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I have been a teacher for nearly twenty years, and one of the things we are purportedly supposed to teach is critical thinking. Yet I have rarely seen its meat and potatoes taught directly: how to examine a claim, distinguish evidence from inference, recognize our own incentives and ask what might prove us wrong. Epistemic hygiene seldom makes it to the table.
Knowing the difference between a transitive and intransitive verb is useful, but it does not teach someone how to interrogate their own cognition. Basic knowledge must come first because nobody can think critically about material they do not understand. After that, however, education often supplies more intricate content without spending much time on how beliefs are constructed, defended and corrected. Mastery means being able to teach the material reliably; thinking begins when you can examine its assumptions and identify what evidence would change your mind.
Genuine critical thinking—something different from applying the predetermined categories of critical theory—is harder still. On consequential subjects, truth must be extracted from incomplete evidence, interested testimony, competing interpretations and our capacity for self-deception. We are confirmation-seeking machines with an extraordinary ability to turn motivated reasoning into moral certainty.
My own intellectual progress—and I use the word progress lightly—began with enormous amounts of reading in my twenties and thirties: Noam Chomsky, Nick Turse, Chris Hedges, Naomi Klein, Arundhati Roy, Michael Moore and other writers overwhelmingly critical of the West, capitalism and American power.
Had I studied critical theory, dependency theory or post-colonialism, or grappled seriously with Derrida and Foucault? No. Nor had I read Milton Friedman or Friedrich Hayek; even now, I know much of their work through summaries rather than sustained engagement with the originals.
That was the trap. It was not that left-wing writers had gathered in a secret room and conspired to conceal their philosophical machinery. It was that the popular polemical writing I consumed rarely required me to inspect that machinery at all. Its conclusions arrived with their moral valence already installed. Capitalism was not merely an economic arrangement with strengths, failures and trade-offs; it was exploitation. Western power was not something to be judged according to particular actions and outcomes; it was presumptively imperial. Conservatives were not people advancing arguments I had considered and rejected. They were regressive people who wanted others to suffer.
I had learned the conclusion—and the moral posture that protected it—before I understood the underlying dispute. Once that posture is established, disagreement no longer arrives as information. It arrives as evidence of guilt.
Consider a question that has become common in political conversation: “Surely you oppose the genocide Israel is committing in Gaza?”
It is grammatically a question but structurally a package of conclusions. Genocide is among the worst crimes human beings can commit; therefore, any decent person must oppose it. That part is easy. The difficulty is that the sentence quietly joins this uncontested moral premise to a disputed factual and legal conclusion: that Israel’s conduct in Gaza constitutes genocide.
To pause before accepting the second proposition is not to endorse dead civilians, starvation, collective punishment or war crimes. It is to ask whether the term has been established. Genocide requires specified acts accompanied by the intent to destroy, in whole or substantial part, a protected national, ethnic, racial or religious group. At the time of writing, the International Court of Justice has not issued a final judgment on South Africa’s case against Israel.
A responsible answer might begin: “I oppose genocide without qualification. I am not yet persuaded that genocide is the legally accurate description of Israel’s conduct in Gaza.”
Yet this distinction is often where the moral mechanism activates. Why are you reluctant to condemn genocide? How can you defend what Israel is doing? What kind of person needs more evidence while children are dying? The demand for factual discrimination is recoded as moral indifference, and uncertainty becomes complicity. If the exchange deteriorates far enough, racism, fascism and comparisons to Hitler soon follow.
Notice what has disappeared. We are no longer examining conduct, casualties, official statements or evidence of intent, nor distinguishing genocide from war crimes, crimes against humanity or the legally different consequences of urban warfare. The person who questioned the premise has been placed on trial instead.
Once you have been called a racist and had your ethical character placed under suspicion, what are you supposed to do? Real conversations occur within a social fabric of friendships, workplaces, institutions and reputations. People who know little about the original dispute still understand that proximity to an alleged racist can carry costs.
The rational response is often retreat: qualify what you said, apologize for how it was received or remain silent. None of this determines whether the original claim was true.
Being told to “do the work” can operate in much the same way. There are circumstances in which nobody is obligated to provide an introductory seminar to a belligerent stranger. But when someone advances a disputed public claim, the burden of supporting it does not transfer automatically to anyone who asks for evidence. “Educate yourself” is not an argument, and a reading list assembled entirely within one intellectual tradition is not a substitute for demonstrating the claim.
The accusation creates an enormous asymmetry. It takes seconds to call someone racist, transphobic, fascist or complicit in genocide. Answering may require reconstructing what was said, the evidence behind it and the distinctions being made. By then, the accusation has travelled farther than the rebuttal ever will. Whether intended or not, the effect disciplines everyone watching: this is what happens when the approved conclusion is questioned. What has been established is the price of examining it.
Social media does not create this mechanism, but it forms an unusually effective positive feedback loop around it. Ordinary conversation contains corrective signals: tone of voice, facial expression, hesitation, familiarity and the opportunity to clarify a sentence before it hardens into a verdict. Social media amputates those cues and places the exchange before an audience.
In its place, the platforms provide numbers. Likes, reposts, replies and impressions become crude heuristics for approval and importance, neither of which should be confused with truth. A careful argument that introduces uncertainty may appear weak beside a morally certain accusation that can be understood and shared in seconds. “That claim lacks evidence” requires examination. “You are a racist” requires only allegiance.
The economic structure reinforces the tendency. X allows eligible creators to earn money from content that generates impressions and interaction. Engagement measures activity, not truth value. A correction and a furious denunciation both count; the denunciation may travel farther because anger recruits participants more efficiently than qualification. Moral certainty produces engagement, engagement produces visibility, and visibility is mistaken for consensus.
None of this means moral judgment should be banished from argument. Some propositions are morally repugnant. An argument for racial supremacy, the deliberate murder of civilians or the legal subordination of women should be examined and condemned in moral terms. Refusing to make moral distinctions would not produce intellectual neutrality. It would produce moral cowardice.
The challenge is determining whether the judgment follows from honest examination or merely records our reaction to the person making it. The tribal animal in us is never far beneath the surface. When something important to our identity is questioned, we can experience disagreement as hostility, identify an enemy and begin assembling reasons why a bad person would say such a thing. Evidence is recruited for prosecution rather than examined for understanding.
This tendency is not confined to the activist left. Conservatives, religious communities, nationalists and every other group capable of forming a moral identity can protect their conclusions in the same way. The subject here is the moral vocabulary prevalent in contemporary progressive activism, not because progressives invented tribal cognition, but because terms such as racist, transphobic, fascist and complicit in genocide have become powerful instruments for enforcing its boundaries.
Some people earn those descriptions. The obligation is to demonstrate how. What exactly did the person claim? Was the disagreement factual, definitional or moral? What evidence supports the accusation? Are we applying the same standard to our allies? What would convince us that we had judged the person unfairly?
Charity does not mean weakening the conclusion until nobody can object to it, nor does it require endless patience with someone acting dishonestly. It means identifying the strongest fair version of an argument before criticizing it, locating the actual source of disagreement and leaving open the possibility that either participant may be wrong.
That final possibility is what the prefabricated moral accusation removes. Once disagreement proves guilt, the accuser no longer needs an error-correcting mechanism. The righteous cannot learn from the wicked; they can only expose, discipline or silence them.
The alternative is less emotionally satisfying and considerably more difficult. Return to the proposition. Separate the moral premise from the factual claim. Demand evidence without pretending that evidence eliminates moral responsibility. Judge conduct when the judgment has been earned, and remain willing to correct the judgment when it has not.
A society capable of disagreement must make room for people to be mistaken without making them monsters. Otherwise, moral language ceases to guide inquiry and becomes the means by which inquiry is brought to an end.
References
- International Court of Justice. “Application of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide in the Gaza Strip (South Africa v. Israel).” https://www.icj-cij.org/case/192
- United Nations Office on Genocide Prevention and the Responsibility to Protect. “Definitions of Genocide and Related Crimes.” https://www.un.org/en/node/218413
- X Help Center. “Creator Revenue Sharing.” https://help.x.com/en/using-x/creator-revenue-sharing
“Human beings are very good at noticing the stupidity of outsiders and very bad at noticing when our own side has started laundering emotion through principle.”
It is easy to pick apart other people’s bad arguments. Too easy, sometimes. When the subject is gender ideology, the temptation is worse because so much of the public argument really does arrive as slogans, emotional coercion, category confusion, and moral theatre wearing institutional shoes.
But ease is a warning sign.
If an opponent’s weakest argument is the only one I can bear to examine, then I am not truth-seeking. I am harvesting reassurance. That may feel satisfying in the moment, especially when the home team applauds, but it is not the same thing as thinking.
The discipline I keep returning to is simple and unpleasant: prosecute your own argument in the harshest light you can tolerate. Ask what would weaken it. Ask which evidence you are avoiding. Ask whether your conclusion has become part of your identity, because once that happens, correction starts to feel like humiliation.
That is not easy. It cuts against our tribal wiring. Human beings are very good at noticing the stupidity of outsiders and very bad at noticing when our own side has started laundering emotion through principle. The people who agree with us can become dangerous in exactly this way. They reward the sharp line, the fast dunk, the satisfying contempt. They rarely reward the moment when you say, “This part of my own argument may need work.”
I have had to revise some of my own instincts here. It is too easy to treat the whole phenomenon as ideology, cowardice, and social contagion. Those are real forces, but they do not explain every person caught inside the debate. Some people experience severe and persistent distress around sexed embodiment, and social recognition may reduce suffering in ways that are not trivial. That does not settle women’s spaces, children’s medicine, sports, prisons, or compelled speech. It does mean I have to resist the temptation to collapse every person into the worst activist slogan spoken on their behalf.
The trans debate remains a useful stress test because the public claims are so unstable. If strong evidence showed that cross-sex identification reflected a stable, measurable condition that reliably benefited from social or medical transition under careful safeguards, I would have to revise parts of my view. At present, I do not think that case has been made strongly enough, especially where children, safeguarding, and sex-based boundaries are concerned. Much of what is offered instead is moral pressure: affirmation presented as care, skepticism presented as harm, boundaries presented as hatred.
Still, that cannot become an excuse to write off every person on the other side. The strongest version of their argument is not that slogans are true because activists shout them. It is that some people experience suffering serious enough to deserve humane attention, even if the metaphysics built around that suffering are confused or overstated.
This is where charity matters. Not sentimental charity. Not the kind that asks you to pretend bad arguments are good. Real charity means refusing to make your opponent smaller than they are so you can defeat them more easily.
I do not want to become the mirror image of what I criticize: someone who begins with moral certainty, chooses the facts that flatter it, and treats disagreement as evidence of corruption. If reality matters, then it has to matter when it inconveniences me too.
That is the standard. Not perfection, because nobody gets that. But a willingness to remain revisable. To notice when contempt is doing the work of argument. To ask whether a cherished belief has survived scrutiny or merely avoided it.
A truth-first posture is only worth having if it still applies when the correction costs you something.
The double-slit experiment is one of those scientific ideas people love to borrow badly. It is strange, genuinely humbling, and easy to misuse. That makes it perfect material for people who want reality to be less stubborn than it is.
The basic version is simple enough. Fire particles through two slits without measuring which slit they pass through, and over time they produce an interference pattern, the kind of pattern we associate with waves. Try to measure which slit they go through, and that pattern changes. The system no longer behaves the same way.
That is the part people remember. Unfortunately, they often remember it badly.
The experiment does not show that human consciousness creates reality. It does not show that the universe waits around for a person to notice it before deciding what it is. “Observation” in this context does not mean vibes, attention, social agreement, or someone staring meaningfully at an electron. It means measurement. It means physical interaction with the system. The apparatus matters because the apparatus is part of the situation being tested.
That is weird enough. We do not need to add incense.
There are still serious debates in the foundations of quantum mechanics about how best to interpret what is happening. That is worth admitting. But those debates do not rescue the popular abuse of the experiment. Consciousness is not required, politics does not select the result, and social approval does not decide whether the interference pattern appears.
The real lesson is more disciplined and more interesting. Reality is not always available to common sense. How we investigate can affect what we are able to detect. At quantum scales, measurement is not a passive act, like glancing at a chair from across the room. It changes the conditions under which the result appears.
That should make people humble about truth-finding. It should not make them casual about reality.
This is where social constructivist thinking often slips in through the side door. It does not usually announce itself by saying, “Nothing is real.” That would be too crude, and too easy to reject. Instead, it emphasizes language, framing, power, interpretation, categories, and social meaning until the reader quietly stops treating reality as a constraint and starts treating it as a negotiation.
Reality is real, but not always simple. Because it is not simple, we need better methods, not ideological shortcuts.
Some things really are socially constructed. Money depends on shared agreement. Borders depend on law, force, recognition, and maps. Job titles, academic credentials, citizenship categories, and institutional rituals all rely on human systems to maintain them. That is not a trivial point. Human beings create layers of social meaning that shape how we live, distribute status, enforce rules, and decide what counts inside institutions.
But the fact that some realities are socially maintained does not mean all realities are socially produced. The category “doctor” is socially regulated. The body on the operating table is not. A passport is a legal object. A kidney is not. A government can change language around inflation, housing, crime, or sex, but the material world does not become more cooperative because the terminology became more fashionable.
This is the tell to watch for. A valid insight about interpretation gets stretched until it weakens contact with reality. “Categories have social meaning” becomes “categories are merely imposed.” “Observation matters” becomes “truth depends on standpoint.” “Language shapes perception” becomes “language can rearrange the world.” Each step sounds sophisticated enough in isolation. Put them together, and ordinary reality gets escorted out of the room by people who insist they are only asking questions.
The double-slit experiment does not support that move. If anything, it rebukes it. The experiment is repeatable. The results are disciplined. The mathematics is unforgiving. You do not get a different interference pattern because your politics require one. You do not get to vote on the apparatus. The whole point of the experiment is that reality answers back, though not always in the form our intuitions expected.
That distinction matters far beyond physics. Bad theories of reality do not stay in seminar rooms. They eventually show up in schools, medicine, law, media, and public policy, often wearing the language of compassion or sophistication. If institutions lose the ability to distinguish between social meaning and material constraint, they do not become more humane. They become easier to fool.
Quantum weirdness should not become a permission slip for intellectual fog. It should remind us that careful methods are necessary precisely because reality can be subtle. The world is not always obvious, but it is also not waiting for our preferred theory to grant it permission to exist.
The better response to mystery is not social construction all the way down. It is patience, precision, and less eagerness to turn every difficulty in knowing into an excuse for pretending the thing known has disappeared.
Good intentions are not enough. That should be obvious, but much of our public life now behaves as if noble language can rescue bad thinking.
Before people declare what is compassionate, just, inclusive, hateful, dangerous, or necessary, they need some reliable way of knowing whether their factual claims are true. That order matters. If the tools used to find truth are broken, captured, or designed to protect a preferred belief from contradiction, then the moral conclusions built on top of those tools will inherit the damage.
This is not a left-wing or right-wing problem, though each side prefers noticing it in the other. The progressive version often begins with moral urgency. A policy is called compassionate, inclusive, or protective, and once that moral label is attached, factual objections start to look suspicious. Questions about consequences become “harm.” Questions about definitions become “erasure.” Questions about evidence become proof that the questioner is unsafe.
The conservative version has its own habits. A bad social trend gets folded too quickly into civilizational decline. One ugly example becomes proof of total collapse. A complicated institutional failure becomes evidence that the enemy planned the whole thing. The moral conclusion may contain some truth, but it arrives too early and then starts recruiting facts to serve it.
That is the trap. Once moral certainty arrives first, the mind stops investigating and starts defending.
You can see the pattern wherever institutions are rewarded for sounding virtuous before they are required to be accurate. A school board adopts fashionable language before asking whether the policy helps children. A medical system treats hesitation as cruelty before the long-term evidence is settled. A government describes economic pain in careful managerial terms while households are trying to make rent, groceries, debt, and wages fit inside the same month. The details differ, but the sequence is familiar: the moral frame arrives first, and the facts are invited in later as supporting cast.
A healthier public culture would ask plainer questions before the slogans begin. What is the claim? What evidence would show it is true? What evidence would weaken it? Who pays the cost if we are wrong? Are we counting those costs honestly, including the costs to people we do not like? Are we applying the same standard when the facts embarrass our own side?
Those questions are not glamorous. They do not fit neatly on a protest sign or a campaign graphic. They also do not offer the emotional satisfaction of instant righteousness. But they are the difference between thinking and performing.
This matters because moral language is powerful. It can move people to protect the vulnerable, correct injustice, and resist cruelty. But the same language can also be used to smuggle weak claims past scrutiny. Institutions have incentives to do this. Activists gain status from certainty. Bureaucracies protect themselves with approved vocabulary. Media outlets reward emotional clarity over careful qualification. Ordinary people learn, quickly enough, which questions are safe to ask in public and which ones are better saved for the parking lot.
So they accept the conclusion first and hope the facts will catch up later.
They often do not.
Reality has a way of collecting unpaid debts. Bad premises eventually produce visible damage: failed policies, institutional distrust, medical scandals, economic denial, public cowardice, and citizens who no longer believe official language because they have watched it bend too many times.
The answer is not cynicism. Cynicism is often just laziness wearing a smarter jacket. The answer is better truth-finding: slower claims, clearer definitions, stronger evidence, real costs counted on both sides, and a willingness to notice when our preferred story stops matching the world.
That includes me. That includes you. That includes the people whose politics we find irritating, fashionable, smug, or deranged. Nobody gets a permanent exemption from reality because their intentions are good or their enemies are worse.
A decent society needs moral seriousness, but moral seriousness cannot mean protecting our favourite conclusions from examination. It has to mean caring enough about justice to ask whether our account of the world is actually true.
[Note: The listening/mirroring technique here is adapted from approaches outlined in How to Have Impossible Conversations.]
Most arguments don’t fail because one side is wrong.
They fail because neither side is actually listening.
What passes for debate is often parallel monologue: each person waiting for their turn to correct, reframe, or condemn. The collapse happens early—sometimes before the first real claim is even made. A label is applied, a motive is assigned, a conclusion is declared. The exchange ends before it begins.
If you can get past that—and sometimes you can—there is a simple discipline that changes the quality of the conversation.
It feels slow.
It feels like you’re giving something up.
It works.
The Three-Step Method
1. Listen Without Drafting Your Rebuttal
This is the constraint.
When you disagree, your mind races ahead. You start assembling the counter while the other person is still speaking. You catch fragments, miss structure, and fill the gaps with what you expect them to say.
That is how you end up arguing with a version of their position that exists mostly in your own head.
If you want a real exchange, you have to let the argument land in full before you touch it.
2. Mirror the Argument Back
Once they’ve finished, restate their position in your own words:
“If I’ve got you right, you’re saying…”
This is not a rhetorical move. It is a calibration step.
You’re trying to capture the claim, the mechanism, and the stakes as you understand them—not a weaker version, not a cleaner version, but the version you think they actually mean.
3. Ask for Confirmation
Then check it:
“Is that a fair representation?”
If they say yes, you now share a starting point.
If they say no, you’ve just prevented a wasted argument.
Either way, you’ve improved the conversation.
Why This Works
Most arguments fail at the level of misunderstanding, not disagreement.
People talk past each other, attack softened targets, and leave thinking they’ve won. What they’ve done is avoid contact.
Mirroring forces contact.
It aligns the map before you start fighting over the territory.
The Cost
It is slower than trading blows.
It feels like conceding ground.
And it requires a small act of restraint: you prioritize their clarity before your correction.
That runs against instinct, especially when you’re confident they’re wrong.
The Payoff
When you mirror someone accurately, two things happen:
- Their defensiveness drops because they’ve been understood
- Your criticism lands because it targets their actual position
Now the disagreement can do useful work.
Not louder. Not sharper.
Just accurate.
Verdict
Arguing is an art.
But listening—disciplined, deliberate, and verified—is the condition that makes the art possible.
Without it, you’re not debating.
You’re performing.
The attack on Bill 25 has settled into a familiar script. Critics say it will make schools less welcoming, by which they mean that restricting ideological flag displays, limiting board activism, and requiring neutrality in certain forms of programming will make some students feel unseen or unwanted. It is an effective line because it hides a political claim inside the language of care. Nobody wants an unwelcoming school. The trick is that welcoming is being made to mean more than safety, decency, and respect.
A school should be safe, orderly, and humane. It should protect students from bullying, enforce standards of conduct, and make it possible for children to learn without fear or humiliation. What does not follow is the larger claim now being pushed by Bill 25’s opponents: that a public school must also visibly signal allegiance to a particular moral framework, and that if it stops doing so it has somehow become hostile.
“Protection is not the same as endorsement.”
That is the switch.
On the actual text, Bill 25 does not erase students, ban disagreement, or outlaw difficult topics. What it does is narrower, and more defensible, than its critics pretend. It pushes Alberta’s education law back toward institutional restraint. The bill revises parts of the Education Act’s language around school climate, requires courses and instructional materials to encourage a wide range of perspectives and foster critical thinking, says boards must refrain from taking political, social, or ideological positions unrelated to their duties, and requires certain non-approved programming to be impartial, fair, neutral, and free of personal bias. It also restricts school flags by default to the Canadian and Alberta flags, subject to later regulatory exceptions.
That is not a purge. It is a correction.
Now, the strongest version of the other side’s case is not hard to state. Some vulnerable students really do experience explicit symbols of affirmation as reassuring. Some will feel more at ease in an environment where support is made visible rather than merely promised in policy language. And because Bill 25 uses broad terms like “political, social or ideological” and refers to “common values and beliefs of Albertans,” it is fair to ask how those phrases will be applied in practice. A sloppy implementation could create confusion where schools need clarity.
Those are real concerns. They still do not settle the argument.
A public institution cannot make emotional reassurance the test for what it is allowed to endorse. The fact that some students feel comforted by visible institutional alignment does not mean the institution should align itself with a contested worldview. In a pluralistic public school, there will always be students who feel affirmed by one framework and alienated by another. The institution cannot solve that problem by choosing a side and calling the choice kindness. Its job is to protect students, maintain order, teach well, and show restraint in the use of its authority.
A public school is not a campaign office, a therapeutic identity space, or an activist workshop with a literacy block attached. It is a public institution. It belongs to families who do not agree with one another about politics, morality, religion, sex, identity, or the kind of society they want their children to inherit. Such an institution cannot remain trustworthy for long if it begins signaling that one contested framework has acquired official moral status.
This is why so much of the criticism of Bill 25 feels dishonest. It starts from a true premise and then quietly expands it. Some students are vulnerable. Fine. They deserve protection, dignity, and ordinary decency. But from that narrow duty of care, critics jump to a much broader demand: that the institution must visibly ratify a particular set of assumptions and display them as part of the school’s moral atmosphere. Protection becomes affirmation, affirmation becomes endorsement, and endorsement begins to drift into instruction.
“A school can protect a student without acting as a billboard for a worldview.”
That is the real dispute.
A teacher can treat every child with dignity without using classroom authority to suggest that contested beliefs about sex, identity, and society have already been settled beyond argument. A board can meet its legal obligations without issuing statements on every political controversy fashionable adults feel obliged to perform opinions about. Bill 25 does not solve all of this, but it does attempt to restore some institutional discipline where that discipline had plainly weakened.
As a teacher, that part is hard to ignore. I am not in the classroom to advertise my politics, recruit students into a moral sensibility, or drape school authority over my own preferred social vision and call the result compassion. I am there to teach. That means helping students read carefully, write clearly, listen seriously, and argue without slogans doing all the work for them. It also means knowing where my job ends.
That professional boundary now seems strangely difficult for some people to defend. They talk as though asking an institution to remain neutral is the same thing as demanding that individual students disappear. It is not. Bill 25 does not say students cannot exist as they are, think as they do, or discuss difficult questions. What it says, in substance, is that the institution itself should exercise more restraint in the positions it takes, the programming it allows outside the approved curriculum, and the symbolic alignment it displays as a public body.
That is a long way from the apocalyptic language being used against it.
None of this means the bill is perfect. It is not. The practical details will matter, and future regulations will matter even more. But arguing over those details is not the same as falsifying the centre.
And the centre is simple. A public school should not behave like an ideological camp that happens to issue report cards. It should teach students from many backgrounds under rules that are serious, fair, and publicly defensible. It should protect the vulnerable without demanding institutional allegiance to one faction’s beliefs. It should cultivate thought rather than posture, and trust rather than theatre.
The most dishonest move Bill 25’s opponents have made is to present neutrality as though it were hostility. That only works if one has already confused institutional discipline with emotional abandonment. Once every limit on symbolic activism is recast as an attack on children, no boundary remains. The institution becomes available for endless moral capture by whichever faction is best at translating its politics into therapeutic language.
That is not a school anyone should trust.
Bill 25 does not solve every problem in education. What it does do is move, however imperfectly, in the right direction. It treats the school as a public institution rather than a stage for institutional self-display. It reminds boards and educators that restraint is part of professionalism. It suggests, at long last, that children can be protected without making ideology the atmosphere everyone is expected to breathe.
That is not cruelty. It is maturity.
References
Bill 25 (official PDF):
Click to access 20251023_bill-025.pdf
Government of Alberta overview:
https://www.alberta.ca/removing-politics-and-ideology-from-alberta-classrooms
Just because I can never remember”Post hoc ergo propter hoc” when I need it.
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