Hostage Negotiator
Family dinners can require the skills of a hostage negotiator, someone who can stall for time, soothe ruffled egos, and act as a buffer between the criminals and the law keepers.
In my family, I am the hostage negotiator.
We start innocently enough, with hugs all around, greetings, and hellos. Food is a safe conversation starter, and we chat about the menu of the day, and memories of past meals and the hands that prepared them. Once we’re seated, our plates and our glasses filled, we run out of food to discuss.
Then, a question from the matriarch.
“What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Oh, it’s a hard cider.”
“Hard. So it’s alcoholic?”
Someone changes the subject. “How are your classes going, mom?”
I have some fun stories from my adventures in adult education — another safe topic.
Then my husband, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in. “Hey, Kate, how is your friend John?”
“Oh, doing great. He’s living in Seattle with his boyfriend. They’re doing really well.”
I go on high alert and start smacking down the Velcro straps on my mental tac vest.
The matriarch pulls a face, goes for the full-body shudder from which we’ve begged her to cease and desist. It’s getting more dangerous. I’m going in.
“Rob, how is this semester going for you?” I ask brightly.
Rob chews, swallows. “Excellent. I have a fantastic professor in my sociology class. We’re studying the history of racial profiling and its impacts on people’s attitudes toward immigration.”
“Legal or illegal?” The matriarch asks. “And you know, racism works both ways.”
I reach for that special phone, the one that magically connects the negotiator with the perpetrators.
“I remember my sociology class,” I interrupt. “It was my first introduction to statistics, which was ridiculously hard for me. Do you have any math in the class?”
And on we go. A grenade is launched; I fall on it. Someone flees the scene to go refill the sweet tea. Shots are fired, and I do my best to block them. I’m the one wearing the armor, it’s my job, right?
Finally, it’s over. I take off my bullet-ridden vest and wince at the bruises. I reapply deodorant and wash my face, ridding myself of the sensation of stress-induced cold sweat. I sigh in relief. Another dinner mostly successfully navigated.
I’m the negotiator. Funny how it feels like I’m the hostage.
