The public, which has been wrong before and is wrong now, can accept only demons and angels on the stage.
― Theophille Gautier

“Use a qualifier,” I advised. “When you write animals, you imply all of them. You’re implying that all animals used in medical research are protected by local and state laws and guidelines.” I was conferencing with a student who was arguing for animal use in scientific and commercial testing. There was not a single qualifier to be found in her entire paper. No most, many, some, few. No 50%, 25%, less than 10%. It had never occurred to her to use a qualifier, and when I suggested it, her face fell. I didn’t have to ask her what was wrong. Her face revealed her fears that using qualifiers would weaken her argument. I could almost see her struggle play out in a Faustian way: an angelic absolute on her right shoulder and a demonic qualifer on her left, each battling for control. All or some?

Whether we’re explicit (and use all) or implicit (and suggest all), we speak with authority. There’s something emotionally satisfying about making authoritative pronouncements that apply to all of something, for there’s no gray area to contend with, no exceptions or complexities. Using absolutes is inclusive, which is a good thing, right? All includes every single individual or thing in a given group. Whether we’re praising or criticizing, no one or nothing is excluded when we speak absolutely.

Today, as I listen to a host of controversies play out on social media and in the news, I often feel as though I should take up my red teacher’s pen and begin marking the absolute language I see and hear. I want to pull people aside and conference with them. Did you really mean all progressives when you said progressives? Did you really mean all conservatives when you said conservatives? Did you really mean all politicians, all teachers, all athletes, all police officers, all technology, all sports, all corporations? Undoubtedly, many (a qualifier!) who’ve used absolute language would prefer not to conference with me. They might, instead, prefer to circle their wagons against the exceptions that lurk in the wilderness.

I understand that some people use absolute language with good intentions. They seek to encourage, to compliment, and to ensure that everyone feels included. Throughout my life, I’ve often had superiors who said things like: You’re doing a great job. You’re working hard to make this a great place. You’re going the extra mile, and it shows. They addressed their employees and delivered these words without qualifying them. My workplaces weren’t exceptional, nor were those of us who worked there. I’d venture to say that many workplaces (perhaps most, not all) are like mine. Clearly, not everyone does a great job, works hard, and goes the extra mile. In fact, there are generally few who do. Consider an exceptional employee. How would he feel to be praised as part of an entire staff? How would she feel knowing that her employer regarded her work performance as no different than any other? What would motivate an exceptional employee to distinguish himself or herself from others?

Qualifiers refuse to generalize or stereotype. When two paths diverge in the woods, they take the harder path, the one that demands discernment and reflection. This is probably why they’re not very popular. Who wants the harder, less traveled path?

Theophille Gautier, a 19th century French poet and critic, understood that we can often accept only angels and demons on the stage. That is, on the public stage, we often speak without qualifying, preferring the absolute. For example, today some are insensed by those who insist that controversial books should be banned or removed from school curricula and school libraries. In righteous indignation, they’ve identified the troublemakers (controlling, ultra-conservative parent groups), the books they seek to ban (primarily those with profanity, sexuality and exploration of gender identity), and have declared an absolute position: controversial books shouldn’t be banned or removed.

Yet, consider the Mukilteo School District in Washington state where the school board recently voted to remove To Kill a Mockingbird from their ninth-grade curriculum. This was at the request of staff members who argued that “the novel marginalized characters of color, celebrated ‘white saviorhood’ and used racial slurs dozens of times without addressing their derogatory nature.” This decision came from teachers and school board members, not parents, and the book removed was a classic novel whose primary theme has nothing to do with sexuality or exploration of gender identity. Can the issue of whether to ban or remove books be answered with an absolute yes or no? Are those who want to keep controversial books angels and those who want to ban and remove them demons? Whether you agree with the Mukilteo School District’s decision or not, it does reveal the complexity of this issue. And this issue is just one of many such complex issues.

Speaking of To Kill a Mockingbird, author Harper Lee’s protagonist Scout becomes 26-year-old Jean Louise in her follow-up novel, Go Set a Watchman. Jean Louise wrestles with her conscience after she sees her father and hero, Atticus, at a racist town meeting. Throughout the novel, as she continues to struggle with her father’s beliefs and the changing world, she says:

I need a watchman to tell me this is what a man says but this is what he means, to draw a line down the middle and say here is this justice and there is that justice and make me understand the difference.

Jean Louise wants a watchman who can draw a line down the middle and distinguish what is true and good from what is not. She wants what most of us do, I think. And though there are times and circumstances when clear, absolute lines can–and must–be drawn, there are also times and circumstances when they can’t and mustn’t. In these cases, we must rely on the discernment of the humble, yet invaluable, qualifiers. I’ll be watching and listening for them, in hopes of retiring my red pen.