Why Cruelty Works

"The sadism of treating human beings like vermin lies precisely in the recognition that they are not"

If you don’t follow the NBA and its most exciting young team—the Memphis Grizzlies, of course—you probably missed this story. Ja Morant, our young superstar (yes, I’m going to say “our,” because I love this team) just came back from an injury and was heckled by a few courtside fans at the game.

Why would they heckle Ja? The Grizzlies were the hottest team in the NBA after Morant sprained his knee. They won 10 out of 12 games without their best player. Then, in his first game back, they struggled and lost to the Oklahoma City Thunder—a team they’d beaten by 73 points (an NBA record) just days before, without Morant.

Heckling is common. It happens at every game. But this time Morant seemed genuinely distressed. At a postgame press conference Morant said, “I’m just frustrated. Normally, y’all have seen it, when anybody says something negative about me, it fuels me, but, tonight, the remarks from the fans actually hurt. I’m going to do what I normally do and bounce back, and I’m very excited for this next game."

He then announced he was taking a break from social media. He was back soon enough, but this incident—where a public figure expressed hurt at the drive-by taunt of courtside trolls—reminded me of a reality that helps explain why our public square is often so relentlessly toxic, whether you’re an athlete, a celebrity, a pundit, or just an ordinary person locked in a flame war on Facebook.

Simply put: cruelty works. And by “works,” I don’t mean that it necessarily accomplishes its specific objective. Morant didn’t “sit back out” because a few fans demanded it. But cruelty has an impact. In fact, I’ve never in my entire life met a person who was truly unfazed by vicious attacks.

I’ve met people who pretended to be unfazed, but in candid moments the truth comes out. It bothers them. It matters.

Here’s what I’ve seen—cruelty often magnifies our vulnerabilities and amplifies our flaws. A soft-hearted person tends to recoil from attacks. No matter how much they steel themselves for incoming spite, it still stings. I’ve seen online shame storms push people to the point of emotional collapse. I’ve seen even sporadic attacks leave spiritual marks. It’s like getting shocked with an emotional cattle prod. And the lesson is clear: Engagement carries a cost, and it might not be a cost you can bear.

I’ve seen the opposite effect on the hard-hearted. Cruelty makes them harder still. It’s not that they’re unfazed by the attacks; it’s more like they feed off the fury. You’ll hear statements like, “If you’re taking flak, you know you’re over the target.” They relish the idea that they’ve triggered a toxic reaction, and they bask in the attention.

The dynamic can be so strong that it can turn an otherwise-serious person into a caricature of themselves. Again, I’ve seen it happen. Addicted to the rage and attention, they abandon serious thought and seek to provoke, and through provocation they increase their profile, their influence, and their income.

Cruelty has created our current public square. Softer souls and kinder hearts flee the field or silently observe, unwilling to bear the costs of engagement. The hardened online warriors remain, and they feed each other’s grievances and rage.

Why does cruelty have such a profound impact? Why is it so difficult to remain indifferent to insults and attacks? I often think about a November 2017 New Yorker essay by Paul Bloom that explained the disturbing root of cruelty. We often think of cruelty as rooted in dehumanization, but, Bloom argues, the opposite is likely true. “The sadism of treating human beings like vermin,” he says, “lies precisely in the recognition that they are not.”

Or to put it another way, cruelty works because the sadists know quite well that their targets are human, and they know quite well what cruelty does to the human heart. Again, here’s Bloom:

At some European soccer games, fans make monkey noises at African players and throw bananas at them. Describing Africans as monkeys is a common racist trope, and might seem like yet another example of dehumanization. But plainly these fans don’t really think the players are monkeys; the whole point of their behavior is to disorient and humiliate. To believe that such taunts are effective is to assume that their targets would be ashamed to be thought of that way—which implies that, at some level, you think of them as people after all.

Thus we can’t think of cruelty as so much the product of ignorance as of malice. The sadist knows exactly what he’s doing, and to whom he’s doing it—a human being who is exactly as vulnerable as he expects.

It’s an enduring reality of the human condition that vice often leaves virtue with few good options. There’s no easy way to endure cruelty. Retreat is largely unacceptable (though self-preservation is sometimes necessary). America needs the voices of the sensitive and the kind. Yet steeling yourself against the worst by insulating yourself against critique is a problem in its own right. After all, not one of us is perfect. Each of us needs correction on occasion.

The best folks I know have achieved the near impossible. They’ve constructed a thick skin while preserving an open heart. Their defense mechanisms are porous enough to allow fair critiques to penetrate while keeping the bad-faith actors at arm’s length. It’s a project that often takes a lifetime to complete, but it starts with humble recognition—I’m human, and thus I’m vulnerable to cruelty. I can’t just shrug it off.

I’ve seen a few folks critique Ja Morant. They wonder why he’s so sensitive. But I’m glad he spoke. I’m glad he’s transparent. Because we won’t understand the gravity of even casual cruelty until we understand that we can’t entirely avoid its cost.