What if I Were Wrong about Everything?
Then I’d embrace beauty, reject performative sanctimony, and focus on personal stories
When a recent executive order mandated more patriotic classroom content, one eminent American historian asserted that no one is teaching American kids in public schools to dislike America. Such an idea was ridiculous.
In my experience, this generally wise historian was making a false statement. I personally know multiple kids who graduated American public high school in left-wing cities who never learned about George Washington yet were taught in depth about Vietnam War protests and the Kent State Massacre. I know people in public schools today in left-wing locales whose American history curricula, mandated by the state, spends most of the year on Native American nations resisting “white settlers.” And I’m aware of whole organizations who have created curricula trumpeting American civic values precisely because parents have been alarmed by anti-American curricula in public schools. Therefore, for me, the historian’s assertion that no public school is inculcating dislike of America is certifiably false.
Which leads to the question: What if I were wrong about things I’m certain about. And going further: what if I were wrong everything?
Just like that historian, I am often certain, often self-righteously.
Examples abound from the last couple weeks:
I am certain it’s a moral wrong that America’s President and Vice President mimic the autocratic propaganda of imperial Russia, and publicly scorn the Ukrainian people who fight and die in battles so that they can live free of tyranny.
I am certain it’s morally wrong that America’s long-standing federal public servants are being treated as enemies to be persecuted.
I am certain it’s a moral failure for university administrators to treat those who violently seize university property and assault university employees as worthy of negotiation instead of discipline.
Of all this, and much more, I am certain.
But what if I were wrong?
What if I wake up tomorrow and realize everything I believed to be true is false. Where would I turn? I expect to someone I trust. In my case that’s my parents. Perhaps in your case that’s a close friend. Alternatively, though, if I were angry about realizing that everything I believed was wrong, perhaps I’d turn to the people I had not trusted before, the polar opposite opinion holders. Or perhaps, I’d say ‘I need to start with a clean slate, neither pro nor con the people I trusted before,’ and so I’d pick a random resource to be a source of truth.
In all these cases, I’d start by talking to someone and asking them for their opinions about everything. I’d ask them why they believed as they did. I’d keep asking questions until they told me stories, and histories, that led them to their current sense of truth.
I’d keep going. I’d ask other family members or friends or family friends or family enemies or random people what they believed. And why they believed as they did. What stories made them believe as they did. With each new conversation, my new sense of the world would grow fuller. These people would recommend books or movies. I’d absorb those stories and histories and pull from them still more examples that my brain would assimilate into a comprehensive understanding of right and wrong.
I’d feel very confident in this new worldview because it was filled with so many stories.
In short, regardless of my starting point – the same people I already trusted, the enemies of those people, random people – I’d end with a firm viewpoint of right and wrong informed by hundreds or thousands of new examples that I’d pieced together into a unified truth.
I’d be as certain as I am today.
In other words, I’d be right back where I started.
But I refuse to conclude all of us are hopelessly self-confirmatory. Because I am also certain that I must be wrong about some things.
I’ve so often concluded before that I am wrong and changed my opinions. So based on these truths, it’s almost certain I’m going to be wrong again.
So, if I know I must be wrong about some things, then after my failed first go around of resetting everything I’d learned, I would keep digging and I would do three things differently: 1) embrace beauty, 2) reject performative sanctimony, and 3) focus on personal stories
Starting with embrace beauty: I have sometimes been complimented (or gently mocked) that I appear to know something about everything. In truth, like everyone else I know a drop in the ocean of knowledge, but that drop contains many topics that others find interesting. To deal with this compliment (mocking) I have picked a topic I know nothing about: ballet. I deliberately protect my ignorance about ballet just for the sake of this question so that I can answer “I only know a drop in the bucket. For example, ballet, I don’t know anything about it.” But it’s interesting to me that despite my practiced ignorance, I still really like ballet. In fact, the handful of times I’ve seen it, I marvel at it. The grace of the dancers, the synchrony of movements, their strength and balance. The art form brings me intense joy. I don’t know the history, choreography, training regimen, or anything about it. But I know I find it beautiful.
Another example: I couldn’t tell you the first thing about the efforts to make Islam in South Africa more inclusive, but I could tell you that I am inspired by the work of Imam Muhsin Hendricks, of blessed memory, gunned down violently last month. Hendricks suffered and struggled for decades trying to lift people up in the face of oppression and fear. It is a beautiful act when a human being struggles peacefully, nobly, for the dignity of others. As William Faulkner wrote in 1949, we must
“Help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.”
So even though I don’t know anything about ballet or South African Islam, I can see and appreciate immense beauty in them. Most people, myself included, are incredibly ignorant about almost everything. That is not an insult. It’s a fact. It’s ridiculous that anyone be expected to be an expert on every topic under the sun. But we can all experience the beauty of the many topics we know little about.
The second thing I would do is reject performance sanctimony. I redouble my commitment to only write things that I believe to be true and meaningful. I waste no time making statements for the sake of appearing certain way to others. Similarly, I deny, ignore, reject there being any insight or moral worth in those who perform for the sake of others. This means, I exclude from having any insight or moral worth all of the examples from above. I lend no moral credence to leaders who preen for cameras and care about “great television.” I ignore those who cultivate and delight in publicly demonizing public servants. I ignore people who seize buildings and assault others for attention. I give no moral credence to those who refuse to treat publicity-seeking students as morally responsible individuals. In short, I tune out all political performances that take place for the sake of publicity in any medium: television, radio, podcasts, social media, etc.
Movies and plays and novels can cause us to feel certain things that their authors want, too. But there is something unctuous and below moral dignity in manipulating your fellow human about a real-world topic for the sake of your publicity. Even if the cause might be a morally compelling one, real lives deserve honesty and dignity, not performative sanctimony. Such pyrotechnics are a waste of emotional energy.
Third, I would prioritize the depth of people’s personal stories over breadth of learning. I would try to mine everything I could from a single person’s story. I think this applies both to fiction and to non-fiction. Stories have an immense power to educate. Yes, they can mislead, but when an individual’s story is true, the richness of story and example we get about right and wrong will last and shape our minds. It will increase our empathy, flexibility, and ability to accept conflicting truths. As I write about in detail in Pedestal, in 2020, after 526 politically diverse Americans spent one weekend hearing other citizens’ perspectives, people learned to accept that others had different life stories than they did. In one weekend, “The share of participants who said they thought American democracy worked well doubled, to 60 percent.”
One way I have practiced this depth of individual story recently is studying Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679). Years ago, I read some Hobbes (and Calvin), and ever since I’ve respected Hobbesian ideas about the insecurity of the state of nature while I’ve rejected his monarchical solutions. Knowing Hobbes better now, however, I think my old judgments are both correct and missing the point. Understanding Hobbes more deeply now, I see in him similarities to myself : a lover of history and a student and critic of his contemporary society. I see him as a scholar and public servant steeped in insecurity. I see a man seeking insights not from musings about the state of nature or wonderful kings, but from an idea he holds dear: obedience. Religion is obedience. Society is obedience.
Do I agree with Hobbes? No. But knowing him better, my worldview is richer. I am less certain I am right about the wisdom or folly of his ideas. Instead, I understand in depth why someone would put obedience at the core of their worldview, and the wisdom and danger of that.
So: What if I were Wrong about Everything?
Well, honestly, it doesn’t seem so bad.
