When Did We Stop Being Willing to Be Wrong?

Apparently somewhere between Facebook and TikTok, half the country passed the bar exam.

And judging by my newsfeed, some of y’all got your law degrees from Temu.

Congratulations. 😂

I’ve been following the Lindsay Clancy trial, and while the case itself has obviously been difficult to watch, something else has caught my attention too.

Us.

The people watching it.

Everybody has an opinion.

She’s guilty.

She’s not guilty.

She was mentally ill.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

This expert is right.

That expert is full of shit.

And depending on which corner of the internet you happen to wander into, apparently the case has already been solved.

Which is interesting considering the actual jurors—who sat in that courtroom, heard weeks of testimony, listened to competing experts, saw the evidence and were instructed on the actual law—have struggled to agree themselves.

Maybe this isn’t as simple as Facebook would have us believe.

Tell Me Why You Think That

A while back, I wrote a Dear Bawsey called Tell Me Why You Think That.

It came from realizing I'd had essentially the same conversation several times in one week.

Someone would tell me what they believed about something, and instead of immediately telling them whether I agreed, I'd ask:

Why do you think that?

Not sarcastically.

Not as a challenge.

I genuinely wanted to know.

What have you experienced that I haven't?

What have you read?

What do you know that I don't?

How did you get from Point A to this is what I believe?

And I realized something then that I still believe now:

I don't have to agree with you to want to understand you.

But lately I think there's another part of that conversation.

I also have to be willing to hear something that could change my mind.

We've Become Very Attached to Being Right

There's nothing wrong with having an opinion.

Lord knows I have plenty.

And some of mine are strong.

But there's a difference between:

This is what I believe based on what I know right now.

and

I've decided what's true, and nothing you tell me from this point forward is getting through.

That second one isn't really an opinion anymore.

It's a locked door.

And I see more and more locked doors.

We don't listen to understand what someone is saying.

We listen for the part we can argue with.

We look for the sentence that proves they're wrong.

We search for information that supports what we already believe and dismiss the information that doesn't.

Everything becomes emotionally charged.

And once emotion gets attached to an opinion, changing your mind can start to feel like losing.

Mental Health Makes This Even Harder

The Clancy case has put mental health right in the middle of the conversation.

And that's where I've noticed one phrase over and over:

“Well, I would never…”

Of course you wouldn't.

You're imagining yourself, with your brain, your experiences, your circumstances and your state of mind.

That's your only reference point.

But if we're talking about someone whose mental state may have been profoundly different from our own, how useful is “I would never” in understanding what happened?

“I wouldn't do that” isn't evidence.

And saying that doesn't answer whether someone is guilty.

It doesn't determine legal responsibility.

It doesn't excuse anything.

It doesn't even require you to have sympathy.

It simply acknowledges something I think we sometimes forget:

We don't know what it feels like to live inside somebody else's mind.

That's uncomfortable.

We like explanations.

We like things that fit neatly into categories.

Good person.

Bad person.

Victim.

Villain.

Guilty.

Innocent.

Right.

Wrong.

But human beings aren't particularly good at fitting into neat little boxes.

And mental illness sure as hell isn't.

What Would It Take to Change Your Mind?

Maybe this is the question I'm becoming more interested in.

Not:

Can I convince you?

But:

Is there anything you could learn that would make you reconsider what you currently believe?

Because if the answer is no, then what are we doing?

We're not exchanging ideas.

We're not discussing facts.

We're not trying to understand each other.

We're just taking turns defending decisions we've already made.

And I don't think changing your mind should be embarrassing.

Maybe you learned something.

Maybe somebody explained something in a way you'd never considered.

Maybe you heard an experience completely different from your own.

Maybe new information came along.

Hell, maybe you were just wrong.

I've been wrong before.

I'll be wrong again.

So will you.

That's not weakness.

That's being a human being who is hopefully still learning.

Maybe Curiosity Needs a Comeback

I'm not suggesting we stop having opinions.

I'm certainly not giving mine up.

I'm suggesting we leave a little room around them.

Enough room to ask:

Tell me why you think that.

Enough room to actually listen to the answer.

Enough room to say:

I still don't agree with you, but now I understand why you feel that way.

And occasionally, enough room to say:

You know what? I didn't know that. Maybe I need to rethink this.

Because somewhere along the way, we started treating changing our minds like losing an argument.

Maybe it's not.

Maybe sometimes it's proof that we were paying attention.

And if twelve people can sit through weeks of testimony, hear experts on both sides, examine evidence, deliberate for days and still struggle with an answer…

perhaps the rest of us could retire our Temu law degrees long enough to admit:

Some things are complicated.

And maybe understanding them starts with being willing to listen.

Love, Bawsey