The nation
is gearing up for a presidential election, and the press is as happy as a
tornado in a trailer park, reporting on a field of candidates that could have
stepped out of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.
Not content with simply reporting the facts, several journalists still
feel the need to exaggerate, to confabulate, or to embroider their stories—in
short, to lie.
Selling
newspapers—or airtime—with exaggerations or lies is certainly not new in
America, nor is there any proof that the stories of today are any more
exaggerated that those of the last decades of the 19th century—the age of the
birth of yellow journalism.
The term
"yellow journalism" actually comes from a battle between two New York
newspapers, The Journal American of
William Randolph Hearst and The World of
Joseph Pulitzer. Both men would stop at
nothing to sell their newspapers, with each competing with the other for the
most fantastic story. Strangely, this
name for type of journalism comes from something they shared: The Yellow Kid.
The Yellow
Kid was the main character in a cartoon strip called Hogan's Alley, drawn by
Richard Outcault. The Yellow Kid was a
young boy with jug ears, two buck teeth, beady blue eyes, and a yellow
nightdress. Living on the wrong side of
the tracks, the Yellow Kid could ridicule and satirize the changing world of a
city poised to enter the new century.
This comic strip set the standard style still used today—it was
showcased in a Sunday supplement to the paper, its conversations appeared as
text in balloons above the characters and most of its humor was based on social
commentary. While you may never have
heard of The Yellow Kid, you probably are at least remotely familiar with
Outcault's other creation, Buster Brown.
While it is
little remembered today, the Yellow Kid was very popular, and the two
newspapers that carried the strip were called "The Yellow Kid
papers", which over time was shortened to "The Yellow Papers"—something
that eventually gave rise to the term, "Yellow Journalism".
Neither
Hearst nor Pulitzer invented this type of journalism, however. In the last half of the 19th century,
journalists all over the country spiced up their stories, inflated the facts,
and in many cases, just lied from boredom or to sell their papers. Working as a reporter in San Francisco, Mark
Twain invented a California massacre—most likely just for the fun of it.
In Texas,
there was a series of exaggerated stories that may be responsible for the very
survival of Fort Worth and eventually gave the city the nickname, Panther City,
which is still used today.
Shortly
after the Civil War, B. B. Paddock, a Confederate officer, set up a law
practice in Fort Worth, despite there being no record of his ever having spent
a single day in any school. (To be fair,
neither an education nor intelligence seems to have been a prerequisite for
practicing law in those days.) In any
case, Paddock relatively quickly abandoned the law and became the editor of the
Fort Worth Democrat.
As the
editor, Paddock worked passionately to develop the city and to attract
investors. This passion eventually led
him to publish a map of Fort Worth that showed no fewer than nine railroad lines leading into the
city. In fact, no such line came within
30 miles of the town. Rival newspaper
editors ridiculed Paddock by calling his creation the Tarantula Map.
Nevertheless,
the map did help attract the interest of T&P Railroad, who planned to build
a line to the city. Rapidly, the
population of the town grew to 4,000, there was a general building boom, and...
inevitably, a bust. The banking firm backing the railroad went
bankrupt, local business failed, and a mass exodus brought the population of
the town down to 1,000. The very
existence of Fort Worth was in question.
One
morning, a local citizen pointed at some scratches in the main thoroughfare and
declared that a panther had spent the night asleep there, completely unmolested
in the middle of a city more dead than alive.
A lawyer (probably one who met the above requirements), on hearing the
story, recounted the tale in a letter to a Dallas newspaper, that referred to
the nearby city as Pantherville. (It is interesting to note that, even then,
there was a rivalry between the two cities.)
Undaunted,
B. B. Paddock adopted the image of a panther on the masthead of his paper and
continued to push for investment.
Eventually, Paddock was successful:
the T&P Railroad did come to Fort Worth and prosperity
returned. Sadly, while Paddock is all
but forgotten in the town today, the panther lives on. Fort Worth is proud of her nickname of
"Panther City", as reflected in the names of many local
businesses. Today, even the badges of
the city police proudly bear the image of a panther.
Speaking of
wild animals in city streets: an earlier
newspaper hoax might be the most outrageous example of the 19th century
"creative journalism", the true forerunner of yellow journalism.
On Sunday
morning, November 8, 1874, the people of New York were startled to read a story
on the front page of the Herald: "A Shocking Sabbath Carnival of
Death", which detailed a grisly accident at the Central Park zoo. A rhinoceros escaped from his cage, killing
his keeper and panicking the rest of the zookeepers, who quickly took flight
from the zoo, allowing several other animals to escape in the wooded park.
Lions,
tigers, a polar bear, and a panther were among the animals that roamed the
park, killing, trampling, maiming, and even devouring the unsuspecting
pedestrians strolling through the gardens. Local hospitals were kept busy tending to the
dead and dying New Yorkers, many of them prominent citizens.
Slowly, the
terrorized citizens fought back—a group of Swedish immigrants shot a lion that
was saturated in the blood of its victims, the rhino was chased until it fell
into an open sewer excavation, and the polar bear was pursued until it found
refuge in the Central Park reservoir.
Mayor
Havemeyer ordered the city's citizens to stay off the streets until the crisis
was over. Later editions of the Herald
explained how the state's governor, John Adams Dix, a hero of the Civil War,
had tracked and killed the escaped Bengal tiger. The same edition listed other animals that
had escaped from the zoo, including snakes, sheep, monkeys, and a white-haired porcupine—and
included perhaps the most gruesome story yet:
a graphic account of a grizzly bear's devouring an elderly woman inside
the Church of St. Thomas on Fifth Avenue.
Unfortunately,
few people read to the very end of the story, where the closing paragraphs
explained that the story was false, but could one day be true if the city did
not allocate enough funds to renovate and repair the Central Park Zoo. The story was the brainchild of James Gordon
Bennett, Jr., the rich and powerful (and crazier than a bucket of frogs) owner
and editor of the Herald—the largest
and most influential newspaper of the world.
Bennet had
built his newspaper on sensation and good writing. Though he regularly featured the works of the
best writers in America—men like Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, and Stephen Crane—Bennet
did not hesitate to create news when necessary.
It was Bennet who sent Stanley to locate Livingston in Africa. The dispatches from Stanley, prominently
published in the Herald, were
carefully edited to hide the fact that Livingston was neither lost nor in need
of "locating"!
Now, Bennet
had fabricated a story that aimed to push the city into improving a zoo, and
establishing an organized emergency plan for the city. He was successful in both—the latter idea
proved necessary after thousands of New Yorkers, believing the story to be
true, rushed the piers and demanded transportation off the island. Thousands more, stayed home in terror, while
a few hardier souls carried rifles into the wooded park in search of escaped
animals.
While
Bennet's bogus zoo escape is all but forgotten today, several times in the last
two weeks—while watching the latest manufactured political news on television—I
have been reminded of the event. Surely,
a few of the politicians currently running for president should be rounded up
and put back into their cages.
We've got Doctors and governors aplenty
ReplyDeleteWe've got lawyers and hucksters galore.
Politicians? There's at least twenty
Then there's Trump, on the stump, who needs moooooooooooore!
I want to be where the idiots are.
I want to laugh, want to watch them stumping...
I want to see whether they'll really go so far
That we're sick of stumping; camera humping; fists a pumping..............
(insert rising orchestral music stolen from Disney's little mermaid)
You have to make up your own words from here. I think I need to be sick.
Whoever is on the ballot, though, I'm voting for Ben Carson, just so you know.