The downside to shouting other people down

On April 8, 1991, when I was a sophomore at Brown University, Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia came to campus to speak. Conservatives allegedly existed at Brown, but the school was as true to its left-leaning reputation then as it is now. This was where Amy Carter, the daughter of the former president, got in trouble for protesting apartheid, where a longhaired John F Kennedy Jr was also an anti-apartheid activist.

We were right about everything. We knew our enemy, and we hated him. Students regularly protested in favour of abortion access and need-blind admissions.

That April evening of Judge Scalia’s talk, I lined up with my anti-Helms T-shirt on. I barely made it into a back row of the packed auditorium. Once Judge Scalia finished and we the righteous had a chance to speak truth to the evil one, we would rip apart his so-called originalism, his hypocrisies, his imperiousness.

And then he wiped the floor with us. In answer to our indignant questions, he calmly cited rebutting cases. We fulminated, and he reasoned, and when we seethed, he lobbed back with charm. Within the hermetic bubble of my liberal upbringing and education, it had never occurred to me that even when finally presented with The Truth, someone from the other side could prevail. I’d been certain we would humiliate him. Instead, I left humbled.

Many valid points have been made about US Appeals Court Judge Kyle Duncan’s speaking engagement earlier this month at Stanford Law School, which was repeatedly interrupted by protesters. Advocates of free speech decried the hecklers’ refusal to let Judge Duncan deliver his remarks. Defenders of the students justified their own right to speak. Judge Duncan and others lamented the tenor of the protests and the response from an administrator who failed to quell the vitriol and asked: “Is the juice worth the squeeze?”

The admin was asking: Is it worth letting someone speak if some students consider that person’s views objectionable, even abhorrent? But another question to ask is: What gets lost if we don’t let that person speak?

For one thing, the Federalist Society members who invited Judge Duncan, a Donald Trump appointee, missed hearing from a like-minded judge. Judge Duncan, who said he speaks at law schools in part so he can hear from students, lost out as well. But the protesters themselves suffered the greatest loss.

It isn’t enough to challenge someone unless you’re willing to be challenged back.

Scalia’s answers may not have made us feel especially good, emotionally or intellectually. They did, however, teach us the value of listening and motivate us to be smarter. No matter how charismatic Scalia had been, I still didn’t think him a force for good, which made it easier for me to devalue his arguments. But with time, I realised most people don’t divide neatly into heroes and villains. What happens if you assume your political opponent isn’t evil — if you even know that he’s not?

As some readers of The New York Times may be aware, nearly 25 years ago, I was briefly married to another columnist here, Bret Stephens. When my friends and family members had learned I was dating a conservative — let alone thinking of marrying one — they were stunned. How could an intensely partisan Democrat like me marry someone who described himself — proudly! — as “very conservative”? (“But he’s pro-choice and believes in gay marriage,” I assured them.)

Not surprisingly, Bret and I argued about politics intensely and often. At one point during the Clinton controversies of the 1990s, I remember screaming at him on a Soho sidewalk, my face mottled with tears. How could someone I knew to be a good person possibly believe what he was saying, and why, dammit, must he make his points so cogently? After our divorce and back in my liberal province, I actually missed those intellectual battles. What better way to keep an open and sharp mind? Without someone “in house” to spar with, I found myself seeking political debate elsewhere.

When you don’t know someone personally, it’s easier to assume the worst about him. And if you assume your opponent is immoral, you don’t have to listen to him; he’s not worthy of charitable interpretation. But if you assume your political opponent is operating in good faith — even if the person isn’t a friend or significant other — you’ll be inclined to hear him out.

We know universities can do a better job of preventing one form of speech from inhibiting another. The harder task, but perhaps the more important lesson, will be teaching students not to want to do so. They shouldn’t avoid opportunities to hear other perspectives but should actively seek them out and reckon with the humbling fact that what they already know — or think they already know — may not be all there is to know. Isn’t that, after all, precisely what learning is about?