Do things seem a little scary right now? What are we willing to do about it?
The course was documentary and drama writing, and there were three major assignments for the semester: Write a documentary, an adaptation and an hour-long drama.
I'd visited Salem, Mass., during a trip to New England a year or two before, where I found a fair amount of kitschy touristy stuff and heard a lot of stories that might have contained more theory than actual truth about the witchcraft trials.
But I was struck by the way tour guides and lecturers referred to the events of 1692 as "mass hysteria" or a great "delusion." And I was jolted by how rapidly the poison had spread — 300 years before anyone had dreamed up the Social Medium Formerly Known as Twitter.
That truth vs. image dichotomy, particularly as it pertained to a story already so dramatic, seemed like a pretty good candidate for a documentary. Especially since I'd gotten my hands on a book by a Penn State history professor who concluded, against conventional wisdom, that at least a few Salem residents really were practicing some form of dark arts in 1692.
Even now I haven't reached my own conclusion about whether any of the victims had actually practiced witchcraft, but I am convinced that most of them did not. There was definitely mischief afoot, however, with nearly 200 people accused in some 25 towns and settlements. Nineteen executed. One crushed to death with boulders for refusing to plea. Many more — including children — died in jail.
Everyone, from clergy to farmers to 5-year-olds and even dogs, was susceptible to accusations. And if you dared question the proceedings or the motivations behind them, you could count on the sheriff to show up with a warrant.
Several years after I completed my assignment, PBS aired a three-part drama based on the experience of a survivor. The first time I watched it, it was just history of a kind that surely couldn't happen again, at least not here. But I saw it again recently, and this time I felt myself shuddering.
Because this time, I'm living in an America that looks very different.
Consider the situation in 17th-century Salem:
There was little sense of community — most residents lived on farms at a distance from each other — but a lot of division over property, religion and who should be in charge; there was a pervasive "us-them" atmosphere
Greed was rampant among these God-fearing Puritans, including the cantankerous new minister in whose home the hysteria began
People chose to believe a prevailing theory regardless of whether it had any basis in actual fact
Religion was politicized and used to pummel people rather than minister to them
Self-interest compelled residents, already a combative lot, to turn on each other
Common sense was abandoned as people quickly lost the spine to stand up to tangled-up legal contortions
Reputations were permanently shattered and trust in institutions — government and church — was destroyed
The whole community was held hostage to the whims of a few
If any of that sounds familiar to you, perhaps we should all shudder.
I was having an online conversation with one of my more cerebral friends a few weeks ago about a recent event in the news industry. He was concerned (as am I, frankly) about the tone a major newspaper would take under its new ownership. He sent me an article suggesting the answer was more publications that took an opposite tone.
I'm old-school. Columns and editorials that clearly are not straight news articles can take sides, but not news itself. Starting biased publications that half the population will immediately dismiss won't fix anything.
Then, he asked, since I'm so concerned with facts and accuracy, would I call a politician a fascist in a story if the evidence shows the name fits?
I didn't answer, not because I'm dodging the question, but because it's not that simple. Truth usually isn't. There are circumstances where it might be appropriate; Benito Mussolini clearly was a fascist, for example. But my preference, and my practice, has been to report newsmakers' words and actions and let you draw your own conclusions.
But that means readers have to do the work of, first, reading; and then thinking the evidence through before reaching a conclusion. And unfortunately, fewer and fewer of us are doing that. It's much easier to make assumptions or adopt prevailing theories.
So more and more often these days, I ask myself what I can ethically say and do when I see the naked hypocrisy that infects so much of public discourse or when I see faith being co-opted for the idol of political expediency.
I was hardly the first to see parallels in the debacle of Salem. The late playwright Arthur Miller wrote his take on the trials, "The Crucible," at the height of McCarthyism to expose its injustice.
Like Miller, I'm a firm believer in the adage that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
There's more at stake in this election year than Republican vs. Democrat, conservative vs. liberal. The issues we must grapple with are far more fundamental than that, but most of them boil down to one inescapable fact: Whether you're a Republican, a Democrat or something else, some actions are just flat wrong, regardless of how a politician chooses to spin it.
But many of us keep pretending otherwise and clinging to our us-and-them positions no matter what, refusing to hold them accountable.
And that's why the witches of Salem should continue to haunt us. We haven't yet broken the spell.
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This article originally appeared on The Herald-Mail: That past is prologue adage is a little too real
