Today I’d like to talk about dismantling the mind’s automatic trapdoor. I’ll explain more about that in just a moment.

Our current world is unlike anything any of us have previously experienced. We all find ourselves navigating unfamiliar territory in uncertain times. The current challenges provide us opportunities to dismantle the automatic trapdoor within our minds which can prevent us from being curious, entertaining novel ideas and seeing solutions. 

So, what is a mental trapdoor?

It is an immediate reaction that eliminates the possibility of listening, giving thoughtful consideration to information, or examining beliefs. The instantaneous activation of the trapdoor originally served to keep us safe and ensure our survival from the threat of rival tribes and wild beasts. Once the trapdoor has slammed shut, we rely on utilizing a prepackaged catalog of ideas, often assembled by someone else, that may have been passed down for decades, keeping us frozen in time. When patterns and beliefs are similar to those around us, we usually feel accepted. Reactive, habitual thinking also helps us to resist change.

The mind’s trapdoor frequently slams closed to a perceived threat in an effort to “protect” from the unfamiliar, or to help a person believe they are “right”. Once the trapdoor has closed we instantly sort ideas and people into neat pre-existing categories such as right/wrong, us/them, or good/bad. It is possible to live unaware of the almost imperceptible quick click of the trapdoor which ensures we rely on formulaic thoughts to help keep life comfortable and familiar. This split-second reaction is often being triggered by interactions with our fellow human beings resulting in judgment, blame and otherizing, helping us to justify hurtful words or behavior. The quick reaction that was designed to help keep us alive is now what is standing in the way of our survival as a species.

I think one of the easiest ways for me to tell you what the trap door is and how it is dismantled is to share a personal story I lived throughout my childhood. I was a fortunate child to have a front row seat as my parents came to understand they had been taught beliefs that helped them label people as “other”. I witnessed as they came to grips with the idea that there was a trapdoor within their own minds that was actually interfering with their ability to hear and see their fellow human beings. I was privileged to be present when they made the choice to pick up the screwdriver to begin the process of taking the hinges off of their automatic trapdoors. So today, sit back while I tell you a story.

How did my parents dismantle their trapdoors?

It began when their minds were jarred by hearing a perspective (often told through tears or with a tentative voice) which was significantly different from their own. That jolt disrupted the automatic, two-column categorization which they had been taught. The introduction of a different point of view from someone they knew, made it uncomfortable for them to instantly judge the person sitting in front of them. At this point, everyone present in the room was in unfamiliar territory which required courage to continue.

Many people trusted my parents enough to reveal their personal story for the first time. My mother and father began by pausing and laying down their need to be right in order to listen. This necessitated that they make the deliberate choice not to react, not to allow their trapdoor to lock them into the two-columned, either/or, us/them thinking. The stories were frequently shared with fragile trust and reflected profound pain. When anger was expressed, they both recognized that there was heartache behind the anger, and they continued to be still and listen attentively.

At the kitchen table, I listened as they recounted painful stories in which the storyteller had been “otherized”. Sometimes it became clear that the person had a different color of skin, or spoke haltingly in their second language. I heard the struggle in my parents’ voices as they talked about a cultural heritage that felt foreign to them, and recounted life experiences that disturbed them. Even when they were confronted with stories that challenged their beliefs, It became apparent that my mother and father had continued to value the person and listen.

Often, for months, meals became a time of openly discussing how new information was challenging them and what they believed to be true. The ideas being addressed, often passed down by former generations and shared by their friends, relatives, and community members, were no longer being automatically activated. I recognized that both my mother and father were being brave.

The conversations in our home got messy because my parents gave themselves permission to be uncertain and confused.  Like unpacking a burgeoning closet, it was necessary to be willing to live with the temporary mental chaos, as they decided what to discard and what to keep. Since they had often heard unfamiliar words that were important to the identity of the storyteller, I noticed that now it was my parents who were speaking haltingly and with great care. They were trying on new language while retiring words that, although commonly used, were now considered offensive or hurtful. 

Sometimes I would hear a shift into the nervous, tentative excitement as they shaped the language of a new belief, carefully selecting the words they would choose to voice. Frequently they needed to retell stories and recount experiences to help them as they refined what they now believed. This all happened over sourdough pancake breakfasts and dinners of mashed potatoes, peas, jello salad and overcooked meat. This was my normal.

Dinner after dinner, year after year, the discussions continued, and I was privileged to listen as adults had the courage to examine what they had been taught and believed to be true, which sometimes led to the decision to change their minds. Growing up, I was allowed to enter into the conversations, and experience how the power of listening was magnified by the power of being heard. Like others before me, I knew that in being heard, I belonged.