I make New Year’s resolutions. Perhaps my adherence to this old, optimistic custom sounds quaint; my cynical side, however, may be redeemed somewhat by the fact that, one week into the year, I had to go back to my journal and look up what my resolutions actually were.

I called up the computer file, not really knowing what to expect. Finally, under the heading “December 30,” I found them. There were only two. They read as follows:

“1. become a better listener and a more balanced conversationalist

“2. argue more”

Perhaps one of the things that most defines our character is the way in which we conduct our conversations. How we choose to talk—and listen—reflects our background, our surroundings, what we feel to be important. At the same time, while our conversational style may vary from setting to setting or from person to person (most of us talk differently in section than we do at home with our brothers and sisters), there is usually a consistency that runs throughout these different conversational settings—a personal style that each of us has cultivated. And the personal way in which each of us approaches our speech will hold significant weight in deciding whether my two resolutions contradict one another.

My longtime friend from summer camp, now at Boston College, is a philosophy major and an experienced debater, and he loves to argue. Traditionally, our conversations last for a good five minutes, until the pleasant banter gives way to the introduction of a serious topic, be it politics, education, sex or money—but it’s usually politics.  At this point my friend’s posture will straighten, his face will harden, and his voice will drop several pitches. As he begins to outline his points like essay paragraphs—the in-depth history, logic and economics behind the minimum wage—I shrink back and begin to tune out. In my mind, arguments only lead to awkwardness and resentment. So it goes: the conversation soon fizzles.  

After about six years of this, however, I began to reconsider the problem—especially after I decided to come to Harvard and realized that I would most likely be seeing my friend more often. Every time that the two of us talked, the conversation ended in disagreement—and yet we still talked. When I came to Harvard and found myself surrounded by dozens of lively, argumentative people who would scream at each other over dinner and then go see a movie together, I began to realize that the main difference between my friend and me lay not in our politics, but in our approaches to conversation. While I tend to find disagreement threatening, for my friend, it was his main mode of interaction. By striking up contention in our conversations, he wasn’t trying to drive me away—he was simply conversing in his usual manner.

Not long after I realized this, I began to approach my day-to-day conversations with an observer’s ear. As I talked with my friends, my families and my classmates, I began to take mental notes as to the shape of each conversation: who initiated discussion, who asked questions, who tended to talk more, what topics we pursued and which ones we avoided. There was an incredible variety: some people, I got the feeling, wouldn’t disagree with me even if I got their name wrong; others plowed straight away into lengthy arguments over subjects that they knew little about. What was most interesting, though, was the shape that conversations would assume completely independently of their content: the nature of a conversation’s give-and-take dynamics often had little correlation with the direction of a discussion’s subject matter.

Observing the subtext of our ordinary conversations may lead to surprising and sometimes troubling revelations. Maybe we complain too much. Maybe we ask questions without really concerning ourselves with the answers. Maybe it turns out that everyone we know talks exactly the same way for some reason. But such observation also lends the possibility of expansion. Since I began to reconsider the boundaries of my own conversations, I’ve been able to talk with my friend at Boston College for a matter of hours, instead of minutes. I’ve found myself deeply engaged while talking to people that I never before would have considered conversing with. And, while I’ve generated a list of New Year’s resolutions that most probably will end up in the recycling bin—both mentally and physically—hey, at least it’s something to talk about.

Catherine L. Tung ’06 is an English concentrator in Pforzheimer House. Her column appears regularly.