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State of the Media

Austin moontower
“Moonlight Towers,” were built in the late 19th century to cast crime-deterrent swaths of light across a then-gas-lit downtown.

I don’t know when you last found yourself appreciating the particular sights, sounds and smells of the stretch of Waller Creek that runs between Sixth and Eighth streets in downtown Austin, but if you’re like me, the answer is probably close to never.

Until, that is, this spring, when I was compelled by a bunch of hip media-types from San Francisco and New York City not only to venture into the urban drainage of Waller Creek but to peek into nooks and crannies I’d passed by without heed for years.

I was looking for a serial killer. Specifically, the man dubbed by the writer William Sydney Porter (who was better known as O. Henry, and who lived just blocks from Waller Creek) the “Servant Girl Annihilator,” a man who killed seven Austin women—five of them black women—and one man in 1884 and 1885.

My quest was part of a self-guided walking tour produced by Radiolab, the New York-based public radio program beloved by science nerds, and Detour, a walking tour app that uses GPS technology to guide iPhone-equipped listeners through San Francisco and now, for the first time, Austin.

Ellen Horne, executive producer at Radiolab, told me that her folks and the Detour crew decided to “meet in the middle” here in Austin and produce a show for March’s SXSW crowds. They swiftly stumbled upon the story of what many historians have called America’s—and maybe the world’s—first serial killer.

“I’m still haunted by this story,” Horne told me in a phone interview. So, I think, is just about everyone who delves into the dark history of these murders, which so frightened 19th-century Austinites that their legacy lives on even today with the city’s signature “moonlight towers,” erected to cast crime-deterrent swaths of light across a then-gas-lit downtown.

The tour begins in a downtown hat shop, where listeners are encouraged to take in the smells of old colognes. It then meanders along Waller Creek, into St. David’s Episcopal Church and its labyrinth, through the Driskill Hotel, into the parking garage that now stands at one of the murder sites, and concludes—I won’t give too much away—in a spot with a stunning panoramic view of downtown.

The murders were gruesome. Black women, mostly domestic servants, were mutilated, raped and killed by a still-unidentified assailant. An 11-year-old black girl also fell victim to the “annihilator,” as did a black man who was in a relationship with one of the victims.

But it wasn’t until two white women were brutally murdered in their homes that the city’s newspapers began to really take notice. Some things haven’t changed much in 130 years.

“The murders of the black victims are heinously under-covered” in the historical record, Horne told me. “That’s a real regret of ours.”

As a result, the tour skims lightly over an exploration of race relations in 1885-era Austin—a particular disappointment in light of Austin’s continuing unwillingness to grapple with its history of racism, the intentional ouster of its black community to the East Side in the early 20th century, and the current gentrification of that same area.

Atmospherically, though, the tour is a remarkable bit of time travel, accompanied at one especially moving point by a song from Austin’s own Shakey Graves that imagines the youngest victim’s revenge on her killer.

I’m powerfully skeptical of outsiders who attempt to tell Texas stories, but I have to give credit to the meticulous Radiolab research team; they spent weeks here testing and editing their story, which is narrated—at times perhaps overly folksily—by an actress playing a ghost of Austin past.

Horne admits they approached the project with some “naïveté,” but they managed to produce not just an intriguing murder mystery, but an aural snapshot of a time well before Austin became the cultural and tech hub it is today.

“We really wanted to make this a story about the year and not the murders,” said Horne, who made the editorial decision not to play into the sensational and sexual gore fantasies that, as she put it, often accompany “obsession with serial killers.”

And while historians have some idea of who the “annihilator” may have been—a black man named Nathan Elgin who was shot by police in 1886—Radiolab keeps the tour’s ending ambiguous, having come to believe that the murders were not the work of just one person.

“The thought that it wasn’t one serial killer is much scarier,” Horne said.

But even without resolution, the tour leaves a lasting impression with listeners who, I think, will see the city very differently after they’ve looked at it with century-old eyes.

#NoFilter in McKinney

McKinney police party incident
Brandon Brooks captured the very moment when McKinney officer Eric Casebolt—who resigned with pay, pension and benefits following the incident— pinned 19-year-old Tatyana Rhodes to the ground.

There are many hallmarks of a bad bill, but the sirens really go off when legislation brings the far left and the far right together in opposition. That’s what happened earlier this year when Dallas Republican state Rep. Jason Villalba filed a bill that would have prevented citizens from filming police within a 25-foot “buffer zone.” Nobody liked that idea—not the right-wing privacy obsessives nor the left-wing police skeptics.

Had that law passed, we would have been far less likely to have documentation of incidents such as the one at a McKinney community pool in June, where a 15-year-old boy filmed a local cop throwing and pinning one of the boy’s classmates, a black teenage girl, to the ground after neighborhood adults—including a white man named Sean Toon—called the police on teens celebrating the end of the school year at a pool party. Toon—who caught a felony conviction as an 18-year-old for torturing animals and, two years later, was charged with assault with a deadly weapon—told reporters he called 911 because “out of control kids” were jumping the fence into the Craig Ranch pool.

Just a few years ago, we might have had to take Toon at his word. The teens who object to his story—including the party’s organizer, a young black woman who said a neighborhood white woman physically assaulted her and shouted racist slurs before cops arrived—might have struggled to have their voices heard.

But that was before smartphones and social media.

The 15-year-old, Brandon Brooks, kept his smartphone camera running as the McKinney cops arrived, producing more than seven minutes of video showing officers chasing and handcuffing non-white kids who’d been invited to the celebration. The officers breeze past Brooks, who is white and openly filming, their singular focus on wrangling the teens of color.

Brooks even captured the moment when McKinney officer Eric Casebolt—who resigned with pay, pension and benefits following the incident—pulled his gun and pointed it at confused, scared kids wearing swimsuits. It takes a willful misreading of the video to believe that the cops weren’t openly targeting students of color. Indeed, the cops allowed a white kid to film the entire incident, perhaps because they were too engrossed in the frothy business of handcuffing black teenagers to care.

Within a day, Brooks’ video made international news as media outlets picked up the YouTube link and delved into the story. But it was the refusal by McKinney’s young people to allow reporters to recast the incident in the McKinney Police Department’s preferred frame—that race played no role in the behavior of the cops or the white neighbors—that allowed us to see more sides of the story.

A young black photojournalist named Elroy Johnson interviewed 19-year-old Tatyana Rhodes, one of the party’s organizers, right after the incident, producing a video that has accompanied most news reports. Rhodes, joined in the video by her mom, who was supervising the kids at the pool, describes her older white neighbors’ harassment of her friends and fellow partygoers before cops arrived. She says that one white woman slapped her in the face after telling Rhodes she needed to “go back to [her] Section 8 home.”

Rhodes lives in the McKinney neighborhood where her party took place. Without affordable smartphone technology and a growing sense that police and mainstream media are not capturing all sides of the story when they cover racist violence and especially racist police violence, we might never have heard her story. Or perhaps we’d have heard it only after an overworked local beat reporter with a healthy skepticism for cop-issued narratives tracked her down.

We’ve seen this relentless dedication to documentation before, from grassroots journalists and anti-racism and anti-violence activists who have continued filming, at risk to their personal safety, in Ferguson, in Staten Island, in Baltimore, in South Carolina.

Eyewitness accounts of incidents like this no doubt make police departments nervous. But communities of color live in fear of precisely the kind of relentless surveillance that cops—with help from lawmakers such as Jason Villalba—are unhappy to see turned on themselves.

Without Rhodes’ story, and without Brooks’ video, we might be obliged to take the “official” version as truth. But thanks to the bravery of black students in McKinney who didn’t defer to their racist neighbors, and thanks to the ability of their friends and neighbors to share their own accounts of what happened, we don’t have to.

Corrected: The original version of this story stated that a bill filed by Dallas Republican state Rep. Jason Villalba would have prevented citizens from filming police within a 100-foot buffer zone. In fact, the bill’s 100-foot buffer zone would have applied only to observers carrying handguns. A 25-foot buffer zone would have applied to all other citizens. The Observer regrets the error.

 

 

Dallas Times Herald newsroom
Dallas Times Herald newsroom on the night of November 22, 1963.

 

If you read or listened to any daily coverage of Texas politics last year, chances are good you came across the perspective of Cal Jillson, a political scientist at Southern Methodist University whose quotes appeared in 44 percent of state political coverage from June until December 2014.

Chances are also good that even if you didn’t come across a Jillson quote, you encountered a quote provided by someone who—speaking demographically—looks a lot like him.

That’s according to a new report from the Texas Research Institute (TRI), a lefty nonprofit think tank associated with Progress Texas. The TRI report found that seven political scientists—all white guys, all from either Dallas-Fort Worth, the Rio Grande Valley or Houston—dominated political pages and airwaves during the second half of last year, when Democrats Leticia Van de Putte and Wendy Davis were vying for offices in the Texas Capitol against an all-male, and almost all-white, statewide Republican ticket.

“Texas is a very diverse state, and that diversity is not being reflected in the media coverage,” said Beth Hernandez, a TRI board member who told the Observer that the report is meant to encourage journalists to “seek out other voices” more demographically representative of Texas.

Maybe it’s not surprising that white guys’ opinions are overrepresented in political coverage, given that white guys are overrepresented in politics generally.

Women slightly outnumber men in Texas at 50.3 percent of the population, but 80 percent of Texas legislators are men. Texas’ population is 44 percent white; the Lege is 65 percent white.

If Texas politics is a white guy’s game, is it any wonder that commenting on politics is also a white guy’s game? Particularly when producing news is a white guy’s game? According to the American Society of News Editors, newsrooms have actually become slightly less diverse over the last 10 years or so, with men making up two-thirds of newsroom staff nationwide, and non-white journalists accounting for just under 13 percent of newsroom staff.

What we have here is a lot of white guys calling a lot of white guys to talk about a lot of white guys.

Of course, it isn’t hard to understand why a reporter of any race or gender would enjoy having an easily accessible, reliable quote-generator of any race or gender on the other end of the line, particularly when we’re talking about overburdened daily reporters covering more angles than ever in increasingly pared-down newsrooms. Deadlines don’t care about demographics.

Nevertheless, media representation is important, and when white guys are the loudest voices in political coverage, it reinforces the idea that white guys are more reliable or objective commentators on political goings-on than are, say, women of color—who also happen to be the people least represented in elective offices here in Texas.

To my mind, these two things are connected. The conversations we have about politics shape how we vote, for whom we vote, and whom we expect to be reliable and productive elected officials. It’s partially how I reconcile the still-confounding fact that Texas voters found Dan Patrick to be a more promising lieutenant governor than the infinitely more qualified Van de Putte.

TRI asking journalists to be more mindful about whom they tap for quotes is a fine idea. However, I wouldn’t put the onus for instigating change entirely on reporters and their editors. I’ll add this suggestion: When reporters call the Cal Jillsons of the world, those guys need to pass the phone.

It’s no doubt flattering to become a leading name in political commentary, and it probably helps sell books and fill lecture hall seats, but there’s a point at which Texas’ leading handful of prominent white guy political scientists should seriously consider handing off the mic to their qualified colleagues of color, especially women of color.

Particularly when the outcomes of the political races that we so often ask white guys to comment on have real effects for some of the most marginalized Texans. These Texans aren’t proportionately represented in the Legislature—a body that spends a good deal of its time trying to prevent transgender Texans from using the appropriate public bathrooms, or to keep immigrants from attending college, or to block women’s access to abortion care—and they aren’t well represented in our media.

We’re far better off talking to marginalized Texans than talking about them, and the responsibility to make sure we do is something that journalists and the media-savvy commentators they love should share.

 

Andrea Grimes
Jen Reel
Andrea Grimes

When state Rep. Jonathan Stickland proudly declared himself a “former fetus” a few weeks ago by posting a sign over the nameplate near his office door, the first people to notice were habitués of the #txlege hashtag on Twitter, a repository for all news—and jokes—pertaining to the Texas Legislature. If you waited for the inevitable Texas Tribune story to catch up on the political posturing, you were already hours out of the loop.

Don’t let it happen again. Keeping an eye on #txlege is a must for policy wonks, politicos and people who don’t want to miss the latest Photoshopped Dan Patrick selfie. But the sheer volume of information parading by at #txlege—everything from daily news reporters posting their latest stories to your tea-partying uncle wildly tweeting his 50 favorite Obummer memes to Jonathan Saenz screeching about the gays—can make it more than a little difficult to parse.

First, rather than using Twitter in your browser, get an app like TweetDeck, which makes it easier to manage lists of Twitter users and separate the wheat from the chaff. In TweetDeck, you can set up and monitor customized feeds and easily put spammers on mute. I recommend setting up an overall #txlege hashtag feed, and then making a dedicated Twitter list for the best of the #txlege tweeters.

Many lawmakers have accounts, but most rarely use them or post nothing but self-congratulatory blather and humblebrags. Your best bet is to follow lawmakers who at least appear to run their own accounts. If you ever wonder how state Sen. Donna Campbell’s mind works—and who doesn’t?—her @DonnaCampbellTX account offers insight (and bible verses, because she’s #blessed). Other legislator accounts to watch, not just for the tweets, but for the shares and retweets, include Beaumont Rep. Joe Deshotel (@RepJoeDeshotel), Austin Sen. Kirk Watson (@KirkPWatson), Houston representatives Jessica Farrar (@JFarrarDist148) and Gene Wu (@GeneforTexas), and Dallas Rep. Jason Villalba (@JasonVillalba).

Lawmakers aside, the Capitol press corps is teeming with reporters sharing their work via #txlege, but you need to follow just few folks to keep up with the goings-on. The Houston Chronicle’s Lauren McGaughy (@lmcgaughy) misses nothing on education, LGBTQ and gun-policy issues; The Texas Tribune’s Alexa Ura (@alexazura) is a fine follow for big-umbrella political issues; ditto Tribune executive editor Ross Ramsey (@RossRamsey). If you’re wondering what the left-leaning kids are into these days, Burnt Orange Report’s Joe Deshotel (son of Rep. Joe; @joethepleb) has you covered. The Austin American-Statesman’s Kiah Collier (@KiahCollier) breaks down wonky fiscal issues and is a dedicated live- tweeter of committee hearings. And Austin freelancer Kimberly Reeves lives up to her @edwonkkimmy username on education issues and much more.

On the policy side, the Center For Public Policy Priorities’ Dick Lavine (@dlavine) is a must-follow for perspectives on weedy fiscal issues. Texas Right to Life lobbyist Emily Horne (@missemhorne) tweets about the latest anti-choice machinations in complete sentences and without creepy fetus memes. And if anything’s happening on the other side of the fight for reproductive rights, Amanda Williams (@fullfrontalfem) is probably tweeting about it.

For a look behind the scenes, you’ll want to follow staffers, schmoozers and satirizers: Texas Legislative Service Capitol correspondent Robyn Hadley (@capitolcrowd) seems to be everywhere all at once, while Total Staffer Move (@StafferMove) is an ostensibly satirical account that offers snarky but salient insights into the day-to-day Capitol. Actual staffer Antonio Marcus (@AntonioMarcus_) brings humor and verve to his chronicle of an often thank- less job. And professional progressive Harold Cook (@HCookAustin) offers a meaty mix of insight and side-eye developed over decades—sorry, Harold—of dedicated Lege-watching.

Sadly, true jokester accounts can be hard to maintain on the ever-ephemeral platform that is Twitter, but I really hope the folks behind Dan Patrick Selfies (@DanPatrickTX) stick to their schtick: ’shopping the lieutenant governor’s head into a bunch of places it should never go. And no, I’m not talking about the Senate chamber.

But if #txlege ever gets to be a little too much to swallow, remember that you can always take a break and check in with Gov. Greg Abbott’s dogs, @OreoAbbott and @TexasPancake. You know, for when the going gets ruff.

What? That joke killed on Twitter.

Chef John Tesar
johntesar.com
Chef John Tesar

Last July, Dallas bad-boy chef John Tesar (who won’t hesitate to casually remind you that he’s buddies with ur-bad-boy chef Anthony Bourdain) apparently had some wine and took to Twitter to tell Dallas Morning News food critic Leslie Brenner exactly what he thought of her: “fuck you ! Your reviews are misleading poorly written, self serving and you have destroyed the star system and you really suck” [sic, sic, etc.]

Eater, the online restaurant news-and-gossip empire of which I am a former Austin editor, jumped on Tesar’s tweet, and chefs both known (think Mario Batali) and unknown lined up to defend Tesar’s willingness to talk back to a powerful critic, if not his delivery.

Tesar’s outburst—which was brought on by a pretty fair three-star review of his restaurant Knife in the Morning News—opened a festering wound in a food-journalism community that’s struggling to find its footing in a world where Yelp, Twitter and Facebook have democratized criticism and undermined the power of big-name print critics.

Tesar told me he just wanted to start a conversation about who gets to play tastemaker in these uncertain times, and he wants to see an end to a star-based rating system he believes encourages diners to write off restaurants too easily. But he followed his incendiary tweet with what can only be called an online harassment campaign targeting Brenner. He threatened to release photos of the critic, who until late 2014 had operated in traditional restaurant-reviewer anonymity. He called her a “terrible narcissistic person” and wrote a scathing letter to her bosses, accusing her of violating journalistic ethics.

The paper stood by its critic, and Brenner responded with aplomb, dropping the anonymity—a move she told me she’d been preparing even before the Tesar kerfuffle. The Morning News published her portrait.

It sounds so simple: chefs cook, critics review. To borrow a phrase from Ina Garten: How easy is that? But with the rise of the Food Network and foodie-tainment like Top Chef, chefs are grappling with the balance between simply cooking and the temptation to build personal brands on the festival-and-TV circuit.

The terrain is also changing for traditional restaurant critics and food journalists, who now compete with an Internet-empowered commentariat for influence at a time when daily newspapers and glossy magazines are shedding full-time food critics.

Brenner told me she enjoys the competition, which she says makes her a better writer. At the same time, the new cults of personality (around chefs and writers alike) mean that talent doesn’t always win out. Controversy plays especially well online, even when it’s unwarranted. People love a good Facebook fight.

Brenner has been on the receiving end of legitimate criticism—none of it particularly unusual in the hyper-vigilant world of food writers. There’s the 2010 “barbecuegate” incident, wherein she was accused of plagiarizing the work of current Texas Monthly barbecue editor Daniel Vaughn back when he was but a wee blogger. Over the years she’s made some factual errors and issued some corrections, which aren’t especially uncommon in journalism.

But Tesar’s vitriol has largely obscured his original intention and his perhaps legitimate complaint. His palpable anger at Brenner—he needed no prompting to launch into an hour-long rant about her when I called him for this story—situates him as little more than another Twitter troll. And it’s no secret that women—particularly women journalists—get much more than their fair share of abuse online.

Some Dallas chefs and restaurateurs who initially joined Tesar in public opposition to what they believe is Brenner’s intentional capriciousness—they claim she unfairly targets specific chefs and restaurants and withholds information that would enable them to meet four- or five-star criteria—have distanced themselves from Tesar after a December Washington Post feature on the feud.

Things have simmered down, as it were, over the last few months. Brenner told me she is excited to be newly non-anonymous, meeting the readers from whom she hid her face for most of her six-year career at the newspaper. She’s blocked Tesar on social media.

But Tesar is holding firm. He says he wants to see an end to the star system. He wants critics to ignore bad restaurants and cover the good ones. He wants critics to do more or less what Tesar wants them to do.

It may be true that star ratings encourage laziness in some readers, but Tesar’s singular obsession with Brenner makes his beef seem more than a little overdone. If he can’t take some mild heat, well, you know what they say about kitchens.

Being Charlie Hebdo

Peter Klein #JeSuisCharlie Charlie Hebdo
Peter Klein

Allow me to dig up some longforgotten high school French: Somme-nous Charlie?

Are we Charlie?

I’m referring, of course, to Charlie Hebdo, the French satirical magazine that lost eight journalists, four of them cartoonists, in a terrorist attack in Paris in early January. In the wake of the attack—which killed a total of 12 people and injured 11 more—the phrase “Je suis Charlie,” or “I am Charlie,” became a worldwide rallying cry in support of free speech and solidarity with the magazine.

But what does “I am Charlie” mean in light of this leftist publication’s long history of publishing incendiary cartoons, many targeting Islam and other religions, that often use racist visual tropes—hook-nosed Arab men, big-lipped African women—in its South Park-esque crusade as an equal-opportunity offender?

I put the issue to Jen Sorensen, an award-winning Austin-based political cartoonist and graphic culture editor at Fusion.net.

“I was horrified by the attacks,” she told me. “It is a cartoonist’s worst nightmare.”

But she’s also struggling with responses to the attacks that demur from and even decry criticism of the cartoons themselves—a strange irony in light of the fact that Charlie Hebdo itself is a space where nothing is sacred.

“I’m seeing people imposing abstract principles onto realities without really taking into account the situation on the ground,” Sorensen said.

There is a tension here between the admirable and sometimes abstract principle of free speech and the real-world impact of cartoons that lampoon a marginalized population—for example, French Muslims, who have come under literal attack in the wake of the Hebdo murders, with bombing attempts at French mosques and Muslim businesses.

“I think you have to view this in a context and not in a vacuum,” said Sorensen. “And when you do, I think things become more complicated and you can’t be so simplistic.”

Standing up for and supporting the right to free speech, even—perhaps especially—for those with whom we might vehemently disagree, is honorable. But so too is using that same free speech to question, criticize and even condemn cultural artifacts that promote and reify damaging narratives about race, sexuality, gender, religion or any other trait for which people are oppressed or persecuted.

Who is empowered, and who is harmed, by depictions of hook-nosed Arab men in Muslim dress? Who are we laughing at, and who are we laughing with? We cannot simply stop at support for free speech when we talk about the murders at Charlie Hebdo; we must go further and ask: What do we do next?

Do we merely republish these cartoons—often without payment to their creators—and call it solidarity? Do we chant “Je suis Charlie” without considering the fact that many people—many of the most marginalized people—cannot align themselves with a publication that seeks to deliberately offend them? Do we empower those in French society who would oppress such marginalized people? Who is able to claim membership in the “Je” of “Je suis Charlie”?

“As a cartoonist, I feel a little like a doctor, where you want to do no harm,” Sorensen said. “I try very hard not to punch down. Yes, we can be irreverent and even tasteless at times, but you try not to punch down.”

Defending someone’s right to punch down is not at all the same as defending the downward punch itself. This is the problem with the idea of equal-opportunity offenders—it presumes that power is equally distributed. We know, of course, that it isn’t.

Take on the mantle of “Je suis Charlie” if you choose, but there is more to be done in the service of free speech worldwide. Sorensen’s suggestion: Support the work of Cartoonists Rights Network International, a nonprofit group that, per its mission statement, “defends the creative freedom and human rights of editorial cartoonists under threat throughout the world,” especially in countries where political cartoonists have been silenced, threatened and, yes, even killed for publishing their work.

“There are cartoonists around the world, people in the Middle East and South Africa, who really are doing intelligent cartoons that really do speak truth to power,” Sorensen said, but “they don’t get talked about when they get killed, it doesn’t make the news. We should give them the outpouring of respect and concern that we’re giving Charlie,” Sorensen said.

That’s not to take away from the terrible tragedy in Paris, but to add another layer of nuance to a difficult and ongoing conversation about Western privilege.

Larry McQuilliams
Facebook
Larry Steve McQuilliams

On Thanksgiving night, a religiously motivated political extremist on a suicide mission took to the streets of downtown Austin, wearing military-style riot gear and armed with illegally obtained automatic weapons and a van full of explosives, just as revelers from the surrounding entertainment districts were pouring into the street after bar-closing time.

Larry McQuilliams, 49, trekked across the city from the federal courthouse to the Mexican Consulate to police headquarters, firing hundreds of rounds and attempting—unsuccessfully—to set off improvised explosive devices along the way. No one was injured except McQuilliams, who was killed by police.

Following McQuilliams’ rampage, the Austin American-Statesman went looking for more about this homegrown terrorist. According to the Statesman headline, he was a Midwesterner who’d sought a “fresh start in Austin.” The Statesman went on to interview McQuilliams’ neighbor, Katie Matlack, who described him as a “very kind person” who was “frustrated.” (Later, Matlack wrote a first-person piece for the Observer describing McQuilliams’ relationship with his South Austin neighbors).

I thought of the coverage following the police shootings of 18-year-old Michael Brown in Ferguson, Mo., and 12-year-old Tamir Rice in Cleveland.

A New York Times piece described Brown, who was stopped for jaywalking before being shot and killed by officer Darren Wilson, as “no angel.” After officer Tim Loehmann shot and killed Rice at the park gazebo where Rice was playing with a replica gun, the Cleveland Plain Dealer hurried to run a story about Rice’s parents’ criminal records, apparently desperate to associate the boy with criminality any way it could.

Surely these people must have done something to invite their deaths at the hands of law enforcement?

Meanwhile, a white Christian man plans and executes a terrorist attack in Texas’ capital and he’s just a nice guy who lost his way, a Renaissance Faire enthusiast in a tricorn hat who enjoyed tubing and trying to blow up government buildings.

This response accomplishes two things: It obfuscates the role of racism and white supremacy in the construction of the “victim” in our discourse, and it excuses white-perpetrated violence as a fluke, rather than as the not-illogical result of pro-gun, anti-government and anti-immigrant rhetoric.

Austin police chief Art Acevedo was unequivocal in calling McQuilliams a terrorist, and local and national news outlets did pick up on that language in the brief spate of coverage following McQuilliams’ spree, though rare was the coverage that exposed and examined the connections between McQuilliams’ beliefs and mainstream conservative ideology about border militarization, the unassailable right to bear arms and an imagined war on Christian religious freedoms.

We heard no calls for a national conversation about religious extremism in the Christian community, no hand-wringing cable news pundits imploring American whites to get their violent males in line, no somber public statements from Christian leaders hurrying to distance themselves from McQuilliams and his ilk.

And while Acevedo connected McQuilliams’ motivations with right-wing rhetoric, he also called McQuilliams a “lone wolf.” Indeed, McQuilliams appears to have acted alone, but we should not pretend that his ideology or his actions came wholly formed out of some unfathomable ether.

Though his violent downtown tour blessedly resulted in no civilian deaths, McQuilliams follows in the terroristic footsteps of Ted Kaczynski, Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols, and Joseph Andrew Stack, who flew his single-engine plane into an Austin IRS building in 2010.

The Southern Poverty Law Center keeps a tally of dozens of such plots and attacks on government buildings, abortion providers, gay bars, civil rights groups and minority neighborhoods. And yet the media ignores the pattern time and time again, choosing instead to focus on what a 12-year-old boy might have done to provoke a police officer to shoot him on sight or whether an 18-year-old Missouri man deserved to be murdered for jaywalking.

In the aftermath of McQuilliams’ rampage, one Austinite told a local news team that he’d seen the white man in riot gear and wasn’t immediately sure if he should report the gunshots. Maybe, he’d thought, McQuilliams was one of the good guys.

I don’t wonder where he got that idea.

Ebola tweet
The satire Ebola tweet that landed Twitter user @colin_dime in hot water.

Is a silly Photoshop prank the equivalent of yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater?

The Frisco Police Department seemed to think so when officers took a high school jokester into custody in early October.

The student’s crime? Trolling his fellow Friscoans for their gullibility, playing on their willingness to believe hyperbolic news reports generated by a 24-hour news cycle ravenous for speculation about Ebola’s recent arrival in nearby Dallas.

Punctuating an Oct. 1 tweet with just the right amount of bawling emoji, the student—whose name has not been released—posted a pretty good imitation of a Fox News screenshot broadcasting the sort of Ebola story that readers might fear to find splashed across the Dallas-Fort Worth affiliate’s website: “6 New Cases of Ebola Discovered Within Dallas Fort Worth Area, Specifically Frisco ISD.”

Even a cursory perusal of the student’s Twitter timeline would lead a thinking person to conclude that he was goofing, but that didn’t stop the image from spreading, and in what appears to have been a matter of hours the affluent exurb was all afroth.

Parents kept their kids home from school. The district issued a soothing email: “… there is currently no reason to believe that the situation [in Dallas] presents a health concern to Frisco ISD students or staff members.”

Police took the teenager into custody for making a “false alarm or report.” Law enforcement authorities tell me he was later transferred to the Collin County Juvenile Detention Center, and that as of mid-October the case was “still under investigation.”

Juvenile incarceration. Over a fake news story attributed to an “AP Medical Scriber.”

Give the kid credit—imitating the local Fox affiliate was a brilliant move. Average Joes and Janes will find the “source” just reputable enough to not immediately dismiss the “news” as a hoax, and “Obola”-fearing Fox loyalists will treat it as the word of God Hisownself.

In the tweet accompanying the photo, the student perfectly captured the fear and confusion that’s run beneath the surface of news reports since the Ebola diagnosis of a Liberian man in Dallas was announced Sept. 30.

“… [O]ut of everywhere in the USA [Ebola] is at my EXACT HIGH SCHOOL.” This followed an earlier panic-belying chastisement that “Y’all know its [sic] not an airborne disease? You’d have to share body fluids to get it.”

That nugget—that Ebola is actually pretty difficult to contract and spread—has been notably missing from a great deal of the mainstream coverage so far, despite the fact that it’s arguably the most important information for reporters to relay to a jumpy public clearly ready to believe, and overreact to, just about anything.

The Dallas Morning News showed how CareFlite crews disinfect their helicopters. Television news broadcast a seemingly perpetual reel of hazmat-suited cleaners filing in and out of the Dallas apartment where patient Thomas Eric Duncan—who succumbed to the disease Oct. 8—stayed before his hospital admission. A WFAA-TV phone interview with Duncan’s wife used a spooky silhouette as a stand-in for the interviewee.

But this Frisco kid is thrown in the clink for pulling off a pretty solid Photoshop job? Even as the perpetrators of far more insidious Ebola-related fictions remain free to engage in racist right-wing agitation over what they claim is a very real possibility of the disease infiltrating the Texas-Mexico border?

Two days after the Frisco teen was taken into custody, Fox News Latino printed the headline “Border Patrol on alert after 71 people from hard-hit Ebola countries illegally enter U.S. this year,” building on Rand Paul-fueled fears of a “whole ship full” of American soldiers returning from Africa teeming with the virus. A week after the Frisco Fox hoax, Breitbart Texas didn’t hesitate to imply that the National Institute of Health’s infectious disease czar, Dr. Anthony Fauci, was either stupid or a liar when he called the Ebola-infiltration claims of Paul and others “far-fetched.”

These are real lies being spread by people with far more influence than a suburban Texas high schooler. This is real fearmongering, and it’s given morbidly gleeful credibility by people who get paid by the byline.

I don’t mean to suggest that we should imprison journalists, hucksters or hypesters. Freedom of speech and all that. But no more should the police be jailing a kid who used a computer to create a mirror that reflects our terrified faces right back at us.

Apparently it’s only OK to scare the shit out of people if that’s your main line of business.

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George P. Bush
Gage Skidmore/Wikimedia Commons
George P. Bush

When Breitbart Texas, the Lone Star “vertical” of the right-wing news and commentary site Breitbart.com, launched in February, I was privileged to be one of its first targets. The site ran what I believe it was trying to pass as a smear piece about my abortion politics.

“Ms. Grimes doesn’t just want abortion,” wrote then-columnist and self-described “Breitbart protégé” Lee Stranahan, about my work for the site RH Reality Check. “She wants it freely available and she wants the state to pay for it.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself. Except when I say it, there tends to be quite a bit more cussing. Perhaps that’s why Breitbart printed the piece—plucked from my extremely public Twitter feed—with this pearl-clutching advisory: “LANGUAGE WARNING: ANDREA GRIMES UNCENSORED.”

Stranahan kindly warned me on Twitter that a storm would soon be brewing about me. He implored his readers to “please treat [me] civilly.” But I heard nary a peep from any of them. I didn’t even get any nice church ladies threatening to pray for me.

Whither the Breitbart Texas storm?

When Breitbart Texas launched last winter, Managing Editor Brandon Darby claimed the site was poised to “bring a voice to grassroots Texans,” and to “arm Texans … with the information they need to stand up against the institutional Left.”

Ten months later, I’m still wondering: Where’s the storm? As yet, the site hasn’t exposed the dark-blue underbelly of mainstream Texas journalism. Rather, Breitbart Texas has imported an inside-the-Beltway model of smear “journalism” that’s blatantly partisan, enthusiastically flakkish and of a type not commonly seen here in Texas. Breitbart Texas has positioned itself as a sympathetic ear and attendant mouthpiece for right-wing communications cronies tasked with grinding their bosses’ axes.

Case in point: This summer, The Texas Tribune quoted George P. Bush—currently running for Texas land commissioner—talking about coastal erosion in the same sentence as climate change, as if he believed the two might be related. It was a horrifying instance of a Texas Republican saying something that vaguely recognized the existence of climate change.

Within 72 hours, a Breitbart Texas writer fresh off a gig at the right-wing think tank Texas Public Policy Foundation stumbled upon an “exclusive” with the P. Bush campaign, running a convoluted attempt to reconstruct what P. Bush had really meant in his Tribune interview. That proved awkward given that the Trib had posted a transcript online.

But Breitbart’s Sarah Rumpf plunged ahead with her scoop anyway, writing,  “Bush’s comments and positions have been seriously misrepresented.” The headline? Rendered in CAPS LOCK, as are all Breitbart headlines: “REPORTER MISREPRESENTED GEORGE P. BUSH CLIMATE CHANGE INTERVIEW.”

Typically, a serious misrepresentation is the kind of thing that merits a conversation with the reporter and/or the editor. It’s something news outlets might consider addressing with a correction or a follow-up.

But Tribune Editor Emily Ramshaw told me via email that they “haven’t heard from George P. Bush or his campaign staff about the story or the transcript, and generally [they] would immediately if someone took issue with the story.”

Generally, that is, if right-wing campaigns were playing by old Texas media rules, rather than crying foul to a more malleable partisan site. As the Observer’s Chris Hooks noted in September, Bush didn’t need to try to “undo” his statements with a Trib correction: “Breitbart will do it for him.”

I asked Breitbart Texas’ Darby whether Rumpf has an knack for reading the hivemind of the P. Bush operation, or if this was an engineered smear from the campaign. He didn’t reply.

In the absence of a definitive explanation, Breitbart Texas appears itself to be guilty of the right-wing version of the very crimes it accuses the “institutional Left’s” Obummer-worshiping media lapdogs of committing. And at the same time, the site proved itself not loyal to the unruly right-wing grassroots, but rather to the Bush family.

Breitbart Texas: a little thunder and lightning but no rain. Didn’t anyone tell ’em we’re in a drought?

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A graphic, Dan Patrick offers on his campaign site for users to upload to their Facebook and Twitter profiles.
danpatrick.org
A graphic Dan Patrick offers on his campaign site for users to upload to their Facebook and Twitter profiles.

When the David Dewhurst campaign slapped a spinning bowtie on state Sen. Dan Patrick this spring, I knew Texas voters were in for something special in 2014, something that screams “elevated political discourse.”

Ideologically, every tea party race is a race to the bottom, but the guys vying for the Republican lieutenant governor nomination made sure the campaign aesthetics matched the overall tenor of the conversation: vague, sloppy, carnivalesque. 

Hence the spinning red bowtie pasted on a dancing Dan Patrick GIF featured on the now-defunct attack site TheRealDanPatrick.com, which made it appear as though the scariest thing about Dan Patrick is the possibility that he might try guessing your weight.

The pre-primary exchanges between Dewhurst and Patrick read as little more than juvenile schoolyard tiffs, scuffles between the boy whose daddy runs the factory and the boy whose daddy runs the coal mine, and Patrick ultimately trounced Dewhurst to secure the nomination. 

It’s probably a good thing we lost “Mountain Dew” back in May. One shudders to consider the chicanery his team might have pulled on Democrat opponent Leticia Van de Putte, an eminently qualified lieutenant gubernatorial candidate with the well-earned gravitas of a longtime stateswoman and a clean, forward-thinking campaign aesthetic that reflects the same.

Indeed, this year’s Democratic candidates roundly outclass their Republican opponents when it comes to graphic design, producing a steady stream of social media-friendly ads and online signage neatly tailored to target demographics, from purple LGBTQ placards to pink-tinged paraphernalia meant to appeal to much-coveted lady voters.

The Wendy Davis and Van de Putte campaigns cast a wide, generally well-designed net, their Twitter feeds full of grinning candidate photos and pithy quotes artfully arranged for Facebook users who love to post inspirational memes. Not feeling the stark, square, official “Wendy Davis For Texas” logo? Grab yourself a blue, cursive, “Generation Wendy” sign. Want to signal your support for a Latina lieutenant governor? There’s a “Viva Leticia” sign for that.

Meanwhile, the Dan Patrick campaign is constantly searching for new fonts in which to print “SECURE THE BORDER,” and GOP attorney general candidate Ken Paxton’s website features an unsettling and poorly clipped lineup of floating-head endorsements from right-wing lawmakers and lobbyists. Greg Abbott renders his name in a blocky, blue, seriffed type on a white background, which looks especially cheap on T-shirts, like something your church might print for its fall fun-run.

The cover of Wendy Davis' memoir <i>Forgetting to Be Afraid</i>.
Blue Rider Press
The cover of Wendy Davis’ memoir Forgetting to Be Afraid.

And yet the most notable design flub of any 2014 campaign so far is the inexplicably cringe-worthy cover of Davis’ memoir, scheduled for release this month. Davis is posed as if being photographed by the lesser of a very small town’s two portrait makers, then Photoshopped onto a despair-gray background. The title (Forgetting to Be Afraid—not so bad as fluffy political memoirs go) floats directly over her torso in an insubstantial blue sans-serif font that might be named “error: font not found.”

It looks like the cover of a self-published e-book, and we are going to see it over and over as journalists, talk-show hosts and reviewers plumb it for clues about what kind of governor Wendy Davis might be.

But shouldn’t voters cast ballots based on issues? Why should anyone care about kerning while the state’s water runs dry and our public education system is slated for sale to the highest charter-school bidder?

Particularly for Democrats, good design can build a bridge between unengaged voters and the candidates who need their support if anything is to change this November. It makes perfect sense that Democrats would try to wrap their appeals in prettily designed bows, and that Republicans wouldn’t bother.

Everything about the Republican reliance on stodgy serifs says, “Don’t you like things the way they are?” while everything about the Democrats’ aesthetically accessible imagery—some of which is sourced directly from fan-like supporters who love making Wendy Davis sneaker cakes and Photoshopping the candidate as the “mother of dragons” a la Game of Thrones—says, “We’re as different as y’all are.”

How that will play out in November remains to be seen, but if elections were won in Adobe Illustrator, Texas would turn blue in a brushstroke. 

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