Crouching on a Crumbling Ledge, Looking for Common Ground

    Common ground (phrase): a foundation for mutual understanding


There were eight students in the class, four men and four women. Four were white and four were not. Two were immigrants to America. Two men worked at the little private college in maintenance; two were women in their fifties. A couple of young professionals, a stay-at-home mom who volunteered in her Somali community, a dignified older man finally enrolled in college after he’d sent all his kids to school: all busy adults taking night courses, enrolled in degree programs, working hard, and seeking better, richer lives for themselves, and for their families.

The course itself was a kind of hybrid freshman seminar, sort of English comp meets thoughtful-discussion-of-current-issues.  The college provided a common book. That year, 2004, it was a journalist’s discussion of how, in post-9/11 times, the rest of the world viewed and considered the United States, as a government, and as a people,–which, we found, were two very different perspectives.

We met in a kind of conference room, around a table that would seat twelve comfortably–the perfect room, the perfect size, for this small troupe. The room was on the third and highest floor of a blocky brick building; it was a corner room, and we could look out over the university’s green lawns and watch the quiet neighborhoods of the suburb settle into evening. There was something lightened and safe about the space, and there was something about the people enrolled and the subject matter involved that allowed a free and open exchange.

All the students came with defenses down and doors wide open, with real curiosity about what the others thought and knew and felt. They demolished barriers from the first meeting, wanting to meet on level ground, to hear real talk about real issues. No one snorted derisively, for instance, when one of the working men spoke of feeling passed over by affirmative action-type programs; the students listened, and considered, and asked questions.  And the others openly shared their experiences, too–as people of color in competitive markets, as older workers trying to remain viable and vital. Their classmates absorbed their words and wrestled with meaning.

Early on, it left off being a class and became a kind of team. Attendance was not an issue; they came, eager for the next discussion, open to learning, ready to share.

During Ramadan, Saara, the Somali woman, brought in food to break her daily fast. We would watch as the windows darkened, working until the sun took its late autumn slide, and then she would unpack a basket, set out plates for all of us, and pass everyone a kind of fried pie. Everyone tucked in; no one picked up the unusual (and tasty) food and examined it skeptically.  Saara talked about her faith and her country and her brother, a military officer who was murdered by the new regime in her old homeland. She told us of her work with the Somali people in her neighborhood, helping them navigate unfamiliar systems and find the supports they needed to be successful.

As she spoke to us, calmly and confidently, in a voice lilted by intonations learned on different shores, her world grew familiar–not exotic and other, but everyday and real. As did the lives of the other people–the single mothers in their fifties, one struggling with a grown child’s mental illness; the father taking the chance to educate himself after launching his six kids; the vibrant and successful young salesman who really yearned to be a college professor; the working guys; the young assistant director of college admissions…all of them met in the right place at just the right time.

They did good work, that class. Well, seriously, they blew me away; they did great work. On the last night we met, they all brought food to share, and they compiled lists of email addresses so they could stay in touch. Charles, the salesman, agreed to come and talk during a career exploration segment of a tech writing class I was teaching during Spring term at a community college.  Mary, one of the older women, gave me a beautiful hand-painted wooden box; it still, today, holds my letters and stationery. They stood awkwardly when the class wound down, reluctant to leave the tiny and temporary utopia we’d enjoyed for 16 weeks.

I waited until they had all left, cleaned up crumpled napkins, tidied the classroom, lingering at a college where, having accepted a full-time position elsewhere, I would probably never teach again. What a gift for me, as an instructor, to have had the chance to meet and work with these amazing people. These totally unique, very disparate folks who had entered into a kind of covenant, all there for a common purpose, all finding common ground.


It is evening, and I am scrolling through my FaceBook feed. I see a post from a person I know professionally, respect professionally, and don’t even come close to agreeing with politically. The post is entitled something like, “A Letter to My Child,” and it explains this man’s disagreement with my point of view. I slow down to read it.

It is thoughtfully written, I concede, although I quickly decide there are fallacies a mile wide in several of the arguments. And it is, my prissy English teacher inner voice opines, a little glib. But it is honest and an attempt to share an opposing view.

But I know my view is right. Although I’m reading, I am not listening.

Then I read the responses. There are many, and they are mostly strident, some in support of, and some opposed to, this man’s stance. One of the opposed is someone very dear to me; she has launched an attack on the writer’s post that is shrill and laced with vulgarities and that hits at him very personally. The violence of it makes me recoil–even though, on all the issue’s points, I agree with her.

I feel a sinking dread in the pit of me.  I think of these two fine people, and the chasm that yawns between them. What could ever cause two people so strongly bastioned in their fervent beliefs to find a common ground?

About a month before the election, my son James and I were driving to a little town fifty miles north of here for our dental appointments. There is no interstate pathway, so this trip relegated us to back roads. It was a bright fall morning. We drove past horses grazing in October sunshine, past fields of slow moving cows, past the stubble of cornfields. We came to a stretch of Amish country where we navigated around a slow moving buggy. We tempered our speed again in a little crossroads town that has a stop sign at its intersection. As we cruised to a stop, I saw a person tumble over a rock in a yard, and I did not see that person get up.

There is a corner store at the crossroads; I pulled in and turned around.  I half-registered a pickup truck behind me doing the same as I drove back to the house where the person had fallen. On the ground, propped up against a tree and looking bewildered, was a heavy elderly woman, bundled into a plaid wool jacket, rimless glasses glinting in the sun. Her sweatpants were green-streaked and muddy. Wispy gray hair escaped from a brown knit cap.

I rolled down my window to ask if she needed help. She gave me a puzzled look.

“I don’t think,” she said slowly, considering, “that I can get up.”

I turned off the car, pondering quickly our next best steps–should we try to get her up? Call for help? But the pickup truck I’d seen glided into a space right in front of us.  A man got out–balding, with overalls straining over an impressive belly. He came to my window and said, “I wasn’t sure WHAT I seen till I seen you turn around. You go on, now. I’ll get ‘er.”

He went over then and held out his hands, and the woman reached out to take them. He pulled her up. Her face changed completely, shining as she looked at her rescuer. She turned her head and gave me a nod–“We’re fine now!” it said–and she gazed up at the man in wonder. We pulled away, leaving them there, engaged in earnest conversation. I had that strong feeling one gets, knowing a problem has been taken on by someone who will see it through.

As we pulled away, James noted that the truck had a bumper sticker touting Not-My-Candidates.

“How,” he asked, “could someone so nice vote for THEM?”

And the overalled man might well have been thinking, “I can’t believe one of those ones bothered to stop and offer help.”

A reaction to an emergency, a person vulnerable and needy: a chance for common ground.


What would make my Facebook friends find common ground, I wonder. I have to think that, faced with an emergency, both of those good people would put aside their differences to work together, to get the fallen one back onto her feet, to call in the necessary experts.  They are, both of them, compassionate folks. They do not want to stand by while people are unnecessarily hurt.

I think of the kinds of emergencies that might create this bonding–egregious loss of freedom? Outright violence? We can’t wait until we get there, I think, to find our common ground.

Mandated participation in something–a class, a workplace seminar–creates the possibility of finding common ground. If people come in thinking, “Well, it COULD work. If the others are willing to be open and honest…well, then I will, too.” With the right people, the right program, the right environment…those obligatory meetings could turn into something rich.

But barring an emergency or a mandate, how do we leap across the chasm?  And more and more,–as I weave uneasily, as the ground shifts beneath my feet, and as the gap widens,–more and more, I feel the real and wrenching need for this leaping to happen, for an open and empathetic exploration of the beliefs underlying our actions. We need to inhabit the shaded space in the Venn diagram where we overlap and converge.


So. I enter ‘common ground’ into a search engine and hundreds of thousands of hits pop up. There is a progressive rock group called Common Ground; their album cover shows hands cupping dirt from which a tiny shoot grows. I bookmark them to listen to later; I think their common ground has to do with caring for the Earth.

I find a college website that has rules of engagement for instructors trying to norm their grading, to reach common ground on what constitutes an ‘A’ and what work has to be considered failure. That website offers steps to consensus–Collaborate creatively, it suggests, and then defines that for the instructors involved. Establish effective leadership. The site describes where such meetings should take place and how long they should last, who should be there, what should be provided.

A PROGRAM, I think; what if we had a program?  I remember a young woman named Valerie Walawender. Valerie, who was in a women’s writers group I belonged to many, many years ago in western New York State, developed a program to break down barriers between people, and to infuse appreciation for diversity. I type her name into the search engine and there it is: Valerie’s website (, and a description of the program she developed, called Faces in the Crowd. Participants are given masks; when each looks into a mirror, they see the face of another–a different gender and age and ethnicity, perhaps,–and they are asked to think for a short respite about who they would be if that really was their face. And then they have to share that story with the person next to them, and listen to that person’s story in turn.

Faces in the Crowd, it seems to me, is a tool for establishing understanding, to inching onto common ground.

But what circumstances would make us use such tools, engage in those programs, put that music on and sit down for a steaming cup of decaf and an earnest conversation with the Other?


I have been trying, this year, to shift my perspective, searching for my own strengths, and for those of others, rather than focusing on weaknesses and flaws. And here, I think, is another necessary shift…finding what we share, not what divides us. Where we converge. I am astounded by how difficult this process, seemingly simple, can be. It is so hard to really listen, so unsatisfying to release my need to be right.

The wider the divide, the more I think I lose sight of the other as person–as a person with beloved family and cherished dreams and aching hurts and needs they search to address.  We become, grouped and gazed at from a growing distance, The Other Side,–a faceless, nameless, soulless mob, an entity to be battled.

And then, thus labelled, we are stuck in place, quivering on the crumbling edge of the canyon, in danger, all of us, of tumbling in.

And, oh, maybe that’s just melodrama. But maybe,–a sobering maybe–we really need to find connection, build a bridge, toss a sturdy rope, sit and talk until we uncover our places of agreement. Maybe we need to find a safe room, acknowledge this emergency, and talk it through.

Not compromising our ideals–never that. But creating the circumstances for finding common ground.

17 thoughts on “Crouching on a Crumbling Ledge, Looking for Common Ground

  1. Timely truth! For me, I hate words that divide, like “we” and “they.” To battle the tendencies of my own critical heart, I try to learn a person’s story. When I know their narrative, I am much more likely to build a bridge instead of a wall.

  2. Darrell

    This is really thoughtful, Pam, and I find myself struggling with seeing things from the point of view of people who are not like me at all politically. I think there are two key issues that are not easily solved:

    1) The geographic stratification of the country has meant that cities are almost entirely liberal, rural areas are almost entirely conservative, and the suburbs are a mix, but people have a harder time connecting with neighbors today.

    Some of that is because we all have to move so often due to job changes and little ability for most young people to afford a house. There is a ton of research showing that people mostly only soften their political stances when they really get to know people with different ideas and values. How to really do this, I don’t know.

    I’m a firm believer that the size of one’s “tribe” almost entirely determines one’s political leanings. Conservatives tend to view their tribe as family (even distantly related cousins and such), close friends, church members, and neighbors. Liberals tend to view their tribe as people without social or political power (often in the entire world, not just the country).

    So a conservative has a very hard time empathizing with the refugee who lives in a big city 60 miles away. And a liberal has a hard time empathizing with a poor white man who has suffered from the loss of manufacturing in his small town. “White” and “male” puts that person so much higher on the social power ladder that “poor” and “laid off” gets forgotten or dismissed.

    2) Politics has become a team sport. This is partly due to ridiculously gerrymandered districts that create pressure for politicians to become ever more extreme, 24/7 media coverage that emphasizes everything in terms of political parties, and social media and the internet that allows us to self select the voices we hear.

    This means we tend to change our ideological principles to match our party instead of the other way around (which isn’t even possible with only two viable parties). Think of far-left liberals who now are totally fine with drone strikes and government surveillance because of Obama. And far-right conservatives who now support Russia and an isolationist foreign policy because of Trump.

    I don’t know if there is any real solution to these problems. I’m not even really sure where to start, which is why I tend to focus on helping “my side” win.

    1. These are thoughtful points, Darrell. When you write about geography, I am reminded, too, of the fact that people often do not know their neighbors..we are strangers living one house down…and that changes how we fit into our community. (I was struck by someone–sorry, can’t remember who…) that people used to go to neighbors to find a good doctor or mechanic…and now we go to coworkers. That has much to do with a more open workplace, and fewer at-home parents, I am sure, but it does mean that, unless we consciously work toward it, we have little incentive to know our neighbors. Which widens the gap, too.

      When I taught seventh grade social studies, I remember teaching that Washington warned against a two-party system. Sigh. As always, I have more questions than answers…

  3. I got sad during the campaign, not seeing how many writers on twitter- where I have happily grazed through poetry for 2 years-disagree with my point of view. That I could handle. But I got really appalled and scared at some of the people I read who wished death or disease on a candidate. A few don’t talk to me anymore even though I put very little politics anywhere.

    Always a pleasure to find someone who disagrees with me and we can have a debate and get along-

    1. Yes–we are thinking people situated in different places in so many ways…what a rich and wonderful stew of ideas we can create if we share. I agree–the attack mode of comments is shocking. We need discourse, but it needs to be civil discourse! Thanks for sharing your thoughts; your lovely posts add to the richness and beauty of the blogosphere!

  4. Pam,

    I still have tears in my eyes after reading this. In fact, my own post today, “Can We Agree to Disagree?” also deals with divisive issues.

    Isn’t it amazing that, when we are one-on-one or in a small group, we can actually communicate effectively? But put us in a screaming, brick-throwing crowd, and communication ends.

    My amazing step-daughter, an Army vet, had five deployments, one of which was in the Phillipines. As she was Psych Ops at the time, she was allowed to work with the native people in whatever way she chose. She got to know the women of the area, and sponsored a weekly get-together to simply talk; about families, love, friendship, war, peace; everything and anything was encouraged.

    As she grew closer to these women and their families, as they shared food and chat together, it was clear that there were far more similarities than differences. In this particular community where men were the masters of the house, it was (and is) the women who raise the children. As such, they teach their children what they have learned. With hope, these many little families now know that all Americans aren’t awful people; but fellow humans with the same wants and needs and priorities. Every one of these women would die for their families, as would we.

    This post is a beacon of light. I too believe that the only way we can change is one by one by one…..I still have hope!



    1. Wow, Jane–Amy sounds like an amazing person, and her project sounds amazing, too. Someone suggested that giving the ‘Other’ a face–telling the human stories behind the beliefs we disagree with or don’t understand–is one strong way to find mutual understanding and that’s exactly what Amy did…and you share those important stories, too, in your blog. (It makes me think of how wonderful a thing the blogosphere is…) The incivility scares me many days, and then I read posts like yours (just responded, before seeing your note here), and I think we are moving forward, after all. Thanks, my friend! I hope you are not deeply snowed in and that you are getting around OK!

  5. Talking face to face, one-on-one, as neighbors, as citizens, as mothers, fathers, spouses, in public squares, in cafes, in schools would I believe do so much to breach those walls. While the internet is a wonderful space to learn and reach others, the anonymity it provides makes it easy to dismiss that which we do not understand or do not want to hear. Places where everyone is integrated into their community, where they interact and do daily business with each other instead of brands are places where opposing views learn to tolerate one another. Thank you for the wonderful way you opened the issues of communication in this post.

  6. I have in my draft file a post on this exact topic. Yours is far better than mine. Don’t be surprised if I simply link to yours now…giggles!! Thank you Pam for saying so well what I believe is in many of our hearts 💕.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.