// letter from the editors //
February 26, 2015
February 26, 2015
Ever since the deplorable Charlie Hebdo attacks, an important conversation has been brewing in the media: just how politically correct, the pundits wonder, should the media be? It’s healthy when journalism takes a break from talking about everything and everybody else and talks about itself. But the conversation on this topic—analyzed as a whole after the past few months—has been poorly focused. Many talking heads have discussed the history and applicability of political correctness, assessing the issue to death. But few writers have thought deeply about a more elemental, yet more important question: what does—or should—political correctness have to do with the media at all?
We take it for granted that the idea that some things should not be printed is a reasonable one. But where does this “should” even come from? What is the source of this journalistic normativity? The question becomes even stronger in its more specific form: What possible connection might there be between a sacred prophet and what a French satirical cartoonist should draw? Or, to put it differently: on what basis might one argue that the press should not draw cartoons of Muhammad?
Let’s say there should be a “should” in journalism (clearly, normativity is inescapable). The question then becomes: what is its source? Who gets to decide what should or should not be printed? Arguably, leaving this up to journalists themselves would be a recipe for disaster. For one thing, Brian Williams would still be in his chair. But leaving the “should” in the hands of any one group of people raises similarly problematic questions. Why might Muslims have a greater say about the media than, say, atheists? Why should any one group be privileged at the expense of any other?
But if no one group has the right to be privileged in its influence over the media, then it is only fair that everyone gets a say in what “should” be printed. Obviously, though, the collective does not have a single voice (Jean-Jacques Rousseau tried, and failed, to prove otherwise). So unless we employ some sort of preferential system that favors certain voices over others—as if history has not done this enough—then the only reasonable conclusion here is that there can be no “should” in journalism. Each voice and each opinion is worthy of being said, for the sake of the freedom of all the others.
Such a low bar—if it can be considered a bar at all—for determining what should be printed is good in theory, but dangerous in practice. Intuitively, we know that there are some things that just should not be said. Take racism, for example. It’s not normatively wrong to print racist comments; if the above analysis has proven anything, it has shown this to be true. But we intuit that it’s wrong to print racist comments. Why? Because something about it feels wrong. It feels callous. And it is this human element that we must now turn to.
We should not brush past the significance of this idea: that the only real reason not to print racist comments is because they hurt our feelings. On first glance, this doesn’t seem like such a good reason at all. But the importance of our feelings cannot be dismissed (as much as we all may hope our feelings would at times go away). If the press’s ultimate responsibility is to inform the people, then it must a fortiori care about the people, and printing things that cause intangible but very real damage to any large group reeks of heartlessness. And a free press doesn’t have to be a heartless press.
But how do we determine the threshold here? Is it enough not to print something if five people take offense to it? Or does it have to be thousands? And isn’t that very distinction arbitrary? Abraham already had this fight with God, and we know how that ended up. In response to this, critics of the thought police wave the whole problem away: offense, they say, is the price of a free press. There’s no way to reasonably draw any threshold. In other words: just deal with it.
There’s some merit to this idea. But there’s also something disquieting and unproductive about it. And there’s a better approach. The “should” question, rather, ought to be approached two-fold. On the one hand, if the item under consideration is a clear incitement to violence, then humanism should win out and the decision should be not to print. But for anything less destructive, the press should decide to print, for this reason: the potential of progressivism. I do not here mean progressivism of any particular political strand, but rather, something more general: the progressive goal of moving society forward.
How might printing something offensive move society forward? Because no matter how offensive an idea might be, how are we to know that printing it may not in some small way challenge some preconceived idea, and move the discussion in ways it hasn’t moved before? Perhaps the very presentation of an offensive idea will move some portion of society away from complacency on a given issue—and cause a chain reaction that could have massive repercussions for our future. Any student of history knows this to be true: if we are to move society forward, it is imperative that we do not shy away from ideas that at this time, in this place, to some people, are unpalatable.
Instead of responding with an angry retort that journalism should not placate anyone’s offended feelings, then, those on the front lines of the fight against political correctness should argue that political incorrectness often has tangible, progressive merit. That it’s good for us all, even if it appears at this moment to be harmful to some. At The Current, we will continue to strive to live by this ideal: to deliver material that, provocative or not, is printed with the intention of moving campus discourse forward. This semester we aim to provide you with more material online more frequently, and as we do that, we hope that you, our readers, hold us to this standard: make sure we work to build, and never to break.
We take it for granted that the idea that some things should not be printed is a reasonable one. But where does this “should” even come from? What is the source of this journalistic normativity? The question becomes even stronger in its more specific form: What possible connection might there be between a sacred prophet and what a French satirical cartoonist should draw? Or, to put it differently: on what basis might one argue that the press should not draw cartoons of Muhammad?
Let’s say there should be a “should” in journalism (clearly, normativity is inescapable). The question then becomes: what is its source? Who gets to decide what should or should not be printed? Arguably, leaving this up to journalists themselves would be a recipe for disaster. For one thing, Brian Williams would still be in his chair. But leaving the “should” in the hands of any one group of people raises similarly problematic questions. Why might Muslims have a greater say about the media than, say, atheists? Why should any one group be privileged at the expense of any other?
But if no one group has the right to be privileged in its influence over the media, then it is only fair that everyone gets a say in what “should” be printed. Obviously, though, the collective does not have a single voice (Jean-Jacques Rousseau tried, and failed, to prove otherwise). So unless we employ some sort of preferential system that favors certain voices over others—as if history has not done this enough—then the only reasonable conclusion here is that there can be no “should” in journalism. Each voice and each opinion is worthy of being said, for the sake of the freedom of all the others.
Such a low bar—if it can be considered a bar at all—for determining what should be printed is good in theory, but dangerous in practice. Intuitively, we know that there are some things that just should not be said. Take racism, for example. It’s not normatively wrong to print racist comments; if the above analysis has proven anything, it has shown this to be true. But we intuit that it’s wrong to print racist comments. Why? Because something about it feels wrong. It feels callous. And it is this human element that we must now turn to.
We should not brush past the significance of this idea: that the only real reason not to print racist comments is because they hurt our feelings. On first glance, this doesn’t seem like such a good reason at all. But the importance of our feelings cannot be dismissed (as much as we all may hope our feelings would at times go away). If the press’s ultimate responsibility is to inform the people, then it must a fortiori care about the people, and printing things that cause intangible but very real damage to any large group reeks of heartlessness. And a free press doesn’t have to be a heartless press.
But how do we determine the threshold here? Is it enough not to print something if five people take offense to it? Or does it have to be thousands? And isn’t that very distinction arbitrary? Abraham already had this fight with God, and we know how that ended up. In response to this, critics of the thought police wave the whole problem away: offense, they say, is the price of a free press. There’s no way to reasonably draw any threshold. In other words: just deal with it.
There’s some merit to this idea. But there’s also something disquieting and unproductive about it. And there’s a better approach. The “should” question, rather, ought to be approached two-fold. On the one hand, if the item under consideration is a clear incitement to violence, then humanism should win out and the decision should be not to print. But for anything less destructive, the press should decide to print, for this reason: the potential of progressivism. I do not here mean progressivism of any particular political strand, but rather, something more general: the progressive goal of moving society forward.
How might printing something offensive move society forward? Because no matter how offensive an idea might be, how are we to know that printing it may not in some small way challenge some preconceived idea, and move the discussion in ways it hasn’t moved before? Perhaps the very presentation of an offensive idea will move some portion of society away from complacency on a given issue—and cause a chain reaction that could have massive repercussions for our future. Any student of history knows this to be true: if we are to move society forward, it is imperative that we do not shy away from ideas that at this time, in this place, to some people, are unpalatable.
Instead of responding with an angry retort that journalism should not placate anyone’s offended feelings, then, those on the front lines of the fight against political correctness should argue that political incorrectness often has tangible, progressive merit. That it’s good for us all, even if it appears at this moment to be harmful to some. At The Current, we will continue to strive to live by this ideal: to deliver material that, provocative or not, is printed with the intention of moving campus discourse forward. This semester we aim to provide you with more material online more frequently, and as we do that, we hope that you, our readers, hold us to this standard: make sure we work to build, and never to break.