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Yucking it up
You like it. I don’t. Now what?
BY REBECCA WIEDER

Like most kids, I grew up with the saying "If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all." And like most kids, I resented the idea when it was applied to me, and appreciated it when it saved me or loved ones from the mean streets of elementary school. Eventually, though, the clichéd phrase becomes moot: most kids figure out for themselves that pointing out the wingspan of Katie’s ears, or the fact that Jerome’s new haircut makes him look like Oprah, doesn’t get you very far in the adult world; that while honesty may be the best policy, our more candid thoughts need not always be spoken. We learn from experience that there are things we don’t need to know, don’t want to know, about what others think about us, and as a result we take many of our potentially hurtful observations underground.

But while it’s clear to most adults that commenting directly on another person’s appearance, occupation, or other personal characteristics is a sensitive endeavor, it is less clear how to approach another person’s opinions, especially opinions about seemingly insignificant things. The issue surfaced on a recent Sunday morning, when two friends and I, a little worse for the wear, decided to forego the greasy brunch we were all craving in favor of something that wouldn’t require our leaving the house; we ended up feasting on yogurt and granola, a very distant third in the hierarchy of favorite hangover remedies. Still, we were enjoying this yogurt and granola immensely, until I had the misfortune of ingesting a raisin.

It’s a great mystery to me why, being a lover of food, I would have such an intense dislike for such a small and seemingly inoffensive item. But I do. I hate raisins. When I’m feeling particularly childish, I like to call them turds of the vine. Since my friend Becca loves raisins, I offered to give her mine, which she accepted, and we were once again content. Until Becca accidentally ate an almond, mistaking it — under the veil of yogurt — for a date. She then offered to give her almonds to Uri, who said, "Bring it on! I love almonds! And raisins!" In response to which Becca and I proclaimed our respective dislike for these items.

Then Uri looked sad.

"Don’t yuck my yum," he said, and returned to his bowl.

Becca and I were speechless. This was the deepest thing we’d heard all day, and we took a minute to process it. And then, as if she’d solved a Zen koan, Becca repeated knowingly, "Don’t yuck my yum. Right."

Of course: who likes to have their pleasure diminished by someone else’s dislike? I went back to my granola. And ate a raisin that I’d somehow missed in the transfer. I tried to squelch a big fat yuck, producing an ugly gagging sound instead. And then I wondered: why should my yuck have any bearing on Uri’s yum? I mean, it’s not like I’d yucked Uri or Uri’s mother or his favorite shirt. And since I’d managed to keep the "turds of the vine" description to myself, I hadn’t had any direct impact on Uri’s ability or desire to consume raisins if he so chose. So why did my dislike of raisins make Uri feel that his enjoyment of them was somehow compromised?

You may have gathered that I’m not just talking about raisins, or food in general. "Don’t yuck my yum" is an idea that can be applied to any situation in which one person’s dislike of something is perceived as a threat to another person’s enjoyment of that thing. Most people can remember a time when, in discussing a movie or a book, they yucked someone’s yum, or vice versa, and the intensity of the conversation suddenly seemed disproportionate to the gravity of the matter at hand.

Recently two friends of mine almost came to e-mail blows over the relative merits of The Matrix Reloaded, and in the aftermath, the one whose yum had been yucked put her finger on the reason why "Don’t yuck my yum" is the adult version of "If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all." She announced, with admirable lucidity, that "my opinions about seemingly insignificant things, like movies or books — especially ones I’ve reacted to strongly — are like a part of me, part of the way I identify myself. When I really like something and someone else really hates it, I can’t help but feel like their dislike is a direct comment on me." Which explains why her — or anyone’s — enjoyment of The Matrix Reloaded would be affected by someone else’s strong dislike of it.

This makes sense to me. Yet I worry that if we take "Don’t yuck my yum" too much to heart, we end up missing out on some important stuff. Just like its childhood version, this idea is highly dependent on the specifics of the situation: on the people involved, on the way observations and opinions are presented, on the frequency of negative feedback. If our dislike of something is shared in a way that invites conversation, or is offered as a means of revealing something about oneself, why should we hold back for fear of lessening someone else’s enjoyment? If we speak only when we have something nice to say, if we limit our observations to the positive, don’t we limit our understanding of one another?

Rebecca Wieder can be reached at rebezca@juno.com

Issue Date: June 20 - 26, 2003
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