If there’s one thing a Ngāpuhi likes, it’s arguing a case. Unfortunately for everyone else, I’ve always got one.
That’s probably why I’ve never quite understood Kiwis’ obsession with being nice. Between inherited British politeness, our talent for understatement, and the national fear of ever “making a fuss”, we have somehow managed to make “nice” one of the highest compliments available to a person, even though it tells us almost nothing about whether they are actually good. It’s an indisputable social contract that you have little say in. If something is wrong, we learn that it's best to mention it quietly – preferably after everyone has gone home.
Nice Is A Place In France
Let’s get one thing straight – there’s nothing wrong with being nice. At times, I myself am rather keen on human decency. The problem is that we have collapsed kindness, goodness and agreeableness into the same thing, as though they are interchangeable. Spoiler: they’re not. Kindness asks you to consider another person, while niceness often asks you not to inconvenience them. Where one requires empathy, the other can be achieved with a smile.
British social etiquette has given us an impressive vocabulary for this. We call someone “a bit much” when they are expressive, “not everyone’s cup of tea” when they are unpopular, and “quite direct” when they have apparently committed the grave social offence of saying exactly what they mean. The Kiwi version is even more efficient: don’t be a dick, but also don’t get too successful, too opinionated, or too pleased with yourself. Tall poppy syndrome has never needed much explaining because the message is remarkably straightforward: rise, by all means, but don’t you dare make the rest of us feel short.
The unfortunate result is a colourlessly dull culture where pleasantness can become more socially valuable than principle. Someone who causes no trouble is often assumed to be good, while someone who causes trouble is required to prove that the trouble was necessary.
The Audacity of Discomfort
So, when did we become so remarkably good at confusing a pleasant experience with a good outcome? We praise the manager who is “so lovely”, the politician who is “down to earth”, and the friend who “never takes sides” without asking whether any of them are particularly honest, competent, fair, or even willing to do a difficult thing. Apparently, if the delivery is warm enough, we become less inclined to inspect the contents.
This becomes particularly sinister when niceness meets the bystander effect. The classic dilemma is not whether people notice that something is wrong; rather, it is whether somebody else will be the first to acknowledge it. In a crowded room, silence masquerades as consensus. After all, nobody wants to be dramatic, or be the person who “makes a thing of it.”
And then “nice” enters institutions. Raising a concern at work is often redirected to whether you handled it “nicely”. Challenge a decision and you’re “creating tension”, or ask an uncomfortable question and you’re “making things difficult”. There is also a strange political convenience in making the discomfort the emergency, rather than whatever caused it. A room may remain perfectly pleasant while something incredibly unpleasant is happening within it – all that is actually required is for everyone to agree that whoever mentions it is being negative. The suggestion of “don’t make it awkward” sounds like fantastic social advice until you realise that awkwardness is often the first sign that somebody has finally said something worth hearing.
The same logic follows us into politics, where we routinely reward presentation over substance. We expect our leaders to be relatable, our institutions to be approachable and our disagreements to be entirely civilised enough that nobody loses their appetite discussing them. There is something deeply revealing about a culture that can forgive a bad decision more easily than an impolite one.
Please Remain Quiet
Perhaps the problem is not that we are too nice, but that we have become far too impressed by niceness. A pleasant person can still be dishonest, a polite institution can still be harmful, and a peaceful room can still be full of people choosing not to speak. Sometimes the useful thing is to ask the question that makes everybody shift in their seats. Maybe being good was never supposed to mean being easy to deal with.
If the only thing keeping the peace is everybody agreeing not to say what they think, was it ever peace at all?
Long Live the Question
