A particular kind of commenter sometimes shows up when I write something critical. I’m happy for any interaction, but this type of commenter never refutes my points with an example or fact, nor offers new insight. This type of commenter says, in so many words: Be nicer. Focus on the positives. Let’s all respond with kindness.

But I’ve noticed something.

That plea for “kindness” often comes from the same people who regularly post long, angry screeds online against Palestinians, Liberal Elites, the degradation of pop culture, with a twist of the “good old days” nostalgia. They criticize freely, without apology, yet when I question the systems that quietly benefit them, I suddenly become “divisive.”

That’s not about kindness. That’s about comfort and control. And it’s made me think a lot about who gets to critique without consequence, and who gets called asshole for telling the truth.

When I wrote about Kristi Noem recently, I wasn’t writing about her as a person. I was writing about what she represents: a woman performing toughness inside a system that doesn’t allow her to be free. She doesn’t hold power so much as she’s allowed to wear it, as long as she plays the part. Her version of leadership is armored, defensive, and punishing. It doesn’t disrupt patriarchy, it serves it. And in return, she’s rewarded with temporary proximity to authority. But that proximity comes with a price.

A friend of mine said something that nailed the spirit of my Noem post that a few felt was insulting:

“Politics and corporations aren’t that different. Both are led by old white men who write the rules. If you want to stay in the room, you don’t just follow the rules—you help enforce them.”

That’s true for public figures. But it’s also true for people we know personally. People post daily about who’s doing it wrong, who’s ruining the country, who doesn’t “deserve” certain rights or recognition, but then ask for civility when the mirror turns toward them.

The system isn’t degrading these people. Quite the opposite; the system protects, shelters, and elevates them. They live in homes they can’t afford and drive cars as a status symbol. They’ve inherited safety but not depth, comfort but not clarity. And when they’re asked to see it differently, they don’t know how, so they feel attacked.

They’re not marginalized. They’re emotionally stunted by privilege. The system has never required them to grow, only to obey.

That’s a different kind of harm. It doesn’t look like violence or policy, it looks like performance. It looks like outrage where curiosity should be. It looks like resentment toward “elites” who didn’t exclude them, but simply moved on without needing their permission.

And it’s not just about them.

It’s about the story America has always told people: if you’re obedient, compliant, and “good,” you will be protected. And if someone asks you to change, to reckon, to give something up, they must be trying to take your value away.

So yes, I understand why some people align with leaders and ideologies that claim to honor them even when those leaders offer nothing but rage, violence, and the degradation of American society.

The real question isn’t why people vote for cruelty. The real question is what they’re afraid of losing if they don’t. For some, it’s status. For others, it’s the illusion of control. But for many, it’s belonging. It’s the comfort of being part of a world that doesn’t ask too much. A world where their voice is always centered, their values are never challenged, and ignorance is bliss.

That’s why so many react to critique as if it were violence. They’ve never had to sit in discomfort. They’ve never had to question whether the system they trust is one they’d survive if they didn’t look like they do.

I don’t think these people are inherently hateful. I think they’re afraid. I think many lack the rigour critical thinking requires because they never had to think critically, and I think they’ve been raised in systems that confuse love with loyalty and silence with peace. They see someone who leaves that system, or speaks out against it, and it rattles them. Because if you can still be whole without following the rules, what does that mean about the rules they’ve spent their life obeying?

The system didn’t hurt them. But it didn’t free them either. It made them small. Safe. Suspicious of growth disguised in terms like “the liberal elite.” They defend the safety of ignorance because it’s the only definition of goodness they’ve ever been given.

But other paths are possible. They are harder, for sure, because these paths involve discomfort, doubt, and the collapse of certainty. They ask us to trade hierarchy for complexity, certainty for curiosity, and control for community. They ask us to learn logic and ways to question and unpack the layers of complexity required to solve the problems of this world. 

Some of us are walking that path already. And we’re not being unkind when we offer our critiques of American life as we know it. We are, however, unwilling to call silence a virtue. 

And as Zack De la Rocha said, “If ignorance is bliss, then knock the smile off my face.”

Amen.