I remember the exact moment when I began my journey as a rationalist.
It was not while reading Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman or any existing work upon rationality; for these I simply accepted as obvious. The journey begins when you see a great flaw in your existing art, and discover a drive to improve, to create new skills beyond the helpful but inadequate ones you found in books.
In the last moments of my first life, I was fifteen years old, and rehearsing a pleasantly self-righteous memory of a time when I was much younger. My memories this far back are vague; I have a mental image, but I don’t remember how old I was exactly. I think I was six or seven, and that the original event happened during summer camp.
What happened originally was that a camp counselor, a teenage male, got us much younger boys to form a line, and proposed the following game: the boy at the end of the line would crawl through our legs, and we would spank him as he went past, and then it would be the turn of the next eight-year-old boy at the end of the line. (Maybe it’s just that I’ve lost my youthful innocence, but I can’t help but wonder . . .) I refused to play this game, and was told to go sit in the corner.
This memory—of refusing to spank and be spanked—came to symbolize to me that even at this very early age I had refused to take joy in hurting others. That I would not purchase a spank on another’s butt, at the price of a spank on my own; would not pay in hurt for the opportunity to inflict hurt. I had refused to play a negative-sum game.
And then, at the age of fifteen, I suddenly realized that it wasn’t true. I hadn’t refused out of a principled stand against negative-sum games. I found out about the Prisoner’s Dilemma pretty early in life, but not at the age of seven. I’d refused simply because I didn’t want to get hurt, and standing in the corner was an acceptable price to pay for not getting hurt.
More importantly, I realized that I had always known this—that the real memory had always been lurking in a corner of my mind, my mental eye glancing at it for a fraction of a second and then looking away.
In my very first step along the Way, I caught the feeling—generalized over the subjective experience—and said, “So that’s what it feels like to shove an unwanted truth into the corner of my mind! Now I’m going to notice every time I do that, and clean out all my corners!”
This discipline I named singlethink, after Orwell’s doublethink. In doublethink, you forget, and then forget you have forgotten. In singlethink, you notice you are forgetting, and then you remember. You hold only a single non-contradictory thought in your mind at once.
“Singlethink” was the first new rationalist skill I created, which I had not read about in books. I doubt that it is original in the sense of academic priority, but this is thankfully not required.
Oh, and my fifteen-year-old self liked to name things.
The terrifying depths of the confirmation bias go on and on. Not forever, for the brain is of finite complexity, but long enough that it feels like forever. You keep on discovering (or reading about) new mechanisms by which your brain shoves things out of the way.
But my young self swept out quite a few corners with that first broom.
Interesting. Now I'm thinking about my own journey.
Having been raised Christian... and in a very evangelical, pentecostal tradition no less... I wasn't exactly encouraged to think like this early on... great swathes of things were simply to be taken on faith, and doubt simply referred over to the appropriately doctrinal section of apologetics. It did not help that both of my parents hold bachelor's degrees in Christian theology.
Nonetheless... they couldn't entirely shield me from the world. The start of my journey, so far as I can recall, came while studying physics... which I did before high school, incidentally, as I was always a voracious reader. I read about things like Einstein's Theory of Relativity, and Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle... and after thinking about the implications of them, I realized that I was confused.
"Hang on, this can't be right. God is omniscient, and thus has knowledge of everything, everywhere in the universe, irregardless of such pettiness as the speed of light being the maximum speed for transfer of information. The tools of Science may not be able to determine both the exact position and momentum of a particle, but God must know!"
Of course, my initial reaction was wrong. But I'd spotted a problem in my worldview, and additional study of science seemed to reinforce my nagging doubts. I didn't have a word to explain it, then... indeed, I didn't have the words to fully articulate the problem until I read Atlas Shrugged in college, and thereby learned of the law of non-contradiction. But it was seeing that contradiction that first got me thinking in terms of "either my religious beliefs are true, or a large body of experimentally verified science is true, but not both"... and having realized that, it left me open to changing my mind on the subject later on. Which, fortunately, I did.
The most common Christian answer to that contradiction, when translated into modern parlance, is that God is the hardware on which the universe runs. Not only can he know both the position and speed of a particle at any given time, but he, in fact, must know it at all times or it would cease to exist.
The fact that some philosophers could figure this out over a thousand years ago is impressive. The fact that the majority of "believers" just blink in incomprehension and then go right on thinking of God as just a slightly mutated human who lives in the sky is disheartening. Especially now that we routinely fly above the blue and know that what's "up there," in the physical sense, is just more sky.