to get them moving.” It must be true if Mommy says it.

So my blind spot is deep and wide. I just can’t hear it.

Other people call it “blunt” but I just think it is “straightforward.”

Other people call it “rude” but I just hear it as “direct.”

Other people hear it as “cocky” but I just hear it as “confident.”

Other people hear it as “harsh” but I just hear it as “honest.”

It has been my great strength. I am willing to wade into a contentious situation, undeterred, un-intimidated. I cannot naturally see its downside. I rely on interruptions to wake me to the arrogance and weakness it hides.