There are few things in this life that I am absolutely sure of, but one of them is that in the days to come, someone, somewhere will say the following words about the New Zealand mosque shooter: “But he seemed so nice.”
Not everyone will say it, obviously. There will also, I am certain, come to light statements from ex-wives and girlfriends describing the terror he put them through on a personal level before he decided to take his terrorism to a bigger platform. (If these testimonials don’t come forth it will be because this man only terrorized women anonymously and from afar via social media.) And yet, as I mentioned before, somebody will still comment on how, as far as they knew, this guy seemed “so nice.”
Which brings us to the “myth of niceness.”
The “myth of niceness” is the response you get whenever you try and explain to someone why you don’t like/associate/want to get left alone with a particular person, and the person you’re explaining yourself to responds with, “Oh, but they’re so nice.” We’ve all experienced it—hell, we’ve probably all even done it. But think about what you—what we—are saying when we respond that way. What we think we’re saying is, “I have never personally experienced that behavior from that person.” But what we’re actually saying, (and what the other person hears), is “And I don’t believe you have, either.” And frankly, reacting to someone who reveals a grievance to you with disbelief and protestations of “But they’re so nice,” means that perhaps you’re not so very damn “nice,” either.
People are complex. If you’ve ever been on a date with someone who was charming to you but nasty to the waitress you already know that we can be different things to different people at the exact same time.When Brock Turner wasn’t raping unconscious girls behind dumpsters I have no doubt that he was holding doors open for them. These two example might seem like polar opposites, but they actually are not: both are examples of flawed characters temporarily masked by charm. But charm is never a substitute for character. And people of poor character? Not so nice.
Am I saying that we should believe all accusers? Well, yeah, until they are proven wrong, I think we should. Because the current system—the one where we believe the accused until the accusations are proven right—is not working.
And yes, there will be false accusations, and genuine misunderstandings, but the compassionate response to someone telling you their grievance will always be “tell me more,” not “I don’t believe you.”
Listening to victims is painful, even when we have no relationship with the accused. The reactions to the recent Michael Jackson, Harvey Weinstein, R. Kelly, Brett Kavanaugh (it really has been an endless parade lately) accusations are proof enough of that. Imagine, then, how much harder it is to be the victim, instead. Especially when the accused is almost universally beloved.
One of the saddest truths I know is that some people will always bear an unequal burden when it comes to keeping the myth of niceness alive. Unequal in power to the predators that attacked them, they also become unequal to the people who refuse to believe them. But power does not only belong to individuals who are powerful—on the contrary, in the same way that millions of raindrops coming together can turn into a flood, we can also come together to take down the powerful, because there is also power in solidarity. When we stand together we can take down giants.
And what could be nicer than that?