When Dialogue Becomes Performance: Reflections on Integrity, Misinformation, and the Cost of Contempt

Resisting outrage culture, reclaiming community, and remembering what matters

In an age of manufactured outrage and endless suspicion, staying grounded in facts, compassion, and integrity is harder—and more important—than ever. This piece is a reflection on what happens when conversations stop being conversations, and how we can choose to stay rooted in values even when the noise gets loud. A call for civility, clarity, and quiet persistence in the face of cynicism.

The Climate of Conversation

We live in an age when disagreement is easy—and dialogue is rare. Somewhere along the way, our public discourse seems to have traded curiosity for conspiracy, empathy for accusation, and substance for spectacle. We say we want answers, but often what we really want is confirmation of our own beliefs. Not “tell me more,” but “prove me wrong.”

That trade has a cost.

At Clallam County Solutions, I’ve tried to offer a different kind of voice—one that acknowledges complexity, holds space for nuance, and resists the temptation to turn every civic disagreement into a proxy war. Like Arthur Brooks writes in Love Your Enemies, it’s not anger that’s tearing us apart—it’s contempt. The kind of cold dismissal that assumes bad intent before a word is spoken. The kind that says, “I already know who you are, and I’m not here to understand you—I’m here to expose you.”

I’ve seen that spirit up close lately, in ways I’ll speak to more indirectly throughout this piece. What I’ll say here is this: when someone makes a good-faith effort to explain or clarify and is met not with thoughtful engagement, but with sarcasm, suspicion, and shifting accusations, something valuable is lost. Not just the opportunity for connection—but the very fabric of public trust.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Disagreement can be principled. Questions can be sincere. Skepticism can be paired with respect. But it starts with a choice: to see other people not as enemies to outmaneuver, but as neighbors worth listening to—even when we don’t agree.

The Nature of Misinformation (and Its Subtler Forms)

Misinformation isn’t always a blatant lie—it often arrives in subtler forms, woven into implication, innuendo, or strategically framed questions. A 2018 study from the University of Exeter found that even indirect suggestions in media coverage—mere hints of wrongdoing—can significantly increase belief in conspiracy theories. That tells us something important: the framing of what’s said—or what’s left unsaid—can be just as powerful as the facts themselves.

Instead of fabricating evidence, misinformation can arrange true statements to create a false impression. It can weaponize tone, rely on suggestive language, or ask “innocent” questions meant less to uncover answers and more to plant doubt. Over time, these methods wear down trust—not through confrontation, but through corrosion.

Arthur Brooks, in Love Your Enemies, warns of this precise danger:

“We don’t have an anger problem in American politics. We have a contempt problem. … If you listen to how people talk to each other in political life today, you notice it is with pure contempt.”

Contempt isn’t just loud disagreement—it’s the quiet certainty that someone else’s motives are always bad, that nothing they say could be honest, and that your only role is to expose them. It’s a mindset that replaces curiosity with cynicism.

And that’s where the subtlest forms of misinformation thrive—not in the clear error, but in the strategic omission. When someone asks, “Why haven’t they answered this?” even after they’ve been answered—just not in the way they prefer—that question becomes a narrative device, not a call for clarity. The unsatisfactory answer becomes proof of the conspiracy. The attempt at nuanced dialogue is evidence of something to hide.

We have to be careful not just about what we hear, but how it’s being framed. Because the deeper threat isn’t just in the spread of blatantly false information, it’s in the erosion of our willingness to believe that honest people still exist.

Curiosity Over Judgment

In the face of disagreement or uncertainty, there are two postures we can adopt: curiosity or judgment. Both ask questions; only one is truly seeking answers.

A curious mind engages with the goal of understanding. It asks, “What’s really going on here?” or “What don’t I yet know?” Judgment, on the other hand, tends to ask questions to confirm a suspicion or disprove someone else. It doesn’t open a door, it builds a case.

When we lead with curiosity, something shifts. We become a partner in the conversation, not a prosecutor. We learn things we might not have otherwise considered. And even if we walk away still unsure, we walk away informed—having engaged in good faith, not simply reinforced our own bias.

One of my favorite pop culture reminders of this dynamic comes from Ted Lasso, in a scene where Ted is underestimated by an arrogant rival during a game of darts. Just before throwing the winning shot, he shares a story about being constantly dismissed by others who never bothered to ask questions—who made assumptions instead of listening. Then he delivers the line:

“Be curious, not judgmental.”

It’s simple advice, but profound. Curiosity opens dialogue. Judgment shuts it down. And when we assume we already know someone’s intentions or character, we close ourselves off from any honest exchange.

Integrity Is Not Performance-Based

It’s hard not to respond when you feel your character is under attack. When someone questions your integrity, especially in public, it cuts deep. For me, integrity isn’t an abstract concept; it’s personal. It’s one of the values I hold most dearly. So when it’s misrepresented or misunderstood, my instinct is to explain. To clarify. To fix the misunderstanding with a desire for good-faith dialogue. One where we both walk away the better for it.

But I’ve learned something over time—something I have to keep reminding myself: not every accusation deserves an answer, and not every question is asked in good faith.

“The hardest part about being misrepresented is resisting the urge to over-explain.
But integrity doesn’t live in someone else’s opinion—
it lives in your choices, your principles, and your persistence.”

That’s a truth I come back to often. Integrity isn’t performative. It doesn’t depend on whether others acknowledge it. It exists in the quiet spaces—when no one is watching, when no one’s clapping, when you choose to do the right thing because it’s right, not because it will be recognized.

In moments of doubt, I’ve had to trust that the sum of my actions will tell my story. That the people who know me—and who know how I show up in this community—will see the full picture in time. That I can rest at the end of the day not because I’ve convinced everyone, but because I’ve stayed true to what I believe.

That’s the discipline of integrity: not defending it at every turn, but living it consistently enough that it speaks for itself.

Civil Discourse vs. Civic Disconnect

Disagreement isn’t the problem—disconnection is. When rooted in respect and curiosity, even the hardest conversations can lead to something good. The ability to question decisions, challenge assumptions, and hold institutions accountable is foundational to a functioning democracy. But when disagreements diverge from a desire to seek understanding, they become deaf to discourse and uninterested in resolution.

Too often, what we call “discourse” is really something else entirely: performance, provocation, or posturing dressed up as concern. It’s not about learning, it’s about landing a punch. Not about conversation, but about spectacle. And that distinction matters, especially in small communities where trust is as fragile as it is essential.

“There’s a difference between a watchdog and a wrecking ball.
One protects. The other just swings.”

There’s also a difference between a watchdog and an attack dog. One alerts us to potential danger—allowing time for reflection, context, and thoughtful response. The other simply lunges, assuming threat, interpreting facts in isolation, and acting on conclusions it has already drawn. One seeks to protect the house. The other just wants a target.

There’s an important place in society for people who ask hard questions. There’s also a cost when those questions are loaded with accusation, delivered with contempt, or aimed more at undermining than understanding. That’s where civil discourse begins to break down—and where something far more corrosive begins to take its place.

When every response is met with more suspicion, when clarity is treated as evasion, and when nuance is flattened for the sake of a narrative, what’s lost isn’t just trust in institutions—it’s trust in each other.

We’re seeing more of this disconnect everywhere: online, at public meetings, even in neighborhood conversations. And it’s not because we disagree more—it’s because we listen less, assume worse, and seek resolution less often than we seek validation. That’s not civil discourse. That’s civic disconnection.

Restoring the former means being brave enough to engage without needing to win. To speak without needing to wound. And to listen without needing to control the outcome.

A Recent Interaction: A Cautionary Tale

A while back, I stepped into a conversation believing it was just that, a conversation. The questions were pointed, even skeptical, but I took them seriously. I assumed it came from a similar desire to get to the heart of things.

So I responded. I offered context. I corrected inaccuracies. I gave thoughtful, honest answers—not out of defensiveness, but because I believed clarity was possible. I believed that if I stayed grounded in facts, and engaged respectfully, I would be met in kind.

But as the exchange unfolded, it became clear that understanding wasn’t the goal. No answer seemed sufficient. Each clarification was met not with resolution, but with more suspicion, more performative doubt, more questions already loaded with conclusions. The effort wasn’t to uncover the truth—it was to maintain control of a narrative and generate more misleading content.

That realization stung—not because I expected agreement, but because I had hoped for integrity on both sides. What I encountered instead was a slow drip of dismissal: good-faith answers twisted into fodder for more implication, more drama, more clicks.

Eventually, I had to accept something difficult: not every conversation is really a conversation. Some are stages. Some are scripts. And sometimes, your words are never heard at all, they’re just repurposed to play a part you never agreed to.

Still, I don’t regret trying. I would rather risk being misunderstood than failing to engage in the very civic discourse I am advocating for. Offering truth in good faith is never a mistake. But I’ve also learned that when someone shows you—repeatedly—that they’re not listening, and when dialogue becomes performance, it’s okay to step back. Not in surrender, rather to focus that energy in community solutions and good-faith conversations. Sometimes, there’s more integrity in letting silence hold the line than in explaining yourself to someone committed to misunderstanding.

The Cost of Cynicism—And the Case for Hope

Cynicism feels safe. It feels savvy. It lets us believe we’re too smart to be fooled, too seasoned to be moved, too aware to trust. It has a low barrier of entry; it doesn’t have an upfront cost. It’s the armor of the disappointed and aggrieved, the reflex of those who’ve been let down once too often. And in moments, I understand it. I’ve felt it pull at me too.

But cynicism has a cost.

It corrodes not just our view of others, but our capacity to believe in anything good at all. When we decide that everyone has an angle, that every explanation is an excuse, that every effort is just PR, we don’t just wall ourselves off from manipulation. We wall ourselves off from connection.

Worse still, we begin to punish sincerity. We mock compassion. We treat humility as weakness and mistake caution for deception. And slowly, the people who were trying to do good—imperfectly, but honestly—start to step back. They get quieter. They get tired. And the loudest voices left in the room are the ones least interested in building anything.

That’s the real danger: not just that truth gets bent, but that hope gets silenced.

And yet—I believe in hope anyway.

Because I’ve seen what happens when people come together not to tear down, but to lift up. I’ve seen neighbors who’ve never met show up for each other. I’ve seen volunteers give their weekends to a cause that won’t benefit them directly at all. I’ve seen ideas spark change—not because they were shouted loudest, but because they were shared with heart and humility.

Hope isn’t naïve. It’s courageous and it’s the well from which change springs. It’s a conscious choice to keep believing in the value of community, the possibility of progress, and the quiet power of integrity—especially when the easy path would be retreat.

Cynicism may feel clever, but hope is what moves the world forward. And I’d rather be occasionally disappointed while working toward something better than sit on the sidelines satisfied with being unimpressed.

A Call to Recommit

It would be easy, after all this, to step back. To grow quiet. To decide that showing up—thoughtfully, vulnerably, imperfectly—isn’t worth the effort. But I believe it still is.

Because the work of community-building doesn’t happen in echo chambers or comment threads. It happens when people choose to participate, not just perform. It happens when we refuse to let cynicism become the default, when we choose service over spectacle, contribution over critique.

That’s what I’m trying to do with Clallam County Solutions—not to present a perfect worldview or push a single ideology, but to offer space for context, complexity, and constructive ideas. A space where people can think more deeply, ask better questions, and see past the surface-level noise.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But I do know this: the health of a community is shaped in part by how we treat those who are trying. Not those who claim certainty in every answer, but those who keep showing up—even when it’s messy—because they care enough to try.

So here’s my recommitment: I will continue to write. I will continue to serve. I will continue to believe that listening matters, that values matter, and that local voices—real, honest, solution-seeking voices—deserve a place in the conversation.

Because our communities are worth the effort. And hope, as ever, is still a better bet than contempt.

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