In sports, opposing teams wear different jerseys. But why? Is it because players might forget what their teammates look like? Hardly. Are the uniforms primarily for spectators? Not exactly—teams wear distinct uniforms even in empty stadiums. The real function of jerseys is more practical: they provide an immediate visual shorthand for distinguishing friend from foe. They simplify perception, allowing players to focus on the game rather than on identification.
In the context of sports, this perceptual shortcut works remarkably well. But when we carry this logic into cultural and political discourse—dividing participants into “the Right” and “the Left,” or “Team Red” and “Team Blue”—the results are far less helpful.
While I understand the impulse to neatly categorize the participants in our cultural and political conflicts, the binary language inherited from America’s two-party system often obscures more than it reveals. Social media brims with declarations about what "the Right" or "the Left" believes, values, or intends. Yet these proclamations usually illuminate more about the speaker's perspective than they do about the supposed teams themselves. The truth is that both groups encompass a bewildering array of ideologies, priorities, and individuals—many of whom have little in common beyond a loosely shared label.
Take “the Left,” for example. Who exactly does this label include? Depending on whom you ask, the roster might range from Antifa activists and transgender advocates to Robin DiAngelo, Joe Biden, Sam Harris, Bill Maher, Coleman Hughes (author of The End of Race Politics), John McWhorter (author of Woke Racism), and Bari Weiss, who describes herself as a “left-leaning centrist.” Add to this group pro-life advocates like Kristen Day and Democrats for Life of America, and the ideological diversity becomes even harder to reconcile. Many of these individuals disagree sharply on issues ranging from race and religion to abortion and economics. In some cases, they are connected only by the thinnest of threads—perhaps a shared support for gay marriage or civil unions. What, then, does it actually mean to talk about “the Left” as a coherent entity?
The same applies to “the Right.” Under this banner, one might find white nationalist Nick Fuentes and his “Groyper” movement, the militant Proud Boys, conservative politicians like Rand Paul and (Mormon) Mitt Romney, activists like the late Charlie Kirk, social conservatives like Kevin DeYoung, influencers like Rob Smith—a gay, Black veteran (despite his public departure from the Republican party), and Christians like Russell Moore and David French. The range of views within “the Right” is so broad—and often so contradictory—that referring to them as a unified bloc is not only inaccurate but also unhelpful.
If such diversity exists within each camp, why do we continue to rely on this binary language? Perhaps the primary reason is efficiency. Political and cultural conflicts thrive on momentum, and precision slows things down. Calling out “many progressives who advocate X” or “conservatives who support Y” simply doesn’t carry the rhetorical punch of declaring, “The Left is destroying America” or “The Right is evil.” Binary labels offer a clear-cut enemy, a clear-cut side, and a sense of belonging. They’re emotionally satisfying, even if intellectually sloppy, and backing away from them can risk appearing as though we have “gone soft” or been compromised by duplicious calls to be “better listener.”
Just as jerseys enable players to instantly identify allies and opponents without thinking, political shorthand allows individuals to sort the cultural field without nuance. It’s easier to say, “They’re on the other team—oppose them,” or “They’re on our side—we’re safe with them,” than to wrestle with the complexity of individual beliefs. But the cost of this convenience is high. It cultivates intellectual laziness, inhibits honest conversation, and stifles the kind of analysis that truth requires.
Furthermore, the practical tensions created by the binary language are not insignificant. Many conservatives cringe at the thought that David French and Russell Moore are their teammates on “the Right.” I’m sure French and Moore would similiarly cringe to be considered alongside the likes of Nick Fuentes and the Proud Boys. On the other hand, those who chant “the Left is evil” simultaneously find themselves drawn to the insights and analysis of thinkers like Coleman Hughes and Bari Weiss. These internal tensions reflect the inadequacy of our categories: we feel enslaved by the terms, yet we keep using them because better language hasn’t taken root. The closest we’ve come to nuance here is terms like, ‘moderate,’ ‘alt-right,’ and ‘far-left’—not exactly perspicuous designators.
What we need, quite simply, is more categories—more terms that reflect the ideological landscape as it actually exists. Until that happens (and I’m not holding my breath), we should at least be more precise in our language. Phrases like “many who lean left,” “some progressives,” or “most on the right” may be less stirring, but they are far more honest. And honesty—especially in public discourse—is not a luxury; it’s a necessity.
To illustrate the problem in conclusion, consider the idea of the “average plumber.” We can talk about average income, demographics, and work patterns. But the “average plumber” doesn’t exist. No one can tell you where they live or what they think. They are a statistical construct—a useful fiction. In a similiar way, “the Right” and “the Left” are rhetorical conveniences that stand in for real people with real complexity.
We have a moral responsibility to name what is good and oppose what is evil. But we also have a responsibility to speak the truth about other image-bearers—not about corporate fictions, but about individuals, actions, and ideas. That may not be as efficient or exciting as shouting slogans in a digital coliseum, but it is the only path to seeking justice, and truth.
And truth, however slow or unglamorous, is worth it.
Such a needed conversation.