Weeks ago, facing public backlash and plummeting stocks, Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey released a statement after having banned his most controversial user: @realDonaldTrump. In a series of segmented tweets, Dorsey claimed that while his decision was a step back for free speech, it was a public safety necessity.
This has been a central debating point in light of the Capital Hill riots—and an important one at that: how can online social media promote the exchange of ideas without becoming a channel for lies and insurrections?
What caught my attention, however, was not Dorsey’s rationale for banning Trump, but rather his glossy conclusion:
“Our goal in this moment is to disarm as much as we can, and ensure we are all building towards a greater common understanding, and a more peaceful existence on earth. I believe the internet and global public conversation is our best and most relevant method of achieving this.”
This calls to mind George Orwell, a champion of clear writing, who once said that “when there is a gap between one’s real and one’s declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink.”
What exactly is Dorsey getting at when he spurts out “global conversation” and “common understanding”?
Any conversation, global or otherwise, involves communicating and listening. And the only way it achieves a “common understanding” is when we all remember to listen.
This is why Dorsey’s concluding remarks stand out: He’s asking everyone to believe that online social media has made us better listeners. . . .
. . . Perhaps the most pressing question is not which groups or content to exclude from social media’s debate stage, but whether the social media is the right stage for our debate.
To some, it seemed great in theory: wouldn’t exposure to the rich variety of opposing views make us more enlightened and openminded?
The research says, “NO.” In a 2018 Duke University study, for instance, sociology Professor Christopher Bail observed that Democrats and Republicans seemed more entrenched in their respective attitudes after following fake Twitter profiles with adverse political leanings.
This should not surprise many of us. Most political postings from the other side seem preachy and annoying, and the atmosphere explains why: social media users speak to an audience, not one another; perspectives are graded by the like/retweet meters; and the comments section reminds users that any viewers can pick apart their arguments publicly.
The temptation for praise and fear of humiliation drives the politically minded to articulate their views in the abstract, making them non-disprovable.
This was on full display on my newsfeed during the pandemic lockdown. Those defending the government restrictions implored others to “follow the science,” without explaining what to do when the scientific community produces countless studies with differing conclusions. Restriction opponents lectured about “freedom and liberty” without explaining what should happen when the unchecked freedom of some jeopardizes the safety of others.
As sermons with no substance, these arguments bred hostility: restriction defenders came across as authoritarian, and restriction opponents came across as selfish.
The newsfeed format escalates this hostility. Both companies use this endless-stream concept to keep users “connected” and “updated” . . . like watering plants with a fire hose on full blast.
The volume of incoming rhetoric is matched by its toxicity: emotive posts and tweets go viral faster than measured ones, and the share/retweet feature enables politicians, celebrities, and other influencers to claim disproportionate amounts of space on our feeds.
What results is not a community discussion, but a bunch of rage-powered bandwagons racing down Pop Ethics Boulevard. When riots or police shootings hit the news, for example, hardly anyone can objectively process the facts without getting smothered by if-you-don’t-condemn ultimatums and “whataboutist” deflections. This noise drowns out the nuanced questions we’re supposed to be answering—the ones that yield real solutions.
By the time emotions have simmered down enough for a real discussion to begin, Dorsey and Zuckerberg’s algorithms have already directed our attention to the next story.
While social media is not the sole cause of society’s strife, Dorsey is out of his mind to say it’s the solution. As we watched big tech play an unprecedented role in the last election, Pew research crews learned that “just 2% of Biden voters, and an equally small share of Trump voters” believed that those who voted for the other candidate understood them “very well.” So much for that “greater common understanding.”
Many sincerely want to restore civility in the online world, yet social media’s luxury won’t allow it. The unpleasantness we feel when we disrespect someone to their face is what motivates us to talk respectfully. The humiliation of losing a debate is what drives us to research carefully. Twitter and Facebook are addictively comforting because they inoculate us from these healthy consequences, leaving our anger unchecked and our intellect unchallenged.
It seems our only remaining option is political discussions outside social media.
Admittedly, this is a daunting suggestion. The “global audience” atmosphere on Facebook and Twitter makes millions of Americans feel like real advocates, as if their voices are being heard by the masses. Leaving this behind, on the other hand, would make them feel lonely and inconsequential.
The dilemma reminds me of a scene from Christopher Nolan’s Batman film, The Dark Knight Rises:
Bruce Wayne is stuck in a notorious underground prison (known as the Pit) that sits many stories beneath the earth’s surface. To escape, Bruce must reach a platform just below the mouth of the Pit by jumping several yards from a lower step. Since a missed jump would be fatal, Bruce ties a rope to his waist and attempts the leap several times. But what helps him finally reach the ledge is some unusual advice from a cell mate: jump without the rope.
The rope kept Bruce alive during each failed attempt so he could try again . . . and that was the problem: each attempt failed because his fear of death—the most powerful motivational instinct—is what he needed to succeed.
Suppose we faced the loneliness after ditching our social media safety nets, and how that would drive us into real conversations debates—where we not only talk, but also listen.
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