This past weekend in New York City, the weather’s oscillated in and out of crispness, sun and breeze cordially nudging each other out of the way. Talking with a newer volunteer at the outreach table I run, I said we were in a liminal moment vis-à-vis the free candy we hand out.

A little pack of candy works as a paperweight, and as a treat for a little kid or a fellow canvasser or someone who’s having a hard day. (A key rule for the table: Always check with a child’s parents before offering them candy. Parents know kids’ dietary restrictions, and we really don’t want the optics of “political activists manipulate children with free candy behind parents’ backs.”) I don’t give some to everyone who stops by, so one big bag of bite-sized sweets usually lasts a couple of months.

When I started giving away candy in April or May, it was chilly enough that chocolate worked. (Mini Snickers bars, cheap stuff like that, $20 for a 5.6-pound bag.)

As weather warmed up, sometimes the chocolate got melty. I switched to tiny packs of gummy bears. This past weekend, I brought both, starting with chocolates and then switching to gummy bears when I picked up a Hershey’s and felt the squish. But soon the chill will keep the chocolate solid.

After my brief explanation, the newer volunteer said, with some wonder, that I seemed as excited about the candy as I did about the issue advocacy. Like, I spoke with as much passion about candy strategy as I did about defending civil rights.

A few hours later, considering this, I realized: this person met me through the outreach table, and thus, understood my demeanor through the lens of activism. But I am just like this all the time. The level of intensity in my voice and body language in a small group conversation when I discuss a system, instruct learners, share advice, or advocate for a better way forward, is generally not what observers would call “laid-back” or “chill.” It’s not as high as it gets in an argument or a lecture-style speech. But it’s there.

Sometimes I have overheard (or, occasionally, received) advice like “take it easy” or “stay in your lane” or “don’t get so personally invested” or “chill out.” I have learned to translate them into terms that make sense in my head, such as “the way you are expressing your concerns is making other people feel bad (scared/disgusted/defensive)” or “you are unlikely to win in this conflict, and you are in danger of reducing your credibility and capability for other future negotiations with the same people.”

But there is a part of that advice that can come across as: feel less, on command. And I chafe at that, because it takes time to properly deal with intense emotion, to learn what it’s trying to say. I know (some) how to work through difficult feelings, how to reflect on them, sift and look underneath them for hidden layers, temper them with broader perspectives. It takes patience and a kind of partnership between the part of myself that is intensely feeling and the part of myself that can listen nonjudgmentally. It takes time and trust.

That same skill comes in to play when de-escalating conflict with strangers.

When I’m helping new volunteers learn how to do outreach at the table, I say that rule #1 is to ask parents before giving a kid candy, and rule #2 is that if we receive hostility, we don’t return it. I do not insult someone for disagreeing with us, even if they are rude.

Maybe 1 or 2 times per day while tabling, a stranger’s actively antagonistic (out of maybe 500-1,000 interactions over 6-7 hours). If they disagree in a passing comment as they walk by, rude or not: maybe I respond with a calm fact-based rejoinder, or silence. If a stranger disagrees with me within a conversation, I try to ask questions to better understand their point of view, and to better shape what to say back. If they just aren’t going to change their mind, maybe I begin to bring the conversation to a close, or maybe I switch the topic to another issue where the coalition of people on my side is likely broader. (For example: even if you disagree with me about public safety, you probably don’t want a casino in the neighborhood.) Getting their help on that would still be useful.

Pragmatically, ideologically, spiritually: having control of my response means I can choose how I come across. Approximately always, choosing to avoid insulting or shouting at the visitor suits my goals, avoids sounding awful in case someone posts an out-of-context video, and better meets my standards for who I want to be.

It’s better to do this work with at least one other person present. And part of why is so they can notice if a conversation with a visitor is getting under my skin and I’m reacting heatedly – or so I can do that for my fellow volunteer, and help de-escalate. And the irritation can show up faster than one consciously notices. At least twice at the table, someone’s realized that a reason a conversation really bothered them was that the other person looked or sounded like a difficult family member – a condescending uncle, a bigoted grandma. The kind of echo that one only notices after the irritation’s set in.

I’ve spent a lot of words discussing those interactions, but, as I said, they’re rare. Most of these hours we’re getting the word out to people who substantively already agree with us, having informative and supportive conversations, sometimes being ignored by passers-by, chatting amongst ourselves, and seeing cute dogs. If I see someone in an awesome outfit I will compliment it regardless of whether or not they stop to talk with us. It usually doesn’t get them to stop for a chat or take a leaflet. That’s fine. The admiration is independent of the outreach; it is me genuinely reveling in the beauty my neighbor has brought into my life.

Every week I learn a little more about how to do this work. A local organization with a resource to print and distribute, a more effective opening line or a specific wording that gracefully avoids bad assumptions, a better flyer layout.

Scissors are useful to bring for slicing up half- and quarter-page flyers. Another reason to bring candy is so we’re less tempted to briefly use the scissors as a paperweight. I take them out of the tote bag to use them and then stow them away when done. I do not leave them where a stranger could grab them.

Those are two of the images of this ritual that stay with me, then, along with the cute dogs and the stacks of handouts and the colors of the streetscape: scissors and candy. Tools to cut and to connect.