Ron Sanford reads the daily newspaper every morning. This has been his habit for over 40 years. Sometimes he contacts me when he's hot.
Mr. Sanford, 65, a former computer science teacher in St. Charles County, Missouri, accused me of intentionality when I wrote about school boards and book bans in the past. I usually reply to his emails the same way I reply to local readers whenever possible. The tone of many of his messages led me to believe he was one of my “hate readers.” In other words, people who only read because they want to criticize something.
In a time when print subscriptions are declining, I accept that.
But last spring, I wrote something that struck a nerve with Sanford. I was describing a situation where my husband and I were turned around in an unfamiliar area of St. Charles at night. It came on the heels of two young men in Kansas City and upstate New York being shot and killed by a stranger simply for accidentally knocking on a door or pulling into a driveway. At that time, I told her husband to be careful because we were in a “gun priority” area in Missouri.
This explanation didn't sit well with Sanford. He wrote that St. Charles County has a lower shooting rate than the city of St. Louis. He said that I had revealed my bias in describing counties that way, but not cities. (He used more emphatic language, but you get the idea.)
First, I tried to explain what I meant. This column is about places where individuals feel safe, and a few weeks before writing it, I was reading about signs that white supremacist groups were emerging in St. Charles County. It's reasonable to expect gun ownership to be higher in these deep red counties.
Presumably, a stranger of color who parks in a stranger's driveway in such an area would be viewed suspiciously. That was the background that made me feel unsafe in that situation.
Sanford argued that my feelings did not justify the term “shoot first.” He pointed out that there was scant evidence to suggest that I would be shot and said I needed to publicly apologize. I have considered his position and found it to be a glib and unfair statement about St. Charles County.
I called him and asked if I could write about our interaction. He reluctantly agreed.
I was interested in a few things. First of all, what made him write to me so persistently about this word? At this point we had been exchanging emails for several months.
He admitted that being retired gave him plenty of time to send emails.
“I like receiving emails because it's something for me to do,” he said. This is the opposite of how I feel about my overloaded inbox, which I always prioritize.
We discovered unexpected commonalities. He described himself as a moderate politically speaking.
“If it matters, I don't like Trump or Biden,” he said. Judging from public opinion polls and approval ratings, the majority of the public feels the same way. When I asked him about his top three issues heading into this election, he listed the economy, border security, and surprisingly, abortion.
“I have a daughter,” he said. “Some of the laws that are being passed right now are insane.”
I wasn't expecting to hear that.
Even more surprising, he said he probably agreed with more of what I wrote than disagreed. He could have knocked me over with a feather.
We're used to making assumptions about people based on tweets, social media posts, or short interactions. People who disagree about the most divisive issues tend to see each other as one-dimensional. But most people are more complicated. We simply hear the loudest, least nuanced voices most often.
Another reason I wanted to talk to Sanford is because I've always been concerned about how the debate around political dissent in this country has evolved. I've talked to my kids about how to disagree without getting grumpy, but it's probably better to model that behavior. In an election year that promises to be intensely contested and polarizing, I wanted to show them another way to talk about our differences.
“In general, I wish people who disagreed with each other would talk more, like we're doing now,” Sanford said in a phone conversation.
Perhaps our conversation felt productive because I was willing to engage and admit that I was wrong about something Sanford cared deeply about. It probably also helped that his tone on the phone was much friendlier than over email. We got to know a little more about each other's backgrounds and perspectives and found similarities. He trusted me enough to tell the story even though he knew I would end up writing about it.
Before hanging up, he said previous demands for a public apology had “crossed the line.”
I recognized it as an olive branch and was grateful.
For the record, I publicly apologize.
