The Pavlovian view of women voters - 'plug the words in, and they

Host: The rain fell in soft, deliberate threads, like the sky itself was whispering an old confession to the earth. Inside the dim glow of a small bookstore café, two shadows sat near the window, their reflections trembling in the glass. Jack leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, the other holding a half-empty cup of black coffee. Jeeny sat opposite, her hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, her eyes alive with thought — deep, dark, and burning with quiet conviction.

A radio murmured in the background — the faint voice of a political analyst dissecting election speeches. Then, as if cued by fate, the radio host quoted Deborah Tannen.

“The Pavlovian view of women voters — ‘plug the words in, and they will respond’ — sends a chill down my spine... When a woman tells a man about a problem, she doesn’t want him to fix it; she just wants him to listen and let her know he understands.”

The words lingered, like smoke that refused to fade.

Jeeny: (gazing out the window) “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the disease of communication between men and women — assuming one formula fits all. Words as triggers. Emotions as buttons.”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “You mean politics or relationships?”

Jeeny: “Both. Maybe they’ve always been the same thing — promises and misunderstandings.”

Jack: (low laugh) “You’re not wrong. But maybe the problem isn’t manipulation. Maybe it’s expectation. People hear what they want to hear, Jeeny. Men, women — everyone’s conditioned by something.”

Jeeny: “Conditioned. Like Pavlov’s dogs?”

Jack: “Exactly. Ring the bell — get the reaction.”

Host: A bus hissed by outside, spraying water over the sidewalk. Inside, the air smelled of coffee beans and old paper, a comforting scent of intellect and melancholy. The candlelight between them flickered, catching in Jack’s eyes, which looked like shards of cold steel under soft firelight.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see what Tannen meant, Jack? When a woman speaks, she’s not offering a problem to solve. She’s offering a piece of her world — something vulnerable, something sacred. And when a man tries to ‘fix’ it, she feels unseen. Like her feelings were a puzzle instead of a language.”

Jack: “So she wants empathy, not answers?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Understanding, not instruction.”

Jack: “That’s easier said than done. You can’t blame men for trying to fix things. It’s how we’re wired. Problem equals solution. That’s how the brain works.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, voice soft but firm) “No, Jack. That’s how you work. But communication isn’t engineering — it’s art. And art isn’t about fixing; it’s about feeling.”

Host: The sound of rain deepened, a rhythmic drumming against the glass. Jack stared at Jeeny for a moment, his expression unreadable, but his mind visibly turning. He swirled the last of his coffee, watching it spiral like a tiny, private storm.

Jack: “So, you’re saying men should just sit there — nod, smile, listen — while women talk about their problems? That’s communication?”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying they should hear. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You make it sound like some sort of ritual.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The ritual of empathy. The moment two people stop performing and start understanding.”

Jack: “But understanding doesn’t solve anything.”

Jeeny: “Oh, it solves everything that matters.”

Host: Her voice was steady but trembled with emotion, like a violin string stretched to its limit. Jack’s face softened — barely perceptible, but there — a faint crack in the armor of logic he wore like skin.

Jack: “You know what bothers me, Jeeny? That quote — it sounds like an accusation. Like men can’t listen, can’t connect. That we’re all programmed idiots who think empathy’s a mechanical fault.”

Jeeny: “It’s not an accusation. It’s a mirror. Look at the way men are raised — don’t cry, don’t feel, don’t talk unless you’re solving something. You’ve been trained out of listening. Not by nature — by culture.”

Jack: “Maybe. But women have their conditioning too. Ever notice how every ad, every speech, every influencer says they ‘understand women’? It’s a strategy. The system learned how to mimic empathy — just like Pavlov’s bell. Say the right words, get the right reaction.”

Jeeny: “Yes, that’s exactly what Tannen meant. That’s what chills her — and me. Communication reduced to manipulation. Connection turned into control.”

Jack: “Then what’s the alternative? We’re all performing, one way or another.”

Jeeny: “Not when it’s real.”

Host: The music changed — a slow jazz piece, soft and aching. The light dimmed slightly as the clouds thickened outside, cloaking the city in velvet gray. The tension between them became palpable — not anger, but the deep ache of understanding trying to find its shape.

Jack: “You ever think maybe women don’t want to be understood either? Maybe they want to be worshipped. Admired. Put on a pedestal. And the moment a man tries to understand, it ruins the mystery.”

Jeeny: (laughing quietly) “That’s not understanding, Jack. That’s objectification in a tuxedo.”

Jack: “Then what do you want from men?”

Jeeny: “Honesty. Presence. Not perfection.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s the only thing worth doing.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted downward. He traced a finger along the rim of his cup, his mind lost in the quiet storm of her words. There was a tremor in the air now — not of argument, but of revelation.

Jack: “You know, I used to think communication was about efficiency. Say what you mean, get to the point, move on. But maybe… maybe it’s about something else.”

Jeeny: “It’s about meaning, Jack. Not efficiency. About letting someone know — really know — that they’re seen.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that slow everything down?”

Jeeny: “Maybe slowing down is what the world needs most.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly — a quiet heartbeat of the café. Outside, a couple ran through the rain, laughing under one shared umbrella. Inside, time felt like it had folded in on itself, stretching between two souls learning, unlearning, reaching.

Jack: “So, if I understand you — you’re saying that communication isn’t about what’s said, but what’s felt.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Communication isn’t a transaction. It’s a translation — of emotion into understanding.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe that’s why so many relationships fail. Everyone’s fluent in speaking, but not in listening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Listening is the rarest form of love.”

Jack: (quietly) “And maybe the hardest.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it matters.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand rested briefly on the table, near his. Not touching, just near — a quiet invitation, not a demand. Jack looked at it, then back at her, the storm in his eyes softening.

Jack: “So, what do I do the next time someone tells me a problem?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Don’t fix it. Feel it.”

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then say nothing. Sometimes silence is the loudest understanding.”

Host: The rain stopped. The streets glistened under the soft glow of streetlights, and the air outside smelled new — washed, honest. Inside, the last of the candle melted into a pool of gold, a small sun dying quietly on the tabletop.

Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly — a man who had just discovered the weight of simplicity.
Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes calm, reflective — a woman who had not won an argument, but reached a heart.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve all been trained too long — to respond, to react, to fix. Maybe real communication isn’t conditioning. It’s connection.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. It’s not Pavlov’s bell. It’s a heartbeat.”

Host: The camera might have pulled back then — through the window, past the rain-washed streets, into the vast, breathing night. The city below shimmered with millions of tiny, unspoken conversations, some broken, some beautiful, all trying to say the same eternal thing:

“I’m here. I hear you.”

And in that fragile exchange — between silence and speech —
the world found its only true language: understanding.