The mainstream media, tilting left as it does, has always held up John McCain as "one of the good ones." A Republican who didn't always agree with them, but who proceeded more days than not with honor and with humor, and who reached out across the aisle or took an iconoclastic stance on issues just often enough to earn him that oft-repeated moniker of "Maverick."

But the reality has always been that John McCain was a solid Conservative Republican. That his Marverickisms were the exception, rather than the rule. That he was a man of principle, yes, but those principles were largely pro-tax cut, pro-military intervention, anti-abortion, anti-gay marriage, and anti-universal health care. And when he came closest to the presidency, when he won his party's nomination in 2008, was also when he wavered furthest from his principles, flirting at times with the ideologues of his party and fueling the populist movement within the GOP by choosing Alaska Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate.

So on the one hand, we have a man of dignity and decency. A man who treated those on the other side of the aisle as his partners in Democracy rather than his enemies. An increasingly rare individual in these increasingly polarized times. But on the other hand, he was a man who, by virtue of his principles, so often worked to limit the rights of others.

In some ways, I think that decency and dignity may be the gift and curse of the able-bodied financially-secure straight white cis man. It's easy to be kind, to be gracious, to respect political opinions of your rivals and even the sanctity of death when no one is standing on your neck. When no one is threatening your voting rights or your citizenship or your healthcare or the autonomy of your body or your right to marry the person you love.

Civility is, in many ways, passivity. It's the determination that comfort, that a smile and a handshake and a wink, is more important than a hand up. That the way things are right now is just fine if you would just stop complaining about it. And for many of us, for a lot of people like me, it is.

Of course there are ways to advocate, to protest and to effect change, that are dignified and respectful. Some would humbly argue that kneeling quietly during the National Anthem is dignified and respectful. (I'm not sure why that position is controversial.) But real, meaningful, lasting change often requires individuals to go further. To rally and protest, to engage in civil disobedience, to provoke, to shake the comfortable from their complacency.

The question then is how far do you go?

Can we all agree that violence and the threat of violence is too far? I hope so.

Can we all agree that lying and misleading people to win them to our side is unacceptable? I hope so.

Can we all agree that we will not speak ill of the dead? That is... less clear.

What's easy to forget for someone like me, by dint of birth and choice and opportunity, is that even the most well-meaning Republican (and, to be fair, plenty of Democrats) routinely advocate for policies that do real damage to people's lives. That people without healthcare die every day, that people are shot dead in the street or become collateral damage in faraway countries. That people are harassed and discriminated against or treated like aliens in their own country or treated like criminals for trying to find a better life for themselves or their children in THIS country, and THAT treatment is anything but civil.

So where's the line? I'd like to say that we can be calm and thoughtful and dignified and civil and still change the world. That we can be Obama, basically. But that's probably not enough.

Does that mean that we should cheer every crassly exploitative tweet? Or accept riots as an inevitable and necessary expression of democracy?

No. Yes. Probably not. Maybe? Don't ask me.

Listen to the person with the foot on their neck.

That, I think, is ultimately both the answer to my question and to the question that comes next.