ArcaMax

Sometimes a reply has to stew. There's the meat of an argument and the vegetables of barbs that soften as the pot simmers over the flames of anger. The flavors shift with time. What first tasted like an insult might mellow into something, even just the imagined context I build for myself of the person on the other side of the screen, like someone scared of change or someone just having a bad day.

And still, I sit with my hands above the keyboard, wondering what to serve back to the constituent.

At least for me, there was no guidance on constituent services when I was elected as a city councilor. I answered most emails as I always have, cheerfully, helpfully, and sincerely. Many times, I've admitted that I'll not be the arbiter of a final decision, and it might come from the director of public works, a lacking budget, or it might point back up to a decision already filed at the state level.

While I've had some nastygrams come from my writing, the vitriol that politics brings out is something different. There's enough anonymity that humanity is stripped away, and some really trite lines, like "we'll vote to get rid of you."

But accusations of one's character aren't fun, even in an email. I want to act in accordance with "when they go low, we go high." But lately, I keep tasting that spice and feeling like it's not right for the dish that's being made. It's too sweet, too polite, too aspirational for the moment we're in. There's something saccharine about it, like sprinkling sugar on a pot of chili and pretending it's going to fix the burn. It needs something to cut. Acid, maybe. Salt. Truth.

Because here's the thing: some folks aren't coming to the table in good faith. They're not looking to break bread. They're pounding the table and threatening to flip it over if they don't like the menu. It's not that I mind disagreement. I ran for office to serve all of us, not just the agreeable ones. But there's a difference between being held accountable and being held hostage by outrage.

The hardest part isn't the anger. It's the absolutism. The insistence that if I don't vote exactly how they want, speak exactly how they demand, then I'm not just wrong, but I'm evil, bought, a traitor, a coward. The belief that one disagreement means total betrayal. That compromise is weakness. That democracy is only working when it gives you exactly what you want.

There's no pause for the stew to simmer, just a flash boil and a scald.

I don't want to become what I'm trying to resist. Bitterness has a way of sneaking into a broth. However, I can't pretend that blandness will feed us. Leaders need to taste what's really going on, and not be afraid to say: "This isn't working." Not everything needs sugar. Some dishes demand fire. Others need grounding. Most need time.

So, I try to listen, to season with care. But I don't cater to threats. I serve what I hope will nourish. And I accept that not every diner will be satisfied. I try to remember that beneath all that heat is often a hunger for safety, for dignity, for someone to listen and actually hear. And while I can't serve everyone exactly what they ordered, I do try to offer something made with care. Something honest. Something human.

I still believe most people want more than that. Underneath the fire and the frustration, there's still a longing for community, for belonging, for something worth building together. That gives me hope.

Ultimately, we're still in the kitchen together. Still chopping, still stirring, still arguing over how much heat this moment requires. But if we stay in the room -- and if we listen even when it's hard and offer grace when it's easier to walk out -- we might just cook up something better than any of us could make alone.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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