Small-town journalism —and to a lesser degree small-town politics — have gained national attention with the recent events in Marion.
As part of the broader picture, First Amendment protections cannot be overstated, whether it’s a newspaper serving a community in central Kansas or the Washington Post.
On another level, what’s unfolded in this community of less than 2,000 reflects a challenge facing small newspapers — striking that balance between fulfilling their journalistic obligation while knowing that it usually won’t win them popularity awards.
In a New York Times story, one business owner’s critique of the Marion County Record is that it needs to be “positive about everything that is going on in Marion.” Another critic didn’t like how an opinion column in the newspaper took aim at the poor quality of Santa letters.
While letters to Santa are not the hill on which we are willing to die, maybe letters in Marion had reached the point where a free pass was no longer acceptable. That’s an editorial decision.
The notion that a newspaper should only print “good news” is just another way of saying “we don’t want to air our dirty laundry for others to see.” Mark Zuckerberg wouldn’t have become one of the world’s wealthiest individuals if Facebook was limited to news about the grandkids and cat videos.
The so-called “hometown news” that exists on Facebook in our community, with similar renditions in countless other towns, thrive on their toxic nature and unabated ability to spread discontent and misinformation. It’s not “good news” that attracts eyeballs and comments.
As an editor, we enjoy writing stories about the youngster who used the Heimlich maneuver to save a friend who was choking in a school lunch room, the Make-a-Wish recipient who finally got her own horse and the mother who overcame homelessness and addiction to find a caring community for herself and her son.
At the same time, we’ve also covered murder trials, incidents that have led to the tragic loss of lives and public officials who have resigned their positions because of inappropriate actions.
We don’t live in a fairy tale world where everyone is noble in thought and deed and where there’s always a happy ending.
While we’re sure that Marion is a fine community, let’s keep in mind — and you can’t make this stuff up — the district magistrate judge who issued search warrants on the newspaper has two prior DUI arrests; the police chief resigned his previous position while under investigation for sexist comments; a restaurant owner was seeking a liquor license while having a DUI conviction on her record; and the city council approved the license even though it had knowledge of the past conviction. These are facts that can’t be swept away.
What’s interesting, and puzzling at the same time, is that even though The Record publisher had knowledge of these convictions and investigations, none of it had yet to appear in print — at least not yet.
If, or when, that was to happen is again an editorial decision, but if all the individuals involved in this escapade were hoping that through intimidation, or the remote possibility of shutting down the newspaper, they could somehow avoid accountability for their past, well it’s obvious that none of their résumés include any reference to being Rhodes Scholars.
This also points to what makes small-town journalism unique.
First of all, in any community where the population is, at best, holding its own and Main Street businesses struggle to stay open, the last thing any newspaper owner wants to do is risk losing subscription or advertising support. Yet we know, from nearly 50 years of ownership, that we can write 99 stories or columns that readers will like — maybe even agree with — but they remember the one that struck a raw nerve.
