Understanding the World: Epistemic Considerations or Don't Believe Everything You Think
Should I Give Up Trying to Convince Others That I'm Right—Maybe Just for Lent?
Note: Maybe not such a frivolous topic as it appears. I think it says a whole lot about how we deal with the world, or at least how we deal with pretending we know anything. I have to admit, ChatGPT is funnier than me. Dammit!
I've often tried to convince other people that I'm right and they are wrong—usually with about the same success rate as herding cats, if the cats were also armed and were vindictive. On rare occasions, someone will grudgingly admit I was right, but by then I'm too old to celebrate or even remember what the argument was about. At this point, I'm starting to think that trying to convince others is like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube: theoretically possible, but only if you're a masochist with a lot of free time.
First of all, it doesn't work. At all. Secondly I’m not exactly standing on the summit of Mt. Epistemology, looking down at everyone else's confusion. I have no monopoly on truth, and frankly, my rent is past due in the land of certainty. Why should I be trying to convince people of my views when those views could be as wrong as a karaoke version of "Bohemian Rhapsody"? And let’s not forget, others are just as misguided. In fact, that’s a comforting thought: no one really knows what’s going on.
I think I’ve mentioned before: life’s a crapshoot, and unfortunately, I’m not great at craps.
Now, I like to think I'm fairly well-read. I’ve cracked open a book or two. I even made it through Moby Dick, though full disclosure, it took three decades and a lot of snack breaks. Sure, I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer—maybe more like one of those awkward plastic sporks—but who said being the sharpest meant you were right? I can tell you one thing: knowing the capital of Burkina Faso doesn't help in a heated debate over pineapple on pizza.
So, we all form opinions. It’s like breathing, only more exhausting. Maybe I’m right. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, but I’m just not evolved enough to appreciate it. And those people I argue with? They might be right too, in some alternate universe where logic doesn't apply. The truth is, assuming I have the answers to life's big questions is the kind of hubris reserved for toddlers and tech bros. And yet, we cling to our beliefs like a dog to a chew toy, getting more and more emotionally attached. Sometimes it feels like we’re not debating ideas; we’re defending our self-worth, as if winning an argument will earn us some extra lives in this game called life.
But then there are those moments when you have to say something. Maybe someone’s promoting injustice, or worse, they’re loudly claiming that "The Star Wars prequels are cinematic masterpieces." In these instances, it's not just that you think they're wrong—no, no—you feel compelled to stand up, shake the moral compass, and say, “Listen, buddy, I’m doing this for humanity.” So, we act. We push forward with our truth (or at least the truth we’ve got on sale this week). It’s all we can do—other than drink heavily, but that's not sustainable. Or so I’ve heard.
Of course, some people get their truths from, let’s say, unconventional sources—like mysterious voices in their heads. Lucky them. My inner voice doesn’t offer such sage guidance. Nope, mine just says, “Hey, there’s chocolate cake in the fridge. You know what to do.” I’m starting to question whether this voice really has my best interests at heart. A lot of things could be clearer.