The Travails of Alice the Charitable

Or, The Strawman Fallacy Considered As an Adaptive Response to Baileys and Mottes

I.

Alice was a police officer.

She liked her job, took pride in her work, and made an effort to wield her power with care.

Whenever Alice suspected some criminal, she would take a moment to consider their perspective—what their motive might be, or their plan—and found this helped her both catch more people and testify more convincingly against them in court.

But by the summer of 2020, Alice felt burnt out. Tired of the regular crowd-control work, she asked for a short leave—given her exceptional clearance rate, it was granted.

For a few days, Alice sat at home watching TV, but she quickly got bored, and the next weekend she was back at the protests, now in civilian clothes. She saw a line of darkly-clad and heavily-armed police, and felt scared. She saw families with children protesting peacefully, and sympathized with them.

Walking around the protest, Alice ran into her neighbor Bob. He was holding a sign reading “DEFUND THE POLICE.”

“Oh!” Alice said. “Hi Bob—noticed your sign; you don’t really mean defund defund, do you? I mean, you can’t possibly think that’s a good idea! What was it, a month ago, that I stopped that thief trying to make off with all your wife’s valuables? What would you have done had I been defunded!”

“Come on Alice, be serious,” said Bob. “That’s really a very nasty caricature of my beliefs! I’m simply saying that police brutality is a real problem, and there needs to be some kind of reform that punishes the worst actors.”

“Ah, sorry.” Alice felt a bit foolish. “I guess I just got a little riled-up by all the media coverage, and sort of strawmanned your view. You guys seem like good and reasonable people, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“That’s alright,” said Bob. “Just, you know, try to be a bit less reactive and emotional… it’s not a good color on you.”

Alice’s face went red; she excused herself and left the protest. On Monday, she was back at work, where she asked to be reassigned to a desk job.

In Alice’s city, the protests mostly remained peaceful, and the “DEFUND” crew remained popular with the wealthy liberal majority. So, that Fall, Bob was elected to the city council, along with a slate of BLM-aligned candidates.

There, he sponsored a bill to broadly cut police funding; it passed comfortably, and Alice was laid off.

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II.

Out of work, and feeling a bit blindsided, Alice decided to go back to school. She still liked serving the public, remembered how much she liked taking history classes in college, and decided she would become a history teacher.

Buoyed by a healthy severance package, Alice figured she could afford to earn a master’s degree before seeking certification, and she enrolled at a prestigious program at a university nearby.

Browsing the course catalog, Alice became interested in one called “HIST 641: Criminal Childhoods in the 20th-Century Continental US.”

But the class’ description rubbed her the wrong way. It read:

A critical analysis of the myriad “infrastructures” and pedagogies which have oppressed and Othered minority voices, Bodies, and lived experiences. Readings in Foucault, Bell, and Kendi inform the liberatory process by which we might dismantle and eventually invert the School-to-Prison Pipeline, primarily through engagement in truly resistant education, by the provision of Mutual Aid, and by fostering strategies of communal interdependence. Fuck neoliberalism.

Concerned, Alice sent an email to the instructor, Professor Chareth Cutestory, asking if they might meet to discuss the course content in greater detail. Professor Cutestory agreed, and a week before the enrollment deadline, Alice walked nervously into his office.

“Please, sit,” boomed Cutestory.

“Ah, um, thanks,” Alice stuttered out. “So, yeah, I wanted to talk about the History 641 class. It seemed kind of interesting, and I used to be a cop, and now I want to be a teacher, and so I really think it’d be a good class for me to take, but I’m just a little worried that the description might be too crazy kookoo bananapants.”

“I see,” mused the professor. “What about it concerned you, in particular? Here’s the syllabus from last year, if that’s any help.”

He reached into a desk drawer and handed it to her.

“Well, uh,” Alice said, scanning the syllabus as she spoke. “I mean, the ‘fuck neoliberalism’—” she paused, worried that the swear might offend the old man, but he simply looked at her, waiting for the end of the sentence—“um, that bit was kind of concerning… though I guess it doesn’t seem like it really comes up at all on the syllabus?”

“That’s correct,” Cutestory nodded. “It’s really just a hook for advisors; we have our own little language-games, you’ve got to play or you lose out, right?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess, ok.” Alice said. “Still, I mean, just, like, why use all the weird capitalizations and scare quotes? Why frame the class as so purely critical and resistant? These readings seem—” flipping the paper over—“pretty normal, I guess. Bell and Foucault and Kendi certainly don’t like systems, but I assume we’ll be having plenty of debates and everything in class, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Hm. I mean, I just worry that, and sorry, your judgment… might be… compromised? Like, it’s really no mystery to me what you believe!”

Cutestory frowned. “Don’t you think that’s a bit uncharitable? I’m a professor; I’ve been doing this for a while! I understand you might’ve been a bit frightened by the language I used, but it’s simply standard practice around here. To read into it too heavily would be a grave mistake.”

Alice felt a bit embarrassed, and nodded. “Ok,” she said. “You’re right, sorry.”

She got up to leave, and registered for the history class on her way out.

In discussions, Alice’s classmates sounded just like the course description—she could practically hear the capitalizations and scare quotes. Once or twice, she raised her hand, but mostly felt like speaking her mind might cause a scene, so kept her comments short and inoffensive.

For her term paper, Alice wrote a careful defense of school resource officers—police personnel stationed in schools. Writing from her own experience, citing conservative theorists, and referencing some of the research showing that SROs make schools safer, Alice thought her paper was an effective and persuasive take on the course’s content.

Professor Cutestory flunked her for it, and Alice was denied a degree.

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III.

In need of a job, Alice began to work as an executive assistant for powerful financier Dennis Dean.

Dean would brag often to her about his sexual conquests, making Alice uncomfortable. She thought about asking him to stop, and often tried to signal that she wasn’t interested in his stories, but decided that the risk of losing her job was too great, and mostly stayed quiet.

Eventually, Dean told Alice she would have to accompany him on some company-retreat-fishing-trip; it would be just the two of them.

Alice finally snapped. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “You’ve told me all these stories, you’re always talking about some kind of ‘implication’, I’m just not sure I’d feel safe on a boat alone with you.”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” said Dean, apparently quite taken aback. “You think I’m angling for sex stuff? How can you say that! Look, you’ve been working here for a couple months, I think you could really go places, but it’s important we get on the same page, so your performance will be the best it can be. That’s all!”

“Ah,” said Alice. “I mean, that makes sense, but I’m still not totally convinced… Couldn’t we bring more of the staff along, or something? Just, you know, the optics on this are not so reassuring.”

“Honestly, Alice, I’m offended. It’ll only be the two of us because it’s a fairly small boat! It seems to me like you’re taking way too cynical a view of all this—like you’re convinced I’m angling for sex stuff, and just working backwards from there.”

Alice nodded. Maybe she was being cynical. Dean wasn’t a great guy, but he was mostly a good boss, and it wouldn’t hurt to start climbing the corporate ladder—her salary, after all, was still well below what she was making as a cop.

“Alright, I’ll go,” she said.

Dean grinned—was that an evil glint in his eye? No, probably just a normal glint… A kind glint, kind, for sure.

On Saturday, Alice drove out to the dock and boarded Dean’s boat. Once they’d motored out a mile or so, Dean suggested they move below deck, and immediately began angling for sex stuff.

After Alice rejected him repeatedly, he tried to get violent—luckily, Alice kept some pepper-spray with her; she was able to incapacitate Dean, shove him in the bathroom, jam the door shut, and navigate back to shore.

Alice quit her job.

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IV.

Somewhat traumatized by Dean’s angling for sex stuff, Alice sought help from the psychiatric establishment. She got the name of a good local shrink from one of her former master’s classmates, and set out for his office.

Only a few doors away, a woman suddenly stepped out in front of Alice.

“Hi!” she said cheerfully. “My name’s Eve.”

“…Hi,” said Alice. “Um, I’m Alice—what’s, uh, up?”

“Well, I run a naturopathy clinic just over there.” Eve gestured to a building across the street from the psychiatrist’s office. “And I think I might be able to help you out.”

“Help me out?” asked Alice. “What are you talking about, what is this?”

“Look, I’m right across the street.” Eve said, frankly. “I see a lot of women go into that office—” she gestured at the psychiatrist’s building—“they’re a little upset, a little unhappy when they go in—and then I see them walk out in tears, totally devastated, with a big bill and a useless prescription. I decided, finally, that I’d put an end to it. I stand out here, and I try to convince women not to see that scam artist—to use our natural healing process instead.”

“‘Natural healing’, really?” Alice raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ll be taking your word on who’s a scam artist!” She laughed, a bit cruelly. “Please excuse me.”

“Hold on just a moment,” said Eve, sternly. “How can you be so dismissive? Don’t you know that 90% of medical research is false? If you go into that office, you’ll be told that your problems are all down to a chemical imbalance—which is a myth, by the way—and then encouraged to take expensive drugs from Big Pharma that, according to a Harvard Science Research Guy, are no better than placebo.”

“Uh,” said Alice, “Well, I’m sure—”

“On the other hand, across the street, we’ll teach you how to open your chakras, give you a couple potted plants to take home, and, hell, we’ll even throw in some acupuncture—all at a fraction of the price.”

“Now, hold on. I’m pretty sure studies say that’s all quackery too!” Alice blurted out.

“Fair enough,” said Eve. “But science is far from perfect. And it’s not like natural medicine is any worse than the pills you’ll get from the shrink! At the very least, it’ll be a much more calming experience, with fewer side effects and a smaller bill.”

“Uh. Yeah, I mean. Yeah, ok, I guess so.”

And Alice followed Eve across the street. She tried meditating, but found it only resurfaced her traumatic memories—when she mentioned this, Eve told her to dig in, to respect and empower those memories.

Alice took a couple plants home, passed on the acupuncture, and bought a couple healing balms from the front desk when she left. She kept meditating, surfacing and empowering her traumas. Alice applied the balms, watered the plants, and stopped looking for a job—every time she walked into an office, she felt her heart begin to race, and rubbing the crystal she bought during a later visit to Eve’s office didn’t seem to help at all.

Alice spiraled deeper into her trauma—she would stay home all day, napping for hours, barely eating.

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V.

One night, Alice couldn’t sleep.

She tossed and she turned, but the memory of the boat wouldn’t leave her head. She counted sheep to no avail. Three cups of sleepytime tea from Eve’s office only made Alice feel more wired.

For the first time in weeks, Alice put on her shoes and went out into the night. She walked slowly, with no real destination in mind; suddenly finding herself atop a bridge. There was a cold wind; the streetlights flickered, and Alice leaned out over the ledge, staring at the icy water below.

She saw a small fishing boat in the distance—or maybe a rock, it was hard to tell. In any case, her heart began to pound. Alice’s mind filled with awful images; she could’ve sworn that a distorted voice began whispering to her, but it wasn’t making any sense, it was speaking nonsense.

Alice felt a stabbing pain in her temples. She pulled out a pen and paper, frantically composed a short note, stuck it under a rock, closed her eyes, and flung herself over the railing.

The next morning, a community safety officer stumbled over Alice’s rock, and saw her note. It read:

My suicide may appear a bizarre overreaction. It may seem that I was gripped by some sort of psychosis, that I failed to rationally assess my situation, to take some obvious-to-you action to improve it.

However, such a judgment would be nothing more than a vicious strawman!

In fact, it’s abundantly clear that each person has a right to do whatever she would like with her body and her life. And, of course, in so doing, she owes you no interpretable explanation—her internal experience is, in fact, ultimately unknowable to an outsider like yourself.

So you, in your utter ignorance, must not judge nor dismiss the decisions she comes to as a result of analyzing her own mind. Paternalism has no place at all in our enlightened world.

The officer shrugged. She made some good points.

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PS: Turns out Scott Alexander mostly already made this point in his very earliest discussion of the motte-and-bailey. Consider my contribution, then, to be: a) a really-super-good short story that you had a ton of fun reading, and b) that the motte-and-bailey is quite plausibly prior to, worse, and more widespread than the strawman. Or, at the very least, that boundless charitability is a losing strategy—for all the arguments treated with appropriate kindness, there will forever be a few bad apples who take advantage.

Presumably there is a middle path which we should walk in general; something optimal and Pavlov-ish. And I still think most of us should mostly try to be more charitable than we are by instinct. But I also worry that, especially in the context of the woke college course saga, there’s a real risk to going too far in the direction of forgivingness…

Don’t be like Alice!

guess which one i am