Opinions and Facts
He came straight at me, tall and imposing, the same way I’d seen inexperienced people walk straight at a horse or sheep just before they created an unintended negative consequence.
I’ve watched horses and sheep dart past their perceived threat, so close they might brush against a flannel shirt or trample a booted toe.
But I’m not a species of prey like a horse or a sheep.
I’m not fast enough to dart anywhere and I’m not inclined to back down from a perceived threat.
I faced the confrontation his body language telegraphed.
Mr. Burley Boy approached me at my farmers market booth, where the atmosphere is generally congenial.
Weary from the always-horrific news cycle during the week, people stroll among pastries, trinkets, fruits and vegetables, greeting friends and shedding stress.
Fat people, skinny people, Black people, white people, pierced noses and cowboy boots pause at my booth.
I talk to all of them.
I was chatting with a regular customer when Mr. Burley Boy interrupted, saying “I don’t like grass-fed beef. Do you know where I can get grain-fed beef?”
I respect people’s preferences so I’m happy to send customers to my friends who raise meat differently from me.
I began to offer a couple of options, but Mr. Burley Boy stepped closer, towering over me and interrupted.
He looked at my regular customer – himself a tall man, too – pointed to my sign that says “Premium Grass-fed Beef and Lamb” and said “I don’t know why anybody would eat that instead of grain-fed beef. All that stuff is terrible.”
With that, he crossed my line in the sand.
Mr. Burley Boy has a right to his opinion, but his opinion is not a fact.
He doesn’t have a civic duty to convince me.
As my regular customer stuttered in my defense, I rose up to my full height, leaned in and growled:
“You have never had my beef so you can’t say that. You can have an opinion, but you don’t have the facts.”
Mr. Burley Boy began recounting a fat, juicy sirloin that he forked back in 1965.
“There’s no reason people should eat anything else,” he said.
I stepped closer and looked him in the eye.
He turned and wandered down the street.
As he walked away, I wondered if he assumed that his status, privilege and willingness to share his insights and experience changed my opinion.
Did he think that I have been bumbling randomly along on the desolate prairie periodically coming across an old cow and choosing to bring steaks and hamburger to the market, but now that he shared his wisdom I will see the error in my ways, build a feedlot and buy some corn?
Clearly, as a tall and wide retired insurance agent, Mr. Burley Boy knows everyone in the world needs to eat the specific food he prefers.
As I drove home with steam venting from my ears, I realized this is yet another case of compare and contrast that quickly turns to unhealthy judgement.
Humans are the only species who turn comparisons into judgements.
We compare vehicles – people assume those who drive older vehicles have less income.
We compare homes – Mcmansions serve as a marker of wealth.
We compare cattle, sheep and crops as indications of management prowess.
Horses, sheep, ticks and grizzlies all have preferences, but they don’t declare those preferences to be facts and force them on to others.
I wondered whether human instinct or learned behavior turns us into Mr. Burley Boys.
I decided it must be learned.
As an antidote, I floated the Missouri River, appreciating the horses, sheep and ticks – along with bald eagles, mergansers and muskrats -- with every bend.