Inherent Goodness

It was my second semester at college. The small Alberta city I lived in was also a university town, and I had found twenty-four year old Diane to be quite the contrast to my high school self. Whereas before I couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so I could completely forget everything I had learned, college proved to pique my interest in a way that kept me captivated. Every morning I woke up energized and thrilled at the prospect of another day on campus.

Today was the first day of Philosophy 101. The professor, a well-travelled man in his late thirties who seemed to delight in dressing the part with a dark tweed blazer, stood at the front of the class. Without first introducing himself, he quieted us all down with an engaging question:

“Are humans inherently good, or evil?”

I took pause. I suppose I had never really pondered this question. I assumed all humans were born innately good, and that somewhere along the way, for whatever reason, they were capable of engaging in horrific acts. 

I learned of Thomas Hobbes, the philosopher who argued that humans were innately evil, and while I was fascinated with the many philosophical views I learned in that class, I still walked away with a firm belief of inherent human goodness.

Now, a decade later, I’m not so sure.

I’ve been glued to my phone this past week. Using my health issues as an excuse for escape, I told myself I deserved the little break from trying to live cell phone free. If I could aimlessly scroll through Instagram, maybe I wouldn’t be so focused on these pesky heart palpitations.

Of course, social media isn’t exactly relaxing. For every cute puppy video, there’s something outlandish in my feed, and since I seem to be a sucker for punishment, I found myself scrolling through the comments.

Besides the never ending global political nightmares that we wake up to daily, I find depression seeping in through the recognition of how humans treat each other. Where in the beginning days of Facebook you found mostly friends or family commenting on your posts, the evolution of social media has turned into a vast opportunity for anyone to share their thoughts on a stranger's content, and most of the time, it doesn’t take long for the abominable comments to appear.

“I’d put a bag over my head before I left the house if I were you”

“You’re disgusting”

“You should kill yourself”

Of course, there are people who reply in defiance of these awful words, a glimpse of goodness in the sea of online hate. They most often either offer support to the creator of the video, or provide the writer of the comment an opportunity to see how it feels to be on the receiving end of such atrocious words. I wonder if dishing it back to them creates more pain in the world, and further feeds their outrageous anger.

After hours of absorbing this content, I feel defeated. How could I still believe humans are innately good when it seems that so many of us jump at the opportunity to spew hatred at a complete stranger? Sometimes I click on the profiles of these angry commenters, and I’m always shocked to see who they are. More often than not, they’re people who are seemingly happy, sharing pictures of their families and inspirational quotes. 

To add to the puzzle, their profile pages are often fully public, meaning anyone can go directly from one of their heinous comments to their page. I ponder if this means they stand behind their words, and if they wouldn’t take issue with saying these life altering words out loud.

How could these regular folks have such darkness inside of them? And what prompts them to direct it at complete strangers?

I’m sure I won’t find the answer anytime soon, lest I head back to a philosophy class. For now, this is another reason to tuck the cell phone neatly away in a drawer, and use the house phone to engage in conversations that don’t leave me riddled with anxiety. 

I try to look for the good in the world, for the people who show love above all else, but lately it feels like hatred is being pushed to the forefront. The heaviness of the hate is weighing, and I need to stop immersing myself in it. 

For every bit of darkness, there is a streak of light.

I just hope the light is bright enough.