Author’s note

This piece draws in part from personal experiences commenting on public articles, and reflects my broader commitment to building a civic culture rooted in reason, humility, and hope.

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“I never considered a difference of opinion in politics, in religion, in philosophy, as cause for withdrawing from a friend.”
— Thomas Jefferson to William Hamilton, 1800

I. Introduction:

It begins with a comment. A few lines beneath a news article—perhaps on Fox News, CNN, or a political think tank’s Facebook page. You type carefully, hoping to clarify, to add nuance. Maybe you are, like I was, offering a perspective grounded in history and civic values. You press “Post.”

And then comes the reply:

“You’re delusional.”
“Another leftist troll.”
“You defend this? You’re the problem.”

Sometimes it’s more civil, but still dismissive. Sometimes it comes from the very people who, nominally, share your views. And that’s the disheartening part: not the disagreement, but the speed with which discourse collapses into performance.

In that moment, the public square becomes a stage. The conversation ends before it ever really begins.

II. The Structure of Non-Dialogue

Social media has given millions a voice. But it has also incentivized speed over substance, outrage over argument. What might once have been a letter to the editor, a forum conversation, or a coffeehouse debate is now distilled into 280 characters or a Facebook reply thread that will be buried beneath a hundred more by day’s end.

That speed breeds two consequences. First, it encourages absolutism: the louder and more certain you sound, the more you’re rewarded with likes and shares. Second, it creates factions, not discussions. You’re either “on the right side” or “part of the problem.” There is little room for doubt, nuance, or synthesis.

This is not a new insight. But what’s often missed in critiques of online polarization is how even those not affiliated with the populist right fall into the same traps.

Progressives, centrists, and left-leaning critics—those who often pride themselves on openness and tolerance—can also wield moral certitude as a bludgeon. They may do it with better intentions, but the effect is often the same: alienation, not persuasion.

III. When Good Faith Meets the Algorithm

During a recent exchange on a Fox News post about Medicaid work requirements, I offered what I believed was a moderate and principled position: that balancing a budget is not, in itself, unjust—but how it’s done reveals a nation’s moral priorities.

The response?

I was swiftly labeled a “leftist,” accused of hating America, or told to stay out of American affairs altogether—after all, I’m European. Some dismissed my comments as “elitist nonsense,” ignoring the fact that I was engaging with empathy, historical perspective, and a genuine concern for democratic principles. The irony, of course, is that my argument wasn’t an attack—it was an invitation to reflect on how fiscal decisions reveal a nation’s moral compass.

These replies came mostly from self-identified Trump supporters—but the deeper issue wasn’t just partisan difference. It was the inability—or unwillingness—to engage with ideas on their own terms. I wasn’t being debated; I was being categorized.

I wasn’t even attacking their worldview outright. I was pointing out that fiscal choices are moral choices—and that policy should reflect both prudence and compassion. But nuance doesn’t travel well through an algorithm.

IV. A Culture Addicted to Crystallization

The philosopher Isaiah Berlin once warned of “crystallization”—the moment when ideas become rigid, immune to change, unable to evolve. Social media encourages this. It rewards those who find a rhetorical identity and defend it at all costs.

That is true on the Trumpian right, where loyalty to the man has superseded traditional conservatism. But it is also true on the left, where dissent from the dominant progressive line—even in tone—is often met with suspicion or disdain.

The result is that the form of argument survives, but its function dies. We don’t engage to learn or build common ground. We engage to posture, to prove we are right—or worse, to prove that others are not only wrong, but dangerous.

Even satire, that once-powerful tool of democratic critique, becomes weaponized: memes take the place of arguments, and sarcasm takes the place of thought.

V. Jefferson’s Warning, and Baldwin’s Fire

Jefferson reminded us that disagreement is not disunion. He understood that a democracy without dissent is no democracy at all.

But so did James Baldwin, who reminded white America—especially the liberal North—that real critique involves discomfort. “I love America more than any other country in the world,” Baldwin wrote, “and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”

This is the delicate balance we must rediscover: to hold our convictions firmly, but not cruelly. To correct falsehood, but not to dehumanize. To push for justice, but not to become zealots of certainty.

VI. A Civic Ethic for the Digital Age

If we care about democracy—and not just as an ideal, but as a lived practice—then we must care about how we disagree. That begins with a few basic but profound commitments:

• Respond, don’t react. A pause is more powerful than a retort.
• Listen for the values behind the argument. Even flawed reasoning often stems from sincere fears or hopes.
• Refuse caricature. Not every Trump supporter is an extremist. Not every progressive is a Marxist.
• Reject applause as your metric. Saying the thing that wins you claps online might cost you the chance to change someone’s mind.
• Elevate tone and structure. Make arguments people want to hear—not because you’re “nice,” but because you’re serious.

This does not mean watering down your beliefs. It means choosing to argue well. It means honoring your values by communicating them with clarity, not contempt.

VII. Conclusion: Toward a New Civility

Civility is not weakness. It is the precondition of real strength—because it is what allows ideas to meet, to test one another, and sometimes even to converge.

We cannot rebuild trust in democracy if we allow our digital forums to become digital coliseums. We need new rules of engagement. Not codes of silence, but habits of respect.

Let me be clear: not all views are equal, and not all arguments are made in good faith. But unless we learn to recognize the difference between disagreement and danger, we will lose the very fabric of democratic life.

So the next time you find yourself about to type that retort, ask: Am I building something? Or am I just throwing a stone?

Democracy doesn’t need more shouting. It needs more listening—and more courage to speak differently, even when it’s unpopular.

Welcome to the conversation.