It’s not about being politically correct

“I’m not politically correct, but…”

We’ve all heard that phrase or something like it. I’ve heard it more times than I can count, and what usually follows isn’t a political statement at all. It’s often a string of comments about women’s clothing choices or their place working at the cattle chute. Or those gay people who are shoving their “lifestyles” in front of everyone else. Or about those “liberal people in the cities” who view things differently.

This time of year, as we’re deep into fall work with cattle, weaning calves, sorting, vaccinating, or shipping, the community really shows up. Neighbors pitch in, everyone is together for this work, and there’s always time for talk back and forth as we work. The way people come together when there’s work to do is one of the things I love most about agriculture.

But in the middle of those moments, the awkward comments slip in too. Around the working pens or while waiting on the next thing to do, I’ve often heard someone drop a familiar phrase, something to the tune of: “I’m not politically correct, but…”

And when it happens, you can see some people recognize it. People look down or laugh awkwardly. If something is said about it, it might be brushed off with, “That’s just the way he is. You’ll have to ignore it.”

But here’s the thing: it’s not about being politically correct. It’s about common decency and respecting other people. The same values that make our rural communities worth being part of in the first place.

Rural communities pride themselves on helping each other out. We gather to work cattle, pitch in to help with harvest, to support one another, and to celebrate our way of life. But when someone prefaces a cutting remark with, “I’m not politically correct, but…,” what are they really asking for?

They already know what they’re about to say crosses a line. They know it could sting if the wrong person were around to hear it. And they’re asking for permission to say it anyway.

If we want our communities to stay strong and welcoming, we can’t keep laughing off or excusing those moments as “just how people talk.” It’s not about political correctness or “agendas.” It’s about the kind of character that makes people feel they belong. It’s the same character we talk about when we say someone’s a “good neighbor.”

I know speaking up isn’t easy. I’ve been in those circles, hesitating to say something because I didn’t want to draw attention or ridicule to myself. I imagine others have too.

But maybe that’s where the shift starts in small ways. The next time you hear someone preface a derogatory remark with something like, “I’m not politically correct, but…,” try one of these instead of staying silent:

• Redirect the conversation with a simple question: “What makes you say that?” Sometimes just asking breaks the rhythm.
• Speak from shared values, not confrontation: “Hey, we can disagree without putting anyone down.”
• Or lighten it without letting it slide: “We can have a laugh without crossing into mean.”

Those moments between sorting calves or sharing a pot of coffee are where culture shifts.

It’s not about politics or being correct. It’s about making sure that everyone who shows up, whether it’s for weaning day, a potluck, or just pitching in to help get the work done, feels valued for what they bring to the table.

That’s the kind of agriculture, and the kind of community, worth showing up for.