I am a fighter. It’s in my blood. My dad is a fighter, too. He once told his boss—to her face—that he didn’t like her. I think it made her respect him more.
Through all my years of fighting for what I believe in—whether it’s that my curfew should be extended to 1:00 or that global warming does exist or that George W. Bush should not be allowed within 100 yards of the White House—I’ve discovered that the people I put up my dukes most with are the people who listen.
I still have a lot of the same friends I grew up with, and I’ve learned over the years that there are a lot of fights just not worth having with them. We all have areas in which we refuse to budge. I know whose heels are dug in, and I just won’t fight as hard or as often with the people whose feet are buried.
But the ones who show flexibility…those are the ones I will battle with until the end. Because I’ve watched them see my side in the past. I’ve watched that light of understanding flicker in their eye. I know that if I explain and argue and point out facts or inconsistencies, these people will digest what I’ve presented and possibly change their minds.
So it is virtually impossible for me to quiet the fighter when it comes to this group. Many of them, I’m sure, wish they could be part of the other group. The folks I leave alone. To that, I say, it’s your own fault for being open-minded enough to listen to me in the past. I wish I could put down my sword and take off my armor, but I cannot do that when I know at some point, you may pick up your own sword and begin fighting by my side.