A Day at School: Psychohistory
When Thinking Is Already Science Fiction
The first Civics Values Education class for seventh grade began with an unusual word projected on the digital whiteboard: psychohistory.
—Psychohistory —said the teacher, walking slowly through the classroom— is an idea borrowed from science fiction literature, particularly from Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series. We’re not going to read science fiction today, but we will borrow its approach. Asimov imagined a science that combined mathematics, statistics, history, and psychology, capable of predicting the collective behavior of societies. We’re not here to predict anything, at least not for now. But if we understand why and how people believe in certain ideas, we can also think about what social effects those beliefs might have in the medium and long term.
He paused, scanning the class with his eyes.
—And for that, we first have to learn to recognize how messages that aim to influence what we think are constructed.
Some students listened attentively. Others were confused. A few were already looking out the window.
—Open your laptops —he continued—. We’re going to work with the transcript of the inaugural speech of a highly media-savvy and influential president who took office just a few months ago. It’s a real speech, it happened in real life, and that’s why it’s important we learn to analyze it.
A restless murmur went through the room. The document contained thirty minutes of uninterrupted speech. Everyone realized this would not be a light class.
—Before we begin the analysis —the teacher said— let’s distinguish two things: the false and the fallacious. The false can be refuted relatively quickly by searching for data from reliable sources, whether in books or online. The fallacious, on the other hand, is more complex. It can sound reasonable, even logical, but in reality, its structure is deceptive. Detecting it requires critical thinking, deductive capability, and some logical training.
He showed the annotated document on the screen where he had marked 22 types of fallacies. He insisted on being precise with terminology:
—Types, not fallacies. Because the text contains many more individual fallacies. These are just the general categories we’ll use to classify them.
—I know the list is long —the teacher said before continuing—, but I need you to listen carefully. It's not enough to know that fallacies exist. To understand how they work, we have to recognize their forms. Listing them now isn’t about memorization, but a way to see the variety and complexity with which speeches can mislead us without us noticing. Some are obvious, others are subtle, but all have a name and structure.
He then took the time to mention each one, slowly, as they appeared on the screen: ad hominem, when the person is attacked instead of refuting their arguments; appeal to fear, when the speaker tries to move the listener through threats or imminent dangers; false cause, which assumes a causal relationship where there’s only coincidence; hasty generalization, drawing broad conclusions from too few cases; straw man, a classic strategy where the opponent’s argument is misrepresented to refute it more easily; irrelevant anecdote, using a particular case to sidetrack or invalidate general arguments; appeal to authority, which seeks to settle debates by invoking influential figures even if they’re not experts on the topic; slippery slope, asserting that one action will inevitably lead to drastic consequences without proving the chain; appeal to ignorance, claiming something is true simply because the contrary hasn’t been proven; and the false dichotomy, which presents only two options as if they’re the only possible ones, when in fact there are many more.
Then came others: the composition fallacy, attributing properties of the parts to the whole; the division fallacy, doing the reverse; begging the question, where the conclusion is already assumed in the premises; appeal to emotion, manipulating feelings to avoid rational arguments; appeal to the people, asserting something is true because many believe it; appeal to tradition, defending a practice simply because it’s old; appeal to novelty, valuing something only because it’s new; shifting the burden of proof, making the other party disprove what hasn’t been demonstrated; the accident fallacy, inappropriately applying a general rule to specific cases; the context fallacy, taking quotes or data out of their original context; circular argument, using the conclusion as its own proof; and lastly, the special pleading fallacy, introducing arbitrary exceptions to shield an assertion.
—These are the twenty-two types of fallacy present in the speech —the teacher said, highlighting the complete list with a pointer—. Now that you know the general framework, you should know that in the speech we’re going to analyze I identified at least forty-five specific fallacies. Each of you will work with one fallacy type, and your computers will indicate which one.
Marta raised her hand. Her gesture was a mix of disbelief and slight offense—though no one in the classroom quite understood why.
—But that’s impossible —she said—. How can one person say forty-five fallacies of twenty-two different types in thirty minutes of speech?
The teacher paused. He realized he might have gotten ahead of himself, assuming something was obvious when it wasn’t for everyone. He took a calm breath before answering.
—That’s a good question, Marta —he said compassionately—. But there’s something important we need to understand. When we listen to a presidential address, we aren’t just hearing one person improvising. What we hear is the work of an entire team of experts, probably the best in their fields, with backgrounds in rhetoric, psychology, advertising, public opinion, and social behavior analysis. A communications team specialized in building messages that impact, mobilize, and persuade.
He paused, looking around at the group.
—That’s why it’s so difficult for us. It’s an uneven battle. They had weeks to draft, refine, and test it, and they’re trained for it. We, on the other hand, receive it at once. We have to interpret it, break it down, and understand it without prior preparation. And that’s precisely why we need to do the analysis we’re about to start: to learn to identify those mechanisms, understand not just what is said, but how it’s said. And, above all, why.
A hand was raised impatiently. It was Pablo.
—But that’s not fair! It’s a hard assignment! And we’re kids!
The teacher looked at him seriously, but without reproach.
—You’re right. It’s not easy. But these things are already around us, even if we don’t always notice. Sometimes they influence our families, news, neighborhoods… And when they come from someone as influential as a president, they not only affect the country, but can have global consequences, like in the case we’re looking at today. That’s why it’s worth learning to understand them.
He approached the desk, took a glass of water, and added:
—Omitting critical analysis is part of the success of the fallacious. Unlike the false, which can be quickly dismantled with facts, the fallacious requires more effort to deconstruct. That makes it so effective.
He drew an arrow on the board, going from a premise to a conclusion:
—“If it rains, the street is wet.” Logical? Yes. But if you see the wet street and conclude: “It’s rained,” you’re assuming the cause without checking it. It could be wet for reasons unrelated to rain. This is, for example, a false cause fallacy.
He returned to the main screen.
—You’ll use artificial intelligence for this assignment —said the teacher—. Just as a calculator helps solve complex operations without replacing mathematical understanding, AI can help you identify fallacious structures through logic and deduction. It doesn’t analyze for you or draw conclusions. But it lets you process more information, detect patterns, and focus your efforts where it matters: on critical judgment. The final analysis, the interpretation, and the conclusions must be yours. Technology assists, but it doesn’t think for you.
The class, now silent, began to work on their laptops, following the on-screen instructions. Each with their assigned fallacy type.
At that moment, Pablo’s eyes flew open. He was in his bed. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet. He was sweating. “The assignment?” he thought anxiously. “The Civics assignment!”
He sat up in fright, but then remembered: it had all been just a nightmare.
There was no psychohistory. No assignments about presidential speeches. No fallacies.
The assignment was different: cutting and pasting images of plastic, glass, paper, and cardboard packaging onto a sheet with trash bins of different colors drawn on it.
He sighed with relief.