Doing the Right Thing Is Easy — Until It Costs You Something

Most of us believe that we are honest and principled people.

We believe that we would resist improper pressure, treat everyone fairly, defend someone who was being criticised behind their back and tell the truth even when a convenient lie would make life easier.

It is an impressive list of virtues.

It is also much easier to maintain when nothing is at stake.

The real test arrives when doing the right thing might upset the principal, disappoint a hardworking student, offend a colleague, hurt a friend — or damage a relationship.

During my teaching career, and in ordinary life outside school, I occasionally encountered situations in which the right answer was not printed at the back of the book.

The principal who did not express a preference

I was once part of a panel responsible for shortlisting applicants for a teaching position at my school.

The principal handed us five résumés.

“Read through them and decide for yourselves,” he said.

That was exactly what a selection panel was supposed to do.

Then he added, “I think John would fit well into our school, but you should decide for yourselves.”

It was a skilfully constructed sentence. The second half granted us complete independence. The first half told us the result he preferred.

He had not ordered us to shortlist John. He had not threatened us or suggested that there would be consequences if we chose someone else. He had merely placed John’s name in our minds before we had examined the applications.

Could we now read the five résumés impartially?

If John appeared suitable, would that be because he was genuinely the strongest applicantor because the principal had already pointed us towards him? If another applicant appeared stronger, would we be prepared to say so?

Perhaps the safest approach was not to confront the principal or to reject John merely to prove our independence. It was to examine every application against the same criteria and be prepared to explain our recommendation.

Doing the right thing did not require a dramatic speech. It required us to remember why the panel existed.

The student who missed by one mark

A more difficult dilemma involved a student in my Year 11 class.

She hoped to continue with the Year 12 subject because it would assist her desired career path. To qualify, she needed an overall grade of at least 80 per cent.

She had worked hard throughout the year. She attended to her studies, sought help and even hired a tutor. Nobody could accuse her of being careless or indifferent.

On the final test, however, she received 70 per cent. That result gave her an overall average of 79 per cent.

Had she received 72 per cent on the test, her average would have become the required 80 per cent.

The class had not yet been told its results.

Two marks.

That was all that separated her from the required average and, perhaps, from the course she believed she needed for her future.

It would have been very easy to look again at two questions, interpret her working generously and change 70 to 72. No student would lose anything. She would be rewarded for a year of genuine effort. She might never know that a decision had been made on her behalf.

But would that have been kindness — or dishonesty?

If 79 could become 80, what should happen to the student with 78? What about the student who had worked just as hard but could not afford a tutor? A standard that changes whenever we sympathise with someone is no longer a standard.

Yet merely saying, “Rules are rules,” also felt inadequate. A single percentage point can appear mathematically small while carrying an enormous human consequence.

The fair response, where school policy permits it, is not to invent marks. It is to look for an honest way in which the student can demonstrate that she is ready: a supplementary task, a review of the assessment, consideration of other evidence or a formal discussion about whether the threshold should be applied rigidly.

Compassion matters. But compassion administered secretly and selectively can become favouritism.

The invitation to criticise an absent colleague

Another colleague frequently criticised a fellow teacher when only the two of us were present.

His complaints were usually general.

“He spends too much money.”

“He’s aiming for the top.”

“He can’t be trusted.”

After each observation, he would pause and ask what I thought. He did not really want a fresh assessment. He wanted confirmation.

Agreeing would have been easy. A few sympathetic words would have kept the conversation comfortable and strengthened my relationship with the person standing in front of me.

Defending the absent colleague might have created tension. Remaining silent could itself be interpreted as agreement.

There was also another danger. Someone who regularly tells you what he thinks of other people may eventually tell other people what he thinks of you.

The most honest response did not require me to declare that the absent colleague was perfect. I could simply say:

“I haven’t had that experience with him, so I can’t agree.”

That sentence neither attacked my companion nor joined in the criticism. It also made clear that I would not provide the endorsement he was seeking.

Sometimes courage is not a heroic act. Sometimes it is refusing to nod.

The Friday-night dinner

Moral dilemmas are not confined to staffrooms and selection panels. Some arrive disguised as friendly invitations.

My wife and I were invited to dinner at a restaurant on a Friday night. The friends who invited us lived near the restaurant. For us, attending would involve approximately two hours of driving after a tiring week of work.

We appreciated the invitation. We also did not want to go.

That created several convenient possibilities.

The car could suddenly develop trouble. One of us could acquire a headache, an upset stomach or the first symptoms of an illness that would disappear miraculously by Saturday morning.

A small lie might save our friends from feeling rejected. It might also save us from appearing ungrateful.

Was this one of the harmless white lies that helps society function, or was it simply cowardice dressed as consideration?

The truthful answer could still be polite:

“Thank you for inviting us, but after the working week, that much driving on Friday night would be too tiring for us.”

Our friends might be disappointed. They might even think we should have made the effort. But at least we would not need to remember which mechanical fault or imaginary illness we had invented.

Honesty does not require us to be brutal. It merely requires us not to manufacture a more respectable reason than the real one.

The constable and his girlfriend

More than thirty years ago, I remember watching a television report about a protest march in Melbourne.

As I recall it, police had been instructed to arrest people who were causing trouble. One young constable unexpectedly found himself facing his girlfriend among the protesters. He had not known that she intended to be there.

She apparently expected him to protect her.

My original memory of the incident was that he arrested her. On reflection, I believe what actually happened was more complicated. Rather than formally arresting her, he quickly escorted her away from the crowd, apparently preventing either himself or another officer from arresting her.

He may have believed that he had found a humane compromise. He removed her from the situation, complied at least partly with his duty and spared someone he loved the consequences faced by other protesters.

Unfortunately for him, television cameras recorded the encounter. What might otherwise have remained a private decision became public.

Was he showing sensible discretion? Was he protecting someone from an unnecessary arrest? Or was he giving his girlfriend special treatment that would not have been available to a stranger?

There is another complication. The answer depends on what she had actually done. Attending a lawful protest is not, by itself, grounds for arrest. If she had committed no offence, perhaps escorting her away was reasonable. If other people behaving in precisely the same way were arrested, protecting her would appear unfair.

I have been unable to verify the old report, and after so many years some details may have faded or changed in my memory. Nevertheless, the dilemma has remained with me.

The constable had only seconds to decide. The rest of us have had decades to debate whether he was right.

The uncomfortable space between right and wrong

These situations are very different, but they have something in common. In none of them was the temptation to behave badly announced openly.

The principal did not issue an improper order. He expressed an opinion.

The student did not ask for a dishonest mark. Her effort asked silently on her behalf.

The colleague did not demand that I spread a malicious rumour. He invited me to agree with him.

Our friends did not force us to invent an excuse. We considered doing so because the truth felt uncomfortable.

The constable did not have time to consult a book on professional ethics. His personal and public lives collided in front of television cameras.

We often speak as though the moral choice is obvious. Be honest. Be fair. Be loyal. Be compassionate. Do your duty.

The difficulty is that these virtues do not always point in the same direction.

Fairness can appear cruel. Compassion can become favouritism. Loyalty can require dishonesty. Duty can conflict with mercy. A truthful answer can hurt someone, while a lie can appear kind.

Perhaps doing the right thing begins with refusing to ask only, “What will make this situation easiest for me?”

It may also require a second question:

“Would I make the same decision if the people involved were strangers?”

That question would challenge the principal’s preferred candidate, the student one mark below the threshold, the colleague seeking agreement, the friends waiting at the restaurant and the constable facing his girlfriend.

Doing the right thing is easy when it costs us nothing.

The true moral dilemma begins when we receive the bill.