I've noticed that Facebook's ever-changing and all-knowing algorithms have gradually phased out the opinions of those who don't agree with me.
The newsfeed filters are undoubtedly designed to give me a more "enjoyable" user experience, but watching the digital echo chamber intensify over the past week has inspired some less than enjoyable revelations.
The same technology that promised to connect us to a diverse global community has instead helped us create insular, closed-circuit environments where we yell our opinions into a like-minded vacuum. While I'd like to think I'm an advocate for the diversity of thought, I’ve unwittingly slipped into a bubble where I’m never forced to engage with (or seriously consider) alternate viewpoints.
I spent four years in university courses with liberal professors, where we had polite liberal discussions and then went home to read our liberal books, just to come back the next day and pat each other on the back for presenting our polished liberal ideas. It went without saying that “the others,” loosely defined as those who cling to religion or guns or nostalgia for the good ol’ days, were utterly outside the realm of the collective collegiate reason.
Outside the classroom was no different. Throughout the course of the entire 2016 presidential election cycle, I’ve only had two genuine, in-person conversations with individuals who have foundationally different viewpoints from my own. My other attempts to have those tough conversations were either 1) in homogeneous circles where we would nod at each other’s comments like bobble-heads on a taxi dashboard or 2) circles so fragmented that as soon as the uncomfortable fog of disagreement would roll in, someone would say “let’s not go there” and quickly order another round of beers.
Living in Germany, I was able to see the results of the election unfold in a more detached, curious way.
It helped me realize that I only really understand the parts of America that I like, the parts that fit in my box of “the way things should be,” the parts that don’t upset the philosophical and theological principles that form my political beliefs. The rest, I struggle to relate to and thereby, feel afraid of. And I know I'm not the only one.
As it turns out, it is near impossible to understand how “the other side” feels when you're deeply rooted in the assumption that you are unequivocally right. The shame and denial that bubbled up when I heard the news of a Donald Trump presidency has urged me to explore the notion that the open-mindedness I have long prided myself on may resemble a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I'm working on changing that. And I hope those at home are too.
When people from other countries ask me, the token American, about the political situation in the U.S., I’m learning to peel off the lens of my own beliefs and share a broader story.
A story where my irrevocably biased version of right isn't the unsung solution, but rather a part of the problem. A story of groups of people wanting the best for their country, but struggling to find the common path forward amidst clashing beliefs. A story of flawed systems run by flawed people.
A story where “to err is human,” but to refuse to believe you err is American.
Recommended Follow Up:
Article:
"What So Many People Don’t Get About the U.S. Working Class" by Joan C. Williams
Book:
“Being Wrong: Adventures in the Margin of Error” by Kathryn Schulz
Podcast:
"The Sun Comes Up" by This American Life