After giving a talk on the nobility of our learned craft and the power of lawyers to help bend Dr. King's moral arc of the universe toward justice, a listener said to me, “Oh, you're such an optimist.” It sounded less like a commendation than a critique, in the ways that optimism can be perceived as naive or even foolish. I replied, “No. I am a conditional optimist.” We were all on to the next appointment of the day, and the conversation went no further.

Had there been time, I would have empathized with the sentiment that, amidst the furies of our time—the decline of civility, the divisiveness of political and social spheres, the rise in hate crimes, and the vitriol spewed on virtual platforms, to name a few—complacent optimism is misplaced.

But conditional optimism is different from complacent optimism. The Nobel prize-winning economist Paul Romer describes conditional optimism as the belief that things are far from perfect but they can get better if we do what we can to make them better. Conditional optimism understands that every act of decency and charity, however seemingly modest, matters. It does not make the mistake of confusing small with insignificant. It takes an incremental approach and never underestimates the power of even a few good people to change the world.

A conditional optimist knows that she can't do everything about the problems in the world and closer to home, but she can do something. Prof. Romer describes it this way: “complacent optimism” is the child wishing for a treehouse, and “conditional optimism” is the child who gathers the wood and tools, enlists a few others, and makes one.

Lawyers and law students are uniquely situated to help restore decaying cultures of engagement. Our training equips us to provide antidotes to the decline of truth in the national discourse. We understand that factual accuracy matters. Indeed, we spend years in law school learning about the importance of facts. As law professors, the first question we ask when calling on our students to recite a given case is what are the facts?

In the law school curriculum, we teach entire courses on discovery. Lawyers understand that learning the whole story takes time. We know that getting to the whole truth is a cumulative process that demands patience, persistence and vigilance. That process requires that we resist the urge to make snap determinations or rush to judgment.

We teach our students that opinions matter far less than persuasive arguments. Law students learn how to craft arguments, always taking into consideration opposing arguments.

Words matter. We exhort our students to take care with their words. We ask that they decline social media's many opportunities to behave poorly and instead use their various spheres of influence to teach the lessons of tolerance, respect, compassion and robust civility.   

We teach, in our courses on ethics and professional responsibility, that lawyers must comport themselves at all times as fiduciaries of the public trust. We are the standard bearers for the rule of law and the promise of social justice. When we do our work with dignity and diligence, we become a lighthouse for those lost in turbulent seas.

I remind my students that we are never not lawyers. Whether on the checkout line at CVS or driving on the parkway, we are officers of the court, obliged to honor the mandates and also the spirit of professionalism. When others betray norms of civility, we must take the high road.

Lawyers are vested with a unique agency and opportunity to be “influencers,” leading by example with integrity-driven words and actions. We command various stages and have the choice to use those to reject the vitriolic in favor of the more tempered, reasoned and humane. We can decide to see the best in others even when they are not showing it. We can call in rather than call out and stay mindful of the promise of redemption. Each of us is more than our mistakes.

We can choose to pick our battles wisely and stay above the fray. Our emotion-mind misleads us. Anger and rage can be blinding. Better to exercise impulse control, refuse to hit “send” in anger, keep our egos in check and take a few deep breaths, an extended pause, or maybe a walk around the block—to allow the reason-based mind to re-enter and then direct our actions.

As lawyers, we can all do more to reclaim civility and inspire civic engagement in the communities that we serve. We must return to teaching civics in our local schools. It is not a heavy lift, and curricular models are available online. My students and I do that in nearby high schools and middle schools, where young people engage with First Amendment values, civil rights and civil liberties law, the various hallmarks of a participatory democracy, financial literacy, and first principles of character and integrity. It is a rewarding and hopeful endeavor.

Our imperative to serve is best informed by the premise that while we cannot do everything, we can do something. In one of Carlos Castaneda's Don Juan allegories, the elder sage, chastened and wiser, says to the younger and more arrogant traveler, “The trouble with you is you think you have time.”

That may be the trouble with all of us. At a time when the future we deliver to our children is at stake, we can decide that we no longer have the time to sit on the fence. We are either collectors of grievances or counters of blessings. We either obstruct any path toward tyranny or clear its way. We can choose to believe that the best is yet to be for our mighty nation and our esteemed profession.

Let's pick up a hammer and start building that treehouse.

Paula A. Franzese is the Peter W. Rodino Professor of Law, at Seton Hall Law School in Newark.