Humility Can Bring Us Together

Last Sunday, I had a very unpleasant conversation with an argumentative man over libertarianism. This man, whom I had not met before that day, was informed and intelligent, but was already convinced even before entering the conversation that his opinion was true and that mine was false. Needless to say, he was not genuinely interested in what I thought.

This experience has reconfirmed my belief that if people were to speak like that to each other all the time, almost nobody would change their minds on any important issue. In fact, I am certain that to speak as if your opinion contains the entire truth is one of the surest ways not to convince someone.

If we want as a nation to break down the walls that divide us, it is extremely important to be able to engage civilly with others who disagree with our views. I admit it is not easy—I certainly have not mastered the skill. But it is necessary if we ever want to live in a country where one half of the population does not think the other half is crazy.

So how do we strive toward this goal? I suggest that we start by possessing the virtue of humility—that is, I suggest we not assume that our views contain the entire truth and that our opponents’ views contain none of it. Being humble means that we acknowledge that truth is difficult to be found. It means that when we enter a debate with another person, we ought to see it as a collaborative endeavor to attain truth.

Humility shows the other person that we respect their views, that we acknowledge and struggle with the intricacies of the topic, and that we do not hold ourselves to be better than others. Humility tells the other person, “You know, I don’t have all the answers, but maybe we can find some of them if we work together.” And even if humility is insufficient to convince the other person of our beliefs, what is more important is that it makes them want to empathize with us and spend time with us. Humility can bring us together because virtues are attractive, both to those who are virtuous and those who are not.

There is no doubt that humility is especially important for us at this time. We only need to point to this past year's Presidential election to see that there are multiple segments of the population that are utterly unwilling to engage civilly with one another, resulting in a lack of mutual understanding. The unfortunate result of this is that it becomes more tempting to surround ourselves only with others who already agree with what we believe. Without humility, then, people will remain isolated in their respective bubbles while refusing to acknowledge that other people have valid concerns. I, for one, do not want to live in a country like that.

Perhaps being humble is insufficient; perhaps there will always be stark disagreements. Even so, I refuse to believe that we cannot make any progress on this issue. I have faith that we can be more united than we are now, and I believe that the way to accomplish this begins with improving our own characters.

What is the Point of Being an Average Philosopher?

Many of us hold up influential people as exemplars of human excellence. We look to the scientist, the doctor, the activist, and think to ourselves, “Now that person is doing something with her life!” Such acknowledgments of greatness are almost immediately followed by the depressing thought of the mediocrity of our own lives, which raises the question about the value of being average.

I just finished reading A Mathematician’s Apology, a book written by G. H. Hardy about the intrinsic worth of what he calls pure mathematics. In essence, he thinks pure mathematics is valuable because it is a kind of knowledge, and because it can be beautiful. More importantly, he draws on the value of knowledge to defend the value of his life. Hardy (1967) says,

The case for my life, then, or for that of any one else who has been a mathematician in the same sense which I have been one, is this: that I have added something to knowledge, and helped others to add more; and that these somethings have a value which differs in degree only, and not in kind, from that of the creations of the great mathematicians, or of any of the other artists, great or small, who have left some kind of memorial behind them. (p. 151) 

This sounds like a good answer to me, given that he was an excellent mathematician. But what does this mean for a person who is only average at what he does? What does this say about the value of my life as a philosopher? Though I have published and probably will publish again, I question how much this contribution is worth. How valuable is it to write a paper that only five people will read? In contrast to Hardy, I will not be known after I die. I will not leave behind a legacy.

Exploring the pointlessness of our lives is an emotionally difficult endeavor, because it reminds us not only of our mortality but also of our limited capacities. The fact is that not everyone can be excellent at what they do, no matter how hard they try. I am an average philosopher not because I do not desire to be great, but because I am simply not smart enough. This is unfortunate, but true, and I have accepted it for a long time.

Luckily, there is another aspect of a being professional philosopher where I can make a larger difference, and that is teaching. Even according to conservative estimates, I will teach around 5,500 students in my lifetime. To be clear, I do not claim that I will change the lives of every student under my instruction, but I hope to have some positive effect on at least 1/3 of them.

If I were to make a case for my life, then, it would be that I will help thousands of students throughout my career think in a more rigorous and intellectually-honest way, about fundamental questions of moral and political significance.


Hardy, G. H. (1967). A Mathematician’s Apology. London: Cambridge University Press.

My 31st Birthday

I think the most important thing that has happened in the past year has been my change of attitude toward publishing. Before turning 30, I saw it both as a test of my abilities and as an end in itself. Two factors are responsible for changing my attitude. The first was getting a couple of revise and resubmits—once that happened, I was convinced I had the ability to publish. And the second was the deeper acceptance that no one is going to read what I write. Accordingly, I now treat publishing only as a means to succeed professionally.

With that in mind, I should mention that I was recently notified that one of my papers was accepted for publication. More importantly, perhaps, is that though I’m happy about it, I’m not ecstatic. I take this as evidence of my attitude truly changing.

Another event that is worth mentioning is that I spent 10 days over the summer in Mexico with my family. We rented a house in Sayulita, which is a small village about 45 minutes away from Puerto Vallarta. Overall, the trip was just okay. I didn’t like the humidity and the mosquitoes, but I did like spending time with my family.

What this trip taught me is that I tend to complain too much any time I’m slightly uncomfortable. It’s to the point where I get annoyed at myself. I’ve also noticed that I complain even more when I spend time with my parents, and I think it’s because they do things differently than I do in such a way that inconveniences me. For example, my mom always brings a lot of stuff when she travels, which means that I always have to help her. When we went to Mexico, she brought an entire suitcase of food. And I knew before we left for the trip that I had to carry it.

My sister Angeline is really good at pointing out when I complain too much. She immediately attributes it to the fact that I was spoiled as a child. And I think she’s right. I never had to endure any hardships. I never had to help around the house, for example, because my grandma and my great grandma did everything.

Speaking of my grandma, the two-year anniversary of her death is coming up. I honestly still can’t believe she’s gone. It’s crazy to think that when she died, she took a generation with her. I grew up in a house with a family of 4 generations. My great grandma was born in 1905 and died in 2006. So 10 years ago my family was reduced to 3 generations, and 2 years ago it was reduced to 2. When Angeline had Bodhi, my family was once again 3 generations.

Thinking about my grandma makes me think about death and how I don’t want to die. I can’t articulate it well, but the idea of nothingness just scares me. I tell my religious friends that I wish God exists, because then there would be an afterlife. But I just don’t think the arguments for God’s existence are good enough. I know that some atheists aren’t bothered by death because they think it’ll be exactly how it was before they were born, but that thought doesn’t comfort me. I think I don’t want to die because I want to continue experiencing the goods things in life. I want to be able to laugh, hang out with my friends, eat a good meal, be in love, and, of course, do philosophy. And thinking about death in terms of pre-birth still means that I won’t experience those good things.