Being the Bigger Person
"Be the bigger person." It's the most useful piece of parental advice my father has ever given me, an oft-repeated phrase that came out whenever I was having a fight with a friend or was being picked on (as happened often enough) by jerky middle-school boys or generally whenever I was in a situation where I was feeling frustrated or upset by the behavior of someone else.
Be the bigger person. Extend the olive branch. Call and make up. Apologize, even if you're not sorry, because the friendship is worth more than winning a stupid fight you'll forget a week later. (Even if she was really cruel and said awful hurtful things.) Ignore the jerky boys. Let that woman steal your parking place. Let him cut you in line. Small stuff like that isn't worth getting irate over. Be the bigger person.
It's advice that got me all through high school with my good friendships generally intact. And though I am stubborn and like to have the last word and feel injustices strongly, I have never once regretted taking Dad's advice, being the bigger person, and finding a pretense to end the fight. Indeed, I credit that advice for saving a friendship with two of my best friends in the world. 8th grade, some big blowout over something I can't remember now (see?), the silent treatment for months. Which is a little hard to do, since we all had every class together and ate at the same lunch table and the whole shebang. Finally, mid-summer, I took a deep breath, nervously dialed their numbers, and said something along the lines of "so, this is stupid. Let's not fight anymore."
And thank god, cause lord knows I never would have gotten through high school without those girls. And they're still among the closest friends I've got. (AND admit that actually, I was right about whatever it was we were fighting about, but, then, who really cares anymore?)
In college, the more nuanced version of "be the bigger person" got me through the hard times with friends without having to have those big blowout fights. I learned to recognize that occasional shitty behavior can just be overlooked. A stray hurtful comment here or there, an unintended slight, a bad mood one night or a stupid drunken episode...not worth getting too
worked up over. Being the bigger person means letting those things go. And I am glad for those decisions, too.
From my best friend, I've learned a corollary to Dad's lesson: make the more loving choice. Whenever I'm weighing hurts or balancing my needs with those of a friend, I think of my best friend and about following her example, making the more loving choice...even if it's the harder choice, even if it involves swallowing hurts and giving up that metaphorical last word.
I've written in the past about my aversion to unresolved tension and my general dislike of conflict. I've been wondering lately if this has anything to do with Dad's advice. Have his admonishments to "be the bigger person" been so ingrained in me that I get all anxious if I feel like I'm not being the bigger person at any point in time? Has this advice, to end or avoid conflict in order to preserve the relationship, brought on my poor ability to deal with conflict at all? Even in those times when conflict is necessary and even good? (As I type this, I wonder if those times ever exist, even though I of course know they do.)
What happens in those times when being the bigger person means doing nothing? When the more loving choice is not to end the conflict? I'm suddenly in tailspin, my moral compass awry, unable to figure out which choice is best. What about those times when the rift is too big, the hurt is too much and too unforgivable? When patching things over one more time only stretches out the hurt - for both sides - and is, indeed, the choice of the smaller person, the weaker person. Or what if being the bigger person, over and over and over again, only enables a friend's bad behavior, only encourages them to treat you (and others) like shit? What if the more loving choice is actually to hold back your love?
Dad's advice was easy to follow when I was 14. The path it led me down was always clear. That's not so true anymore.
Be the bigger person. Extend the olive branch. Call and make up. Apologize, even if you're not sorry, because the friendship is worth more than winning a stupid fight you'll forget a week later. (Even if she was really cruel and said awful hurtful things.) Ignore the jerky boys. Let that woman steal your parking place. Let him cut you in line. Small stuff like that isn't worth getting irate over. Be the bigger person.
It's advice that got me all through high school with my good friendships generally intact. And though I am stubborn and like to have the last word and feel injustices strongly, I have never once regretted taking Dad's advice, being the bigger person, and finding a pretense to end the fight. Indeed, I credit that advice for saving a friendship with two of my best friends in the world. 8th grade, some big blowout over something I can't remember now (see?), the silent treatment for months. Which is a little hard to do, since we all had every class together and ate at the same lunch table and the whole shebang. Finally, mid-summer, I took a deep breath, nervously dialed their numbers, and said something along the lines of "so, this is stupid. Let's not fight anymore."
And thank god, cause lord knows I never would have gotten through high school without those girls. And they're still among the closest friends I've got. (AND admit that actually, I was right about whatever it was we were fighting about, but, then, who really cares anymore?)
In college, the more nuanced version of "be the bigger person" got me through the hard times with friends without having to have those big blowout fights. I learned to recognize that occasional shitty behavior can just be overlooked. A stray hurtful comment here or there, an unintended slight, a bad mood one night or a stupid drunken episode...not worth getting too
worked up over. Being the bigger person means letting those things go. And I am glad for those decisions, too.
From my best friend, I've learned a corollary to Dad's lesson: make the more loving choice. Whenever I'm weighing hurts or balancing my needs with those of a friend, I think of my best friend and about following her example, making the more loving choice...even if it's the harder choice, even if it involves swallowing hurts and giving up that metaphorical last word.
I've written in the past about my aversion to unresolved tension and my general dislike of conflict. I've been wondering lately if this has anything to do with Dad's advice. Have his admonishments to "be the bigger person" been so ingrained in me that I get all anxious if I feel like I'm not being the bigger person at any point in time? Has this advice, to end or avoid conflict in order to preserve the relationship, brought on my poor ability to deal with conflict at all? Even in those times when conflict is necessary and even good? (As I type this, I wonder if those times ever exist, even though I of course know they do.)
What happens in those times when being the bigger person means doing nothing? When the more loving choice is not to end the conflict? I'm suddenly in tailspin, my moral compass awry, unable to figure out which choice is best. What about those times when the rift is too big, the hurt is too much and too unforgivable? When patching things over one more time only stretches out the hurt - for both sides - and is, indeed, the choice of the smaller person, the weaker person. Or what if being the bigger person, over and over and over again, only enables a friend's bad behavior, only encourages them to treat you (and others) like shit? What if the more loving choice is actually to hold back your love?
Dad's advice was easy to follow when I was 14. The path it led me down was always clear. That's not so true anymore.
posted by Melissa at 8:15 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home