There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there always has been. The strain on anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that “my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.

–Isaac Asimov                                                                                                                            

Tom Nichols uses these words from Isaac Asimov, American writer and professor of biochemistry, to open the first chapter of his book, The Death of Expertise: The Campaign against Established Knowledge and Why It Matters (Oxford University Press, 2017). A cult of ignorance in our nation? A common credo that my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge? Ouch. Harsh words, indeed. But they are words which echo Nichols’ fear that “the death of expertise actually threatens to reverse the gains of years of knowledge among people who now assume they know more than they actually do.” This reversal, Nichols argues, “is a threat to the material and civic well-being of citizens in a democracy.”

Ignorance may be a constant thread that has woven its way through our lives, but Nichols argues that there is a new sort of Declaration of Independence, one that would likely make the Founding Fathers weep:

no longer do we hold these truths to be self-evident, we hold all truths to be self-evident, even the ones that aren’t true. All things are knowable and every opinion on any subject is as good as any other.

In my first year of college teaching, I recall a class period during which I was giving instructions regarding an upcoming essay assignment. As I finished, a hand in the back shot up. I called on the young man who asked about how this essay would be graded because, he explained, everyone’s opinion and interpretation is uniquely theirs and just as good as anyone else’s, so everyone should get an A, right? At that point in my career, I was young and naive enough that I failed to see that he wasn’t joking. I probably chuckled. In fact, I may have guffawed. Until I realized that he was quite serious, and there were 24 sets of expectant eyes upon me. Inquiring minds really did want to know. So, I launched into my best explanation of why all opinions are not equal. My students looked at me through narrowed eyes and pinched lips. Clearly, I wasn’t preaching to the choir.

That was 40 years and a lifetime ago. This same argument–that all opinions are equal–has metastasized into something much larger and more dangerious than a grade on a college composition. For Nichols argues that “[w]hen students become valued clients instead of learners, they gain a great deal of self-esteem, but precious little knowledge,” and as a result, they fail to develop “the habits of critical thinking that would allow them to continue to learn and to evaluate the kinds of complex issues on which they will have to deliberate and vote as citizens.”

I’ve seen this firsthand in my own schools and classrooms, and I’m witnessing this on a larger scale through the eyes of friends, former colleagues, and family members who are growing weary of keeping up the good fight. In fact, recently I’ve read five articles from reputable journals in which their authors report on the demise of English majors (and other humanities majors) across the nation. The reason? These majors aren’t practical, their critics contend. After all, what do you do with an English major besides teach? What’s the cost/benefit ratio for investing in such majors? Isn’t it time for universities to replace these majors with other more vocational ones, ones that offer graduates a better chance of securing gainful employment? Those experts defending the humanities’ majors argue that these courses, in particular, have historically helped prepare students to become better humans, better citizens, better thinkers, better voters. And those who teach English, then, have born–and continue to bear–a great and necessary responsibility for developing these types of citizens. But as teachers and experts in the humanities, Nichols laments, we resent them and believe they must be wrong simply because they’re experts, members of an exclusive elite and educated group. Who are they to insist that the humanities are invaluable to a democratic society? What makes their research and insight so special? You should read what a guy I read on the Internet said about how worthless the humanities are . . .

In the past year, I’ve seen a kind of willful ignorance dominate a whole host of meetings and gatherings. Much of it comes from an inability and/or an unwillingness to listen closely enough to even entertain what someone else is saying. This is often confirmation bias at its best–or worst. That is, people come with their minds made up on any given issue or policy, and if they listen to others, it’s only to those who confirm what they already believe. Sadly, this reminds me of what children often do when they don’t want to hear something: they stick their fingers in their ears and repeat–loudly–I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you. I’ve witnessed people roll their eyes, talk over and shout down others, fiddle on their phones when others talk, and even grab their coats and storm out. It matters little what issue or what forum it is in which it’s being discussed (I use this word generously because there’s not often any genuine discussion). I spent my professional life trying to convict students that they have a moral and ethical responsibility to listen with open ears, even, and especially to, their opponents. So much for adults who model this responsibility. Tragically, the joke is on those of us who continue to believe that there is much to be gained from careful, respectful listening to those who just might know more than we do.

Nichols addresses this kind of willful ignorance in his book. He writes about the blind spot that people may have when it comes to their own abilities and inabilities:

And some of us, as indelicate as it might be to say it, are not intelligent enough to know when we’re wrong, no matter how good our intentions. Just as we are not all equally able to carry a tune or draw a straight line, many people simply cannot recognize the gaps in their own knowledge or understand their own inability to construct a logical argument.

How can I really understand the gaps in my own knowledge and the flaws in my own logic if I’m unwilling to admit that there are others–experts in their fields even–who have studied something and, as a result of their study, know more than I do? In short, I can’t. And herein lies the problem which is ultimately one of misplaced pride. Nichols goes so far as to call it narcissism. He argues that “there is a self-righteousness and fury to this new rejection of expertise.” We’ve all seen this play out nationally on political, cultural, educational, and social stages. There are those who not only dismiss expertise; they mock it, shout it down, and mercilessly shame it. Fury is not too strong a word to describe this kind of rejection. Wimp that I am, I confess that I’ve often had to turn off the television or turn away from the Internet because, even in the comfort of my own home, I cower under the weight of such fury.

In 1835, French observer, Alexis de Tocqueville commented on the nature of the American mind by contending that each American appeals only to the individual effort of his own understanding.  To elaborate on this statement, Nichols states that Tocqueville speculated that this distrust of expertise and intellectual authority was founded “in the nature of American democracy.” Nichols also cites political scientist Richard Hoftstadter who confirms this particular kind of American individualism:

In the original American populist dream, the omnicompetence of the common man was fundamental and indispensable. It was believed that he could, without much special preparation, pursue the professions and run the government.

Hofstadter wrote this in 1963. I suspect he might say that that this populist dream has grown too big for its britches, that given the nature and complexity of the issues we face today, we must prepare ourselves extremely well if we are to succeed in our professions and government. Of course, this doesn’t mean that everyone must be an expert on everything. Even if we wanted to and were willing to devote hours to study, we couldn’t realistically develop expertise on more than a few things. We can, however, be willing and wise enough to defer to those who are experts and to carefully weigh differing expert accounts before drawing conclusions. We can and must know our own limitations and accept the responsibility for continued learning. We must do much more than confirm our biases, satistfying as this may be. And, difficult as it may be, we must admit that we face a staggering rise of willful ignorance that threatens our democracy.

My ignorance is not just as good as your knowledge. Asimov accurately identifies this as a false notion that has produced a cult of ignorance. We live in precarious times in which all sorts of groups are vying for power and dominance, claiming that they know best and, as such, should make decisions and policies. We live in a democracy, which guarantees that all of these groups must have a voice. I continue to pray, however, that these voices will be cultivated with expert and sufficient knowledge, sound reason, and respect. At the very least, I pray that we’ll collectively remove our fingers from our ears and take heed: the children are watching.