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Posts Tagged ‘Donald Trump’

In the previous post, I suggested that Chomsky’s answer to the voter’s dilemma, otherwise known as “Lesser Evil Voting” or LEV, can be challenged from at least three directions. Here, I want to consider the first of these challenges.

The LEV strategy is based on the moral significance of personal responsibility. If my action produces a foreseeable outcome, then I am not only responsible for the action but also for causing that outcome. Whether or not I intended that outcome is irrelevant; I am responsible either way. As applied to the voter’s dilemma, this viewpoint says that not voting for Biden makes me responsible not only for Trump’s victory but also for all the evil that he will unleash in his second term, and the fact that I do not intend either of these outcomes is irrelevant. That, in a nutshell, is Chomsky’s defense of LEV.

The first challenge to the LEV strategy comes from those who believe that a person is only responsible for his/her own actions. According to this approach, my responsibility in any situation is to act in a manner that I believe to be right. The only thing I can control is my own behavior, and my responsibility does not extend into matters over which I have no control. Consequently, I cannot be held responsible if the world is organized in a such way that my action leads, indirectly, to outcomes that I neither intend nor approve.

Weber

It is critical to note that both viewpoints are rooted in a long history of ethical deliberations and both are supported by good arguments. It would therefore be a mistake to think that one of these viewpoints is right and the other is wrong. Max Weber, for example, recognized the difficulty involved in choosing one or the other of these viewpoints as the basis for practical conduct. Weber addressed the sharp distinction between the two approaches in his famous lecture on “Politics as a Vocation.” The lecture was delivered to a group of students in Munich on January 28, 1919.

Here’s how Weber introduces the problem:

We have to understand clearly that all ethically oriented action can follow two totally different principles that are irreconcilably opposed to each other: an ethic of “ultimate ends” or an ethic of “responsibility.” This is not to say that the ethic of ultimate ends is identical with a lack of responsibility, or that the ethic of responsibility is identical with lack of conviction. There is naturally no question of that. But there is an immeasurably profound profound contrast between acting according to the maxim of the ethic of ultimate ends—to speak in religious terms: “The Christian does the right thing and leaves the outcome in God’s hands,” and acting according to the ethic of responsibility: that one must answer for the (foreseeable) consequences of one’s actions.

By “ultimate ends,” Weber does not mean any particular outcome or goal; rather, he is referring to values. By definition, all true values are ultimate, in the sense that they are not pursued as the means to achieve some other end; rather, values are desired for their own sake and pursued as ends in themselves. This means that values do not have to be justified; in fact, anything that can be justified is not a value. Consequently, if I explain one of my actions by referring to a value that I hold dear, you may ask whether or not my action really does serve that value; that’s a fair question. However, you cannot ask why I am committed to that particular value in the first place, for values are “ultimate” in the sense that they cannot be rationally defended.

The key point is that, according to Weber, the ethic of ultimate ends cannot be harmonized with the ethic of responsibility because of the “profound contrast” between the two. This means, I think, that a specific action in a specific situation can satisfy either the requirements of one or the other of these two approaches, but it cannot satisfy the requirements of both. Notice Weber’s insistence that the ethic of ultimate ends is not about lack of responsibility, just as the ethic of responsibility does not entail a lack of commitment to values. Here’s how I understand Weber’s point: While the ethic of ultimate ends requires each individual to be fully responsible to his/her own conscience, the ethic of responsibility requires us to take into account whether or not the actual consequences of our actions will be in alignment with our values.

Consider the following question: If someone acts according to the dictates of conscience, but the consequences that flow from those actions are deemed evil, who is to be held responsible? Weber quotes Martin Luther, who had said: “Do your duty, and leave the outcome to God.” A Christian, according to Luther, is responsible for doing the right thing, not for ensuring that the world becomes right as a result of one’s actions. The world is God’s responsibility, not mine. This is another way of saying that I am only accountable in front of God, or in front of my conscience, for doing my part. I don’t make the rules that govern society, and there is nothing I can do to control or manage the consequences that may result from the fact that I did my duty. According to Weber, the person who follows the ethic of ultimate ends takes the position that the responsibility for any negative consequences of fulfilling one’s duty does not belong to the conscientious actor but to “the world, the stupidity of other people, or the will of God, who created them like that.”

In contrast, the person who follows the ethic of responsibility takes into account the fact that the world is ordered in a way that good actions do not necessarily produce good consequence. According to Weber, the world is ethically irrational. It does not guarantee that doing the right thing will make everything right for you, or anyone else. In fact, very often the exact opposite happens. The person who follows the ethic of responsibility is acutely aware of this fact. For Weber, such an individual “does not feel himself to be in a position to shift the responsibility for the consequences of his actions, as far as he can foresee them, on to others. He will say: These consequences are attributable to my actions.”

Let’s extend this line of reasoning. If we are responsible for the foreseeable consequences of our actions, then it follows that we may have to put aside the question of whether our actions are moral in themselves; rather, we must always act in ways that would produce the most morally desirable outcomes. That, however, can push us onto a slippery slope, as Weber points out.

No ethic in the world can get around the fact that in many cases the achievement of “good” ends is linked with the necessity of accepting ethically dubious or at least risky means, and the possibility or even the probability of evil side effects. And no ethic in the world can predict when and to what extent the ethically good end “justifies” the ethically risky means and side effects.

That is not a trivial problem. The ethic of responsibility says that we must take responsibility for the consequences of our actions. To ensure that good consequences appear in the world as a result of our actions, we would have to judge our actions not on the basis of whether they are right or wrong in themselves, but whether they lead to moral or immoral consequences. But when our focus is on outcomes, there is a very real risk that we may choose morally questionable actions—and perhaps even immoral actions—whenever we believe that these actions are necessary for producing the outcomes we desire and that the outcomes we desire are, in fact, morally superior. This creates the likelihood of bad faith rationalizations. At the same time, we are prone to become less and less concerned about the unintended but negative consequences of using morally questionable means.

The possibility of self-deception is real, for one can find more or less satisfactory ways to defend and rationalize almost any course of action. Once we have convinced ourselves that a certain end is moral, and that a certain action is necessary to achieve that end, it is easy to disregard the morality or immorality of the action as irrelevant. The end will then be enough to justify virtually any means. This is not just a hypothetical danger, for history is full of cases where morally justifiable ends—such as freedom or equality—led many people to justify and commit all sorts of atrocities. If it’s true that good actions do not guarantee good consequences, it is also true that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Weber is sensitive to the problem of unintended consequences, or “side-effects.” The consequences that flow out of our actions are not always the ones we intended. There is, of course, no ethical problem if an action inadvertently produces morally desirable results. But what if some of the unintended consequences are immoral? Even when we anticipate that certain consequences that we neither intend nor approve are likely to flow from our actions, the “ends justify means” approach would cause us to view such a risk as worth taking. This sort of reasoning is found, for example, in the concept of “collateral damage,” where foreseeable civilian casualties are viewed as the acceptable cost we must pay for a morally desirable end, such as “eradicating terrorism” or “making the world safe for democracy.” Of course, whether that end itself is moral is an open question.

As I write this post, some  people are pushing the idea that the loss of a few million lives is a risk worth taking for the sake of restarting the U.S. economy in the midst of a deadly pandemic. They obviously do not intend to kill millions of people, nor do they believe it to be a positive or desirable outcome. Their reasoning is based on the “ends justify means” approach, and indirectly on the ethic of responsibility. They want to ensure that the world is set right. They believe—sincerely, I think—that nothing in this context can be a higher ethical priority than maintaining economic growth. In their view, a particular end (i.e., maintaining the health of the U.S. economy) carries such immense moral weight that an otherwise horrible “side-effect” of pursuing it (i.e., millions of deaths) appears to be a perfectly acceptable risk—or even a perfectly acceptable part of the cost that society must pay for returning to business-as-usual.

It is critical to recognize that neither the ethic of ultimate ends nor the ethic of responsibility can easily deal with unintended consequences. The problem emerges because the future is mostly unknowable, which means that it is impossible for human beings to foresee all of the consequences of their actions. Our capacity to know in advance how a particular action will affect the world in the long run is somewhere between extremely limited to nonexistent. Modernity makes this problem progressively worse. As society becomes more complex, it also becomes less predictable; as a result, we face an ever increasing amount of uncertainty and ambiguity when making even small decisions, let alone morally momentous ones.

People who want to follow the ethic of responsibility, such as Noam Chomsky, would insist that their decision is based on the sense of responsibility they feel in relation to the foreseeable consequences of their actions, and that they cannot be held responsible for any unforeseeable consequences that may flow from their choices. There are two obvious issues with this position, which I consider below.

First, there is no way of knowing the true proportion of foreseeable and unforeseeable consequences of any particular action we might take, especially when we try to consider both the direct and indirect impacts of that action into the long term future. People who want to follow the ethic of responsibility do so by assuming that only the foreseeable consequences matter. This may be a reasonably valid assumption in cases that are simple and straightforward, but it is clearly unwarranted in more complex cases, such as the voter’s dilemma. Assuming that only the consequences that I am able to see at the present moment are worthy of consideration amounts to giving oneself too much credit. We can’t even say that the foreseeable consequences of a particular action will outnumber the unforeseeable ones, let alone know for sure that the foreseeable consequences will be decisive.

Second, individuals who want to follow the ethic of responsibility cannot be certain that the consequences they do foresee will in fact materialize. While this is always true to some degree, most of the time this effect is so negligible that for all practical purposes we safely ignore it. It does become significant, I think, when it comes to voting in a Presidential election. There are so many variables involved in the politics of a large country, such as the U.S., that allocating the correct amount of evil to each candidate is beyond the capacity of mere mortals. For example, is Trump really more evil than Joe Biden? What if that turns out to be true in the short term only? What if his policies end up shaking millions of Americans out of their complacent slumber, who then go on to create a more fair and just society? Far fetched, but not impossible. Chomsky is right that Trump is really bad in terms of climate policies, but our experience with eight years of Obama doesn’t give us any confidence in Joe Biden’s ability to turn this ship around. Biden might be marginally better than Trump on climate, but would that stop the ongoing collapse of the planet’s ecosystems? Hardly, given that Biden is promising that “nothing will fundamentally change” under his administration. It is true that Trump has put some terrible policies into effect, and perhaps Biden would reverse them, which would be nice. But what about the bigger picture? Who can say that a return to pre-Trump policies in a post-Trump world would make things better on the whole? None of us can even see the whole picture, let alone know how it would change.

We are all making guesses—and we should acknowledge, both to ourselves and to the world at large, that that’s what we are doing. This will make us humble. The only way to judge as to which candidate is a lesser evil and which one the greater evil is to rely upon countless assumptions about the future as well as the prejudices we have inherited from the past, not to mention our fallible and finite minds that only give us a hazy and fragmentary view of reality.

None of what I have said here renders the ethic of responsibility untenable, especially as it relates to voting in a U.S. Presidential election. It still remains a valid viewpoint, though I think I did problematize it a little.

It seems to me that the ethic of responsibility does not warrant the high level of confidence and certainty that many Biden voters are demonstrating when they claim to know what the right choice is. I would recommend epistemological humility to anyone who feels completely, absolutely, one hundred percent sure that all options other than voting for Joe Biden are immoral or irrational. I would, of course, recommend the same thing to those who are completely, absolutely, one hundred percent sure that the right thing to do is to not vote for Joe Biden.

Let me reiterate that I am not asking anyone to change their mind about whom they should vote for; I am only asking everyone to be thoughtful and reflective about how they make this decision.

There is more to come. Stay tuned.

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I have been using the word “dilemma” to name the difficulty of deciding whether, and for whom, should I vote this coming November. After having chosen it, I started wondering if it was, indeed, the right word for this purpose, so I decided to look it up in the OED.

Capture

So, a dilemma is basically a situation that offers two or more alternatives, known as “horns,” which are—or appear to be—equally undesirable.

It is quite interesting that the two horns of a dilemma may or may not be equally undesirable. It is, of course, extremely hard to make a decision when both (or all) alternatives are equally bad. I am not sure that this is usually the case. For if the alternatives are even slightly different, then it’s likely that one of them is at least a tiny bit more undesirable than the other. Of course, the difference in the degree of undesirability between the two alternatives may be so insignificant as to be practically nonexistent, as, for example, in the case of Sophie’s Choice. Yet, I am inclined to speculate that real-life dilemmas (as opposed to hypothetical ones) are unlikely to be pure, in the sense that picking one option over the other need not be entirely random. (This leads me to wonder about the nature of choice, but I won’t deal with it here.)

Regarding the upcoming Presidential election, I am struck by the fact that many people who favor voting for Biden do not seem to experience a dilemma at all. Rather, such individuals tend to be completely, absolutely, one hundred percent sure that they have the right answer and that all other answers are obviously incorrect. As a result, they often become frustrated when others fail to agree with them right away. Apparently, they find it incredible that anyone in their right mind could even imagine that a course of action can be rational that does not involve voting for Biden. It is remarkable that these true believers appear to be totally free of doubts, misgivings, hesitations, or uncertainty of any kind. The truth of the matter is so clear to them that they find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to try and see the issue from a different viewpoint. As far as they’re concerned, there is no sane viewpoint other than their own. In fact, they probably haven’t noticed that they have a viewpoint, and that voting for Biden is only one of the many justifiable options.

Noam Chomsky is a case in point. In the course of criticizing the “Never Biden” position, he recently made the following statement:

There is a thing called arithmetic. You can debate a lot of things, but not arithmetic.

I am not concerned here with the merits of Chomsky’s argument but only with his sense of certainty. He is absolutely right when he says that arithmetic is not debatable. But he glosses over the fact that the “Never Biden” position is not about arithmetic. That position can be defended from several different viewpoints; one may disagree with those viewpoints and one may criticize the resulting position as inadequate or flawed. Yet, these are actual viewpoints held by actual people who are no less rational than anyone else; as viewpoints, they are all legitimate. In contrast, arithmetic is not a viewpoint. The reason why we cannot debate arithmetic is because it represents a closed, abstract, and self-referential system that does not, in and of itself, say anything about the universe. Arithmetic offers an unusually extreme certainty, such that, for example, 2+2=4 everywhere and always, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. This degree of certainty is impossible when we are dealing with the complex messiness of everyday reasoning, emotions, biases, values, commitments, and all of the social and cultural influences that go into forming a particular human viewpoint.

Personally speaking, I don’t feel confident in the present context that any answer is going to be completely, absolutely, one hundred percent right—or wrong. The reason why I am writing these blog posts is because I want to explore how to come up with a satisfactory answer that I can live with; this is a much more modest goal than finding the holy grail of absolute truth or rightness. Regardless of what I end up deciding, I already know that it won’t give me the axiomatic certainty of 2+2=4. I don’t know of any approach that will allow me to achieve one hundred percent confidence on an issue like this. Of course, the closer I can get to one hundred percent certainty, the happier I would be; at this point, however, I am willing to settle for anything above fifty percent.

What does it mean to have less-than-absolute confidence in a proposition? This degree of confidence will probably make no difference in practical terms. If I am only sixty percent confident that voting for Joe Biden is the right thing to do, I will still act as if I were one hundred percent confident. That is because actions are usually a matter of binary logic: I either vote for Joe Biden or I don’t vote for Joe Biden. I cannot give sixty percent of my vote to Biden and withhold, or give to someone else, the remaining forty percent.

While having less-than-absolute confidence may not make any practical difference, it does make a big difference in how I think about the issue and how I respond to those who disagree with me. In thinking about the issue, a less-than-absolute confidence allows me to (1) consider the respective strengths and weaknesses of different viewpoints and be sensitive to the nuances of each position, (2) continue reflecting on my own viewpoint and position even after I have acted on it, and (3) remain open to new evidence and new arguments that might help me improve my viewpoint, refine my position, or even change my mind entirely. In responding to those who disagree with me, my less-than-absolute confidence will allow me to (1) show genuine respect for viewpoints and positions different from my own, (2) be curious about what other people think and why they think the way they do, and (3) embrace anything I may find in other people’s thinking that may be true or useful or wise, even if the disagreement remains.

Absolute certainty feels good, but it “blocks the road of inquiry,” as Charles Peirce put it. At the opposite end of the spectrum is absolute uncertainty, but that breeds inaction and moral paralysis. It’s only when I am more certain than uncertain that I can act on what I know while still maintaining an open mind and a learning attitude. It’s the best of both worlds!

If you are sure that you possess the holy grail—a definitive, unambiguous answer to the dilemma I am wrestling with—I would say: Congratulations! I won’t try to change your mind about what you believe is the right thing to do. I would, however, advise against putting too much trust in the clarity, obviousness, or finality of your position.

For the feeling of certainty is just that—a feeling. The more certain we feel, the higher is our confidence in relation to a given proposition, and the more likely we are to act in accordance with it. Yet, our feeling of certainty does not tell us a whole lot about the world outside ourselves. The truth or falsehood, the accuracy or inaccuracy, and the rightness or wrongness of a proposition is independent of how we feel about it at any given moment. If you have ever been proven wrong about a belief for which you were once willing to bet your life, or if you have ever changed your mind on a major issue, you may want to recall those experience in order to appreciate just how misleading a felt sense of certainty can be.

As for me, I am glad I looked up the word “dilemma” in the dictionary, for it does capture how I am experiencing the issue of voting in the 2020 Presidential election. Specifically, my dilemma is made up of no fewer than five horns: (1) Don’t vote at all, (2) Vote for Joe Biden, (3) Vote for Donald Trump, (4) Vote for the Green Party candidate, (5) Write down a name that doesn’t appear on the ballot. These are all viable options, but for the sake of simplicity I would like to reduce the dilemma to its classic, binary form:

Option 1: Vote for Biden.
Option 2: Don’t vote for Biden.

These two horns of my dilemma do appear to be equally undesirable at first sight. My goal in future blog posts will be to figure out which of them is significantly more undesirable than the other.

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I voted for Bernie Sanders in the Democratic primaries, but he is no longer in the race. I am now being told that I should vote for Joe Biden in the fall, for if I abstain from voting or if I vote for the Green Party candidate then I would be guilty of supporting Donald Trump and would therefore have to accept part of the responsibility for all the horrible things that he would probably do. But I don’t want to lend my support to Biden either, for many different reasons. This situation poses a dilemma. It is a real dilemma, not a made-up one, and so it deserves some serious attention.

dilemma

Let’s begin with a fundamental questions: What is the purpose of a Presidential election? Here’s a tentative answer: The purpose of a Presidential election is to provide citizens the opportunity to express their opinion as to which particular candidate should hold that office for the next four years.

In the United States, the opinion we express through a Presidential election is not binding, for we the people do not actually elect the President. Rather, we elect the 535 electors who, in turn, make that decision on our behalf. The main reason we have this unusual process is because the folks who made the rules back in the eighteenth century thought that the masses were stupid. They believed we weren’t smart enough to know what was good for the country, and so they thought we might vote on the basis of our emotions and elect the wrong person. To prevent that, they decided the choice should be in the hands of a small group of enlightened individuals—called the Electoral College—that could be trusted to use foresight and wisdom to select the right person.

So, technically speaking, what we the people express on election day every four years is not our collective will that must be implemented. It’s merely an opinion, or a preference for this person over that person. The entire process of electing a President was never meant to give the people any actual role in shaping the government or its policies; rather, it was meant to establish the legitimacy of the political system by getting us to perform the equivalent of signing a consent form.

In reality,  we the people are like the toddler who occasionally gets to sit behind the steering wheel of the family car and pretends to drive.

This reality be seen in the fact that the Presidential election has no necessary connection with people’s desire for a particular domestic or foreign policy. Presidential candidates can and do say all sorts of things when running for office, but as actual Presidents they are in no way bound by anything they’ve said before taking the oath. This means that when we vote for a particular candidate because we agree with their views, plans, and promises, there is absolutely no guarantee that, should this candidate wins, those particular views, plans, and promises would actually be enacted. Typically, they aren’t.

A Presidential election is a long and arduous process in which the goal is to win by any means necessary. As any political consultant will tell you, holding on to one’s principles, or trying to maintain consistency between one’s words and actions, is generally a losing strategy. What matters is not who you are but how the voters see you; and how the voters see you can be managed and choreographed. Winning requires getting the support of a wide variety of population blocs, and so it’s imperative to say whatever each bloc wants to hear. If this requires frequently contradicting oneself, then so be it. Deception is a necessary part of political campaigns, just as it is a necessary part of advertising, or magic shows.

Smart candidates speak in a special dialect of English that is meant to entice, attract, fascinate, and arouse, rather than inform or educate. As a result, vagueness has to be an essential ingredient of all such rhetoric so that different groups of people may project their own wishes and dreams to fill up the candidate’s empty words. But even when a candidate expresses a position or makes a promises that is relatively specific, and can therefore be used to hold that candidate accountable, we must not forget that there is no enforceable obligation to actually follow through. Inconsistencies need not be resolved through appropriate actions, for they can be easily covered up through additional rhetoric. Fulfilling one’s campaign promises may be a moral duty, but the Constitution does not recognize it as part of a President’s legal obligations.

This means that in the United States we the people do not possess the right to have our policy preferences implemented. In fact, we don’t even express our policy preferences when we cast our ballots. Voting in a Presidential election amounts to saying “I would like person X to be the President,” and nothing more. What person X does after becoming the President is not up to us, because—remember?—we are not smart enough to know what the country needs.

Most of us haven’t noticed that our Constitution does not give us the right to vote. Voting is not included in the Bill of Rights, which is why state legislatures are free to take a variety of measures to control, restrict, and manipulate our votes. But it’s important to understand why the Framers did not think of voting as an individual right that needed to be guaranteed at the federal level, for it tells us something truly important. It tells us that even our non-binding opinion regarding who should be the President is not all that consequential. The U.S. political system does not need the citizenry to express its preference. If the system was in any way dependent on our votes, it would treat voting as a mandatory civic duty that people can’t easily get out of— just like paying taxes or serving on a jury. Instead, voting is entirely optional, and the system routinely creates hurdles to discourage people from casting their ballots. Of course, if no one votes then the political system will lose all legitimacy, but maintaining legitimacy doesn’t require that everyone votes. Rather, the systems remain sufficiently legitimate even with only half the eligible voters participating.

To summarize, the process of Presidential election in the United States is structured in such a way that the following three conclusions can be safely drawn: First, the political system doesn’t need and therefore doesn’t value most people’s votes, which suggests that the government is not meant to be a reflection of what the majority wants.  Second, people only vote for a candidate and not for their preferred policies, which means that any impact their votes might have is usually indirect or unintentional, and always minimal. Third, the President has no constitutional obligation to fulfill any promises made during the campaign, which means that the perceived trustworthiness of a candidate is often decisive in the election but has little long-term consequence.

So, what does all this got to do with the voter’s dilemma? To reiterate, the issue I am trying to address is whether or not I should vote for Joe Biden. Before I can say anything meaningful about that decision, I need to have some sense of the purpose of voting. When I consider the purpose of voting in a U.S. Presidential election, I find that the system has been set up in such a way that citizens don’t really have much of an impact on what the government does, regardless of whether, or for whom, they vote. The U.S. is a “weak democracy,” in the sense that its political system was intentionally designed to minimize people’s ability to influence the government, while still requiring that the government draws its legitimacy from the consent of the governed.

The points noted above need to be kept in mind when trying to resolve the voter’s dilemma. As of now, I have not seen any evidence that my vote is needed or valued or will make any difference. Neither of the two major candidates has put forward a convincing argument why someone like me should vote for him. Furthermore, no one is asking me about the policies that I would like to see enacted in this country; the electoral system has no interest in what I think or believe or want. Instead of being asked about my policy preferences, I am being asked to choose between two individuals, neither of whom I know personally. I don’t have any way of getting either of these individuals to take seriously what I and others like me believe or think or want, let alone making him take the appropriate actions as President. And yet, I am expected to vote. Under these circumstances, which are obviously not unique to me, the only thing that my vote is sure to accomplish is to help maintain the legitimacy of the political system. Everything else is a matter of chance, and the odds aren’t favorable.

Since the Presidential election is not designed to find out what my favorite policies are, I am supposed to express those preferences indirectly, i.e., by choosing the candidate who I think is most likely to act in ways that I approve of. And I am supposed to make this decision based solely on what the two main candidates have done in the past and what they say they will do in the future. Based on what they have done in the past, I am absolutely sure that I don’t want either of them to become President. As for what they say they will do, I disagree with most of their views, plans, and promises; and when I do agree, I find both gentlemen to be unworthy of my trust. Trump obviously has a long  history of lying, but Biden too has a similar (though shorter) record of willful deception. 

Given that a U.S. President is not bound by anything said or promised during the campaign, I have to be extra careful when deciding to trust that a candidate would actually do what they say they would do. While neither of the two main candidates inspires confidence, there does exist a critical difference. Trump’s lies are petty and self-serving. Whenever he speaks, I know that he is probably lying; as a result, I have never been deceived by his words. Biden, on the other hand, does not lie in the same egregious or shameless manner as Trump; as a result, Biden’s lies are likely to be a lot more consequential as well as a lot more convincing. This makes Biden more dangerous than Trump. Furthermore, Biden claims a high moral ground and talks about restoring honesty, civility, and kindness to the office of the President. By suggesting that he is morally superior to the current occupant of the White House, Biden is essentially asking to be judged at a higher standard than the one we use for Trump. But when both candidates are evaluated according to their own standards of morality, the gap between them all but disappears.

None of this proves that the two main candidates are exactly the same, or that voting for one is just like voting for the other, or that it doesn’t matter whether I vote or not. There is a lot more to consider before I’ll be able to resolve this dilemma—at least for myself.

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