Alumni Association Home > Past Issues > 2007 > January-February 2007	Print View

By Shelly Fling

Returning to the office one chilly afternoon, my fingers wrapped around a cup of steaming coffee, I reflected on this ritual I’d adopted over the years. To get away from the computer screen and its gush of e-mail, to be alone with my thoughts for a few minutes and not have to talk to anyone, I wander to a campus coffee shop and order a Cubano con leche or a mocha java. Refueled, I mosey back to my desk, settle in, and return the messages I’d missed—to people who were probably now out finding a quiet coffee themselves. I do this once or twice a week—delaying my retirement in $3 increments, sure, but enriching my peace of mind, I figure.

That particular day, waiting my turn in line and becoming transported by the hiss of the espresso machine, my mind drifted back to Spain, where I’d traveled several years earlier. We were touring the Andalucian region, and one day our guide, Isabel, led us to a cafe in the center of town for lunch. The place was lively with customers. They must have all been regulars because everyone seemed to be talking to everyone else and laughing and arguing and carrying on. I wondered if we weren’t intruding on a private party.

But a table was waiting for us in the back. We were on a schedule, however, and would have to eat fast. When we stood to brush the crumbs from our laps and head to the bus, I asked Isabel how I could order a coffee to go.

“What do you mean?” she asked. Isabel’s English was perfect, but she didn’t seem to grasp my meaning.

“I was wondering if I could buy a cup of coffee and take it with me—in a paper cup,” I explained.

“We don’t have coffee to go,” she replied. “In Spain, you have coffee to see your neighbors and to sit and talk and discuss things.” I followed her to the bus, without my caffeine but wired with a new concept: deliberate dialogue.

Back in the United States, cruising down the interstate at 60 miles per hour, I glimpsed a man on an overpass holding an American flag. It was post-9/11 and I got his message. But what was one to do in response? Would a honk be an affirmative rejoinder or taken as a note of disapproval? Did he even want a response? In any case, I was a half-mile past him before I completed the thought.

Since that trip to Spain, I’ve noticed that roadways are the most popular spots in America for sharing impassioned ideas. Political pleas are painted on bed sheets and tied to walk bridges. Bumper stickers asserting opinions swerve in and out of range. Neighborhoods in my corner of the city sport more yard signs than all the Burma Shave campaigns combined. What would happen if I stopped the car, knocked on a door, and tried to carry on a conversation with the homeowner about his or her sign?

My instinct tells me that I wouldn’t be welcome—that people prefer impassioned, one-way conversations. They aren’t inviting dialogue and certainly don’t want to convey that they’re open to changing their mind. I get that. No amount of hammering will loosen my hold on many of the beliefs I hold dear. Still, I believe in wrestling with uncomfortable ideas, testing opinions and their various shades, following trails of logic and lines of thinking. I believe it’s why we have minds.

Issuing a magazine sometimes feels like a one-way conversation. We frame ideas, pull together stories, design and illustrate, then hope the package grabs attention or causes someone to pause and think. Nothing is more disappointing if the reaction to this work is silence. And nothing is more rewarding than reaching into my mailbox and retrieving a letter from someone who wishes to carry the discussion a bit further.

Shelly Fling can be reached at fling003@umn.edu.