There are several public figures I don’t care for but who command enormous audiences. I won’t attempt a psychological taxonomy—I lack both the license and the patience—but many of them share a curious rhetorical tic.
They love the phrase: “He was nice to me.”
It appears constantly and without embarrassment. A dictator. A bully. A serial offender of norms or liberties. The defense is always the same: I met him once. He was nice to me.
What are we supposed to do with that?
Being nice—to you—is not an alibi. It is not a character reference. It is not even especially interesting. Tyrants have always been polite to dinner guests. Monsters often send thank-you notes.
And yet, I confess: I do this too.
We’ll be discussing someone—a public figure, a colleague, a mutual acquaintance—and out it comes: Well, I’ve met him. He was a decent guy. Nice to me.
Now that I’m alert to it, I cringe every time I say it.
There’s something lazy about the move. It substitutes proximity for judgment, manners for conduct, a pleasant exchange for a serious accounting. It asks us to stop thinking precisely where thinking is most required.
And yet—here’s the uncomfortable part—maybe niceness does matter. Just not the way we use it.
I love old Hollywood movies where the protagonist is a thief or scoundrel—Gaston in Trouble in Paradise, for instance—who steals with elegance and treats everyone he’s not robbing with impeccable courtesy. Manners are not morality. But they are not nothing either.
Niceness should invite scrutiny, not excuse it. If you’re pleasant, we should expect more of you, not less. We should ask harder questions, not stop asking them.
So I’m retiring the phrase.
No more “he was nice to me.”
Not even with a “but.”
If that’s all I’ve got, I haven’t thought hard enough yet—and neither have you.