After giving it four months, I finally unsubscribed to the daily emails from a particular news website.
In early March I was hungry for news and commentary. There was a lot going on. The Cubs, with new manager David Ross, were off to a lackluster start in spring training. The Democrats had winnowed their field of Presidential candidates to Biden or Bernie. The U.S. had signed a “peace” deal with Afghanistan, or, rather, with the Taliban. The stock market was high but slipping; the unemployment numbers were low, but rising. Across the Atlantic, Italy was overwhelmed with people who were sick and dying—although things were not as bad in neighboring France and Spain. There were a few pockets of this novel corona virus in the U.S., notably Washington State, but life in Illinois went on as usual. Desiring some different perspectives, I considered several media sites.
I’ve always read—rarely watched or listened to—the news. My newspaper habit began in my teens. Reading a daily newspaper was one of the ways I began to make sense of the world. My parents subscribed to the Chicago Tribune, the Wall Street Journal, and our small town’s local daily paper. Of the three, I enjoyed the Tribune the most. (It helped that the Tribune had a substantial comic section.) Through the eyes of the foreign correspondents and staff travel writers, I was exposed to dangerous or exotic places far from North America. I became familiar with Chicago politics by reading the beat writers. I discovered that I liked good commentary because the writer created a framework from vague notions. Whether I agreed or disagreed with the writer’s perspective, I appreciated someone putting words and structure to ideas that were sloshing around, partially formed, in my brain.
I still subscribe to the Chicago Tribune, although like so many newspapers today it is a shell of its former self—a victim of the creative destruction wrought by ever-evolving innovation and technology. But the creative part of that destruction has opened a huge market of other newsletters, newspapers, and magazines on-line. Their content, linked to even more content, allows me access to a mind-boggling number of journalists and pundits. And that is how I came to subscribe to this particular news aggregation and commentary media site: somebody sent me a link. I was familiar with the site’s founder. Our political views certainly overlapped, even if they didn’t completely align. Over the years I had sampled his journalism, and I appreciated his perspective. I had read his most recent book, and I had liked it. Click. I was in. (In hindsight, perhaps you get what you pay for. The newsletters were free.)
Expecting careful research and insightful commentary, I was dismayed to read a steady diet of repetitive hyperbole, condescension, and “I told you so’s.” I learned that the publisher’s stated communications strategy is offense (all the time) and negative messaging: relentlessly tear down the ideas or people you oppose, because evidently that’s what folks remember.
It was then that I understood why this site wasn’t a good fit for me. The founder, staff, and publisher may have overlapped with my political philosophy, but they were diametrically opposed to my communications philosophy. No amount of agreement on the issues was going to be worth reading (or skimming) through petty, disdainful, smug, contemptuous conceit. Even though I often agreed with their various theses, to read their work felt like slogging through muck while brushing away biting insects. It just wasn’t worth it. And if I was skeptical about their position on an issue, I certainly didn’t want to wade into the fetid morass so they could have a crack at persuading me.
Reading their content for a few months wasn’t a total loss, because, as with so many mistakes, it got me thinking. How does commentary influence? What works? What doesn’t? Why was their style of communication unlikely to persuade me when I was not in agreement on the merits, since it irritated me even when I was in agreement?
It seems to me that changing my mind is an internal matter. I may read data, logic, and arguments; others may show me alternative visions. But I won’t change my mind unless I ponder and wrestle with the new information. I must shush my ego, set aside my pride, and open myself to the possibility that I might have been mistaken. That’s really difficult to do, particularly if my identity is wrapped up tightly with my opinions. It takes both courage and humility, both of which I tend to have in short supply on most days. The whole process requires time and figurative space.
If the pundit’s objective is to influence others through written commentary, I don’t think sarcasm, snark, and hyperbole are effective. Those powerful rhetorical weapons put readers on the defensive. Ridicule doesn’t create an atmosphere for contemplation. So why do so many writers use these tools liberally and forcefully?
Perhaps many of today’s pundits are not seeking converts. Maybe much current commentary and analysis is written—not to persuade—but to tighten the bands of camaraderie among people who already think alike. People whose identity is wrapped tightly with their opinions. People who aren’t feeling very courageous or humble. People for whom offense seems to be the only course of action.
