I was sitting in the florescent haze of a conference room in New Orleans this June when something snapped in my chaotic brain.
Thousands of journalists had descended like locusts on a Canal Street Marriott for the annual Investigative Reporters & Editors conference which, in my opinion, is the best (if most pretentious) gathering in the news business. It was a small coup for our little Barbed Wire contingent to take our rightful place on panels and at the hotel lobby bar alongside an untold number of Pulitzer winners — and to explain to our esteemed colleagues The Barbed Wire ethos that, just maybe, infusing style and a point of view into journalism isn’t a mortal sin.
Maybe (cue jazz hands) it’s the future.
Along with trading FOIA tips and organizational techniques like rare wines (Have you tried the table sorting option in the new Trello vintage? Sublime.), the conference gave us an opportunity to address an elephant in the room — yes, we were the ones in that sexual predation in the media story that you all read; yes, it was that bad.
Before I get any further, I should probably say hi, I’m Cara. I’ve worked at The Washington Post and USA Today, and I’ve taught journalism at American University. That mini media scandal is how The Barbed Wire’s editor-in-chief Olivia Messer and I met — a fact I’ve been scared to say publicly before now.
I was at a nonprofit investigative newsroom at American when Olivia was searching for a partner on a Texas Monthly story about how the state legislature buries sexual harassment complaints and enables bad actors. The nonprofit’s then-director, who was my boss, connected us because sexual harassment and violence investigations are my wheelhouse. I’ve written dozens of front page stories about such problems in Boy Scouts, Uber and Lyft, the massage industry, etc. Then, while uncovering sexual misconduct in the Texas Senate, we found ourselves on the other side of the story. Bizarre doesn’t begin to describe it.
That former boss also wrote a seminal New York Times op-ed positing that “moral clarity” is a better journalism framework than “objectivity,” before he was accused of serial sexual assault. The critique was right, but oh, the irony.
Perhaps my newly visceral understanding that our industry can be as fucked up as any other was what pushed me over the edge while sitting in the audience of that fateful panel discussion. I went because I agree with the premise — that investigative reporting can save the industry — and because a friend of mine was on the panel alongside other names I admire. But a prevailing notion in journalism made its way into the conversation and hit a raw nerve.
There is an absolute certainty among some of our elder statesmen that Journalism means disembodied fact regurgitation, as if impartiality is next to godliness. They believe that, to weather our impending doom, we must stay the course and tell the people who no longer trust or even like us that much that they simply don’t understand how much they need us.
Not for the first time, hearing it articulated made me want to shout that we’d lost the plot. We’ve all fucked up, and we can’t admit it. To ourselves or anyone else.
Instead of screaming like the possessed woman I may be, I leaned over to a former colleague and mouthed, “This is all bullshit.” And bless him, he stood up and asked the deeply unsettling question lurking at the back of our minds: How much of this (gestures wildly at the general state of affairs in the U.S.) is our fault?
If you are reading this thinking, “Quite a bit,” I don’t blame you. I, too, think we bear responsibility, and I don’t think it’s Catholic guilt or an eldest daughter trauma response (though I’m working on those with my therapist).
The problem with “objectivity,” and “moral clarity,” and even “fairness” as doctrines is… who the hell are we to decide what is objective, moral, or fair? We aren’t moral referees. We are as fallible as anyone else, simply better researched. That notion feeds into the condescending position — one that readers have clearly picked up on — of thinking we’re above society when we’re part of it.
We have power as journalists. It’s frankly what makes the job so much fun. At least if you’re the type of person who enjoys forcing someone like Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick to answer questions about his farce of a sexual harassment policy. Which, of course, I am.
With such power comes responsibility. And what is a journalist’s responsibility? Glad you asked. Because it seems we’ve gotten sidetracked by a desperate attempt to be perceived as fair, as if that’ll stave off bad faith attacks.
Are You There, Texas? It’s Me, Olivia.
Welcome to The Barbed Wire. If you’re reading this and live in Texas — or used to live in Texas or care about Texas — you’re in the right place. Here’s what we’re offering:…
There’s a great 2001 text by Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel called “The Elements of Journalism.” In the first chapter, the authors provide a pretty conclusive answer: Journalism is giving people information so they can be free and self-governing.
In other words, it’s democracy. “The news media help us define our communities as well as help us create a common language and common knowledge rooted in reality,” the authors wrote.
In the 25 years since that text was published, we’ve experienced a relentless assault on facts by politicians and billionaires seeking unfettered power. And we have not figured out what to do about it. Instead, we’ve contorted ourselves to make the old rules fit a changed game with participants who publicly proclaim they were never going to follow the rules anyway.
In the post-fact era, it is nearly impossible to check people in real time or cancel out misinformation with a footnote. (*See Kristen Welker’s not one but two forehead-palming interviews with President Donald Trump on “Meet the Press.”)
Recently, I found myself white-knuckling my steering wheel waiting for an NPR host to stop a Republican lawmaker from repeating a false claim about Medicaid. Interject, dude! Work requirements already exist! The vast majority of people on Medicaid are working, or are exempt because they’re disabled or caregivers!
If you can’t push back or add in the correct information, what’s the point? Conservative politicians will insist NPR is liberal propaganda no matter how many far-fight personas they invite on their shows. Their public funding was always going to be slashed.
We are running our own newsroom now. We have an obligation to do better.
Meanwhile, what happened to speaking truth to power? What about making them sweat a little? What does it say about us, the intrepid Fourth Estate, when the creators of “South Park” are more willing to push back on threats to democracy than executives at “60 Minutes”?
Call me crazy, but saying “We’re nonpartisan, and thus the good guys!” louder for the people in the back isn’t going to stop a would-be authoritarian from suing us out of existence. Just ask CBS.
To clarify, I’m not blaming any one person or outlet or panel (I revere these people, truly). The rhetoric of staying the course is simply dysregulating when you missed out on the Graydon Carter at Vanity Fair era — and spent the bulk of your career dodging layoffs like a game of Russian Roulette. My bullet finally came at the end of 2022 after 15 years. Thankfully, the shot was nonfatal, and I’m still a working masochist. I mean journalist.
Debriefing with Olivia on our last afternoon of the conference, we got to the core of the issue. Frustration is easier to confront than the heady weight of responsibility. But we are no longer underlings griping about foolhearty executives who got us into this mess.
We are running our own newsroom now. We have an obligation to do better.
When I got home from New Orleans, I slept for 16 hours, chugged some liquid IVs, and — after a year of contract editing — signed my offer letter to be the managing editor of The Barbed Wire.
Now, as we are approaching a year since launch on Aug. 26, we are taking stock of what’s working and what isn’t. I’m the first at bat, but in the coming weeks, everyone on our staff will be publishing their own analyses.
It hasn’t surprised me that much of our most popular content is investigative (I did go to that panel for a reason). Our most-read stories include our investigation into sexual misconduct allegations against a former Rice University professor, which was part of an innovative partnership with the student-run paper The Rice Thresher; our exposé on the murder of Felita Bailey; and a deep-dive into the rights of Texans, primarily Latino and Black families, whose relatives are buried in cemeteries on private property.
These stories have provided catharsis to grieving families and abuse survivors. They have empowered people to petition institutions for reform, including the Houston Symphony. Bail has been reduced for Kanye Bailey, Felita’s cousin, though his family is still waiting to hear what evidence is keeping him in jail.
Those stories, and the others that make up our top 10 (like first-person accounts of life under abortion bans and quitting the crazy-addicting drugs sold at gas stations), exemplify some of the best of what we can do as a profession. They feature relatable characters, contain clear story arcs, shed light on new information presented with care and nuance, and inform the way we live — or want to live.
When done right, stories can make us understand what it feels like for a grieving mother to be treated with disregard by police officers — even if we’ve never had a child, lost a loved one, or lived anywhere close to smalltown Texas. That’s because telling the truth in a compelling way has the ability to infuse empathy and critical thinking into spaces that desperately need it, expose wrongdoing, and drive people to change laws and end corruption.
At The Barbed Wire, we get to say the quiet parts out loud, without apology. We also get to write “fuck” in headlines and, when we have evidence that someone misrepresented the truth when they knew otherwise, say that people have lied (the pearl clutching in newsrooms over the word “lie” is still mind-boggling to me).
The funny thing about our old journalism rules? Investigations have never been subjected to both-sidesism. Turns out, when you have reams of public records, dozens of witnesses, a handful of experts, and months of shoe-leather reporting indicating the sky is blue, you don’t need to give airspace to someone claiming it’s green.
This hit home for me about a week ago when The New York Times published an investigation into continued sexual assault problems at Uber. Three-quarters down, there’s a mention of reporting I’d done with a colleague at USA Today. We found that Uber was using a third-party claims company to try to force women who reported being sexually assaulted into settlements. We found one instance where a claims adjuster showed up at a victim’s father’s house. A family friend, who had answered the door, told me that the guy had offered him $10,000 to work with Uber against the victim.
I had the task of confronting Uber with the things we found. Now, thanks to the Times, I know for certain that the Uber spokesperson was trying to manipulate me by trashing rape victims — and that he’d probably sold his soul for a cushy PR job.
Anyway, Barbed Wire readers, what does that mean for you?
Consider this my promise that in our second (and hopefully third, fourth, 20th) year of existence, that I will try my best to speak truth to power, to publish stories that articulate what you are thinking, and to provide accurate information that isn’t pandering to any party or agenda. I will try to do it with verve, and in a way that you actually want to read.
In return, I hope that you will follow along, subscribe to our free newsletter, buy some merch, and become paying members. Unfortunately, the best journalism is also the most expensive. That’s life, isn’t it?
I hope, too, that we can have a meaningful exchange — so that we can help you tell your stories from inside your own communities. Whether you’ve seen something you think deserves our attention or want to write an essay about your own experiences, we want to hear from you.
Send us tips, direction, or just heart emojis. Help us find a path forward, together, in this little democracy we call home.