"We’ve lost trust in each other"

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Last month, just a short walk from the state Capitol, a coalition of stakeholders gathered for the first Keystone News Summit to discuss the future of journalism in Pennsylvania.

Early in the sessions, a speaker said: “We haven’t just lost trust in institutions—we’ve lost trust in each other.” To me, this was a striking observation, and one I hadn’t heard articulated quite that way before.

We often cite institutional distrust as a core problem in our society—including, and especially, in journalism—but maybe we have it backward. Institutions can’t really be rebuilt unless individuals trust each other. Without that, there’s no foundation.

At the summit, I spoke on a panel with Dale Anglin, executive director of Press Forward, and Tanya Henderson from the Pennsylvania NewsMedia Association Foundation. In one way or another, we each discussed efforts underway to restore that trust—starting at the community level.

Local news, in its role as a community connector, is uniquely positioned to facilitate a rebirth of trust and a shared sense of belonging—if we’re willing to confront the problem honestly.

I witnessed one such effort a few days after the Keystone Summit, when I attended the unveiling of a draft multi-county ecosystem study commissioned by Press Forward Central PA and my friends at the Steinman Institute for Civic Engagement. The room was full of local and statewide stakeholders: foundation leaders, journalists, educators—yes—but also local nonprofit founders, a volunteer emergency responder, and—somehow—my childhood neighbor.

When the facilitator asked what advice we’d give to someone looking to invest—literally or metaphorically—in local news, I said: “Talk to your neighbor. Not even about news. Just say something.” It might’ve been an offbeat answer, but coming off the Keystone Summit, it felt right.

One other moment stuck with me during this event: A subscriber of the local newspaper commented on how it had largely stopped running national news and opinion—a strategic move to reduce costs and double down on local coverage (see also: de-nationalize, de-polarize). The subscriber shared that he was initially upset by the change, but over time, he said, “I realized I can get national news anywhere—and the paper is better without it.” For at least one person, a century-plus-old institution had demonstrated new value.

The Lenfest Institute for Journalism also hosted its own two-day summit in Philadelphia—the first in-person gathering of the News Philanthropy Network, held in collaboration with Press Forward. When the planning team first envisioned the event, they anticipated fewer than 100 attendees. More than 350 showed up.

Huge kudos to Yossi Lichtermann, Jeff Muckenstrum, Diana López, and others who worked for months to make the News Philanthropy Summit happen. For me, it was an opportunity to reconnect with old friends, meet new ones, and join honest conversations about the actual most urgent question in journalism: How do we fund it? For many attendees, it was the first—and only—event dedicated specifically to this issue in journalism.

The three events in PA—Harrisburg, Lancaster, and Philly—all had a Press Forward presence. This confirmed something for me: no matter what ultimately becomes of the experiment that is Press Forward, it has already accomplished something important by inviting many people into a conversation about the purpose and value of local news. Some are thinking about local news for the first time; others, in a completely new light. Many weren’t previously connected—but now they are. And that alone has never been done before.

Speaking of speaking to neighbors—recently, I checked the last box on my mental moving-in checklist by finally meeting the one neighbor I hadn’t met yet.

During the election, his front yard featured an aggressive partisan display, and in the back, he had put up “No Trespassing” signs pointing directly at our house. Unlike with all my other neighbors, we hadn’t spoken once in the five years we’ve lived here. Whenever I tried to wave or say “Hey, man,” suddenly his back would be turned.

On Memorial Day, I saw him trimming his lawn near a patch of English ivy that spills from our yard into his. I walked over and asked, “Would you like me to do anything about this?”

He looked at me and said, “Kill it.”

🫡 I’ve been slowly removing my ivy since moving in and replacing it with beneficial—often native—plants. Why kill ivy, you ask? It matures into a monoculture that’s inhospitable to other life—believe it or not, this is called an “ivy desert.” But I’d left that patch alone because it crossed the property line. Now, he and I are on speaking terms—and we’ve got a common enemy.

I still don’t know exactly who those “No Trespassing” signs are for. But I do know I’m welcome on his side—at least when I am killing ivy.

As you may know, Memorial Day was originally called Decoration Day and was meant to honor the 400,000 Union soldiers who died in the Civil War. Over time, it became a day to remember all who have sacrificed their lives in service to our country.

Where I’m from, there’s a lot of history—including Civil War history: Underground Railroad stops, historical markers, and my ancestors even fought for the Union.

This Memorial Day, our three-person family visited Mount Pisgah, just outside York—Lancaster’s sister city. From the ridge, we could see the muddy, meandering Susquehanna. Upriver stood the cliffs of Chickies Rock; downriver, windmills and the Safe Harbor hydroelectric dam. Also visible were the remains of a bridge—once the world’s longest covered bridge—burned by Union militia in 1863 to prevent Confederate forces from marching to Lancaster from Gettysburg.

At the picnic areas on top of Mount Pisgah, it was unusually calm. A couple struggled to get a kite off the ground. Families barbecued. Older folks sat in lawn chairs in the grass. A redheaded girl read in the sun, legs turning pink. I didn’t really see anyone looking at their phones.

We need more quiet, offline moments. Nature writer Annie Dillard said it’s important to see everything you can see, in the hope that it might shift your perception. Andre Dubus once described the act of making sandwiches for his daughters as a kind of sacrament—even as he struggled to do it due to serious physical and emotional pain. In Lancaster County, many people observe in church. But there are many ways to observe—and we need to do it more often.

When you have a six year old, it’s easy to both observe deeply and drift away. Many experienced parents will tell you to “cherish every moment.” That’s hard to do, especially in the smartphone era—but not impossible. The nice thing is, for a while anyway, there’s always something to see.

As my son rode his bike along the narrow trails, I found myself watching his smile. Like most parents, I’m obsessed with seeing it—in life and in the pictures I take. Because he’s beautiful. And because if he’s smiling in every photo, I can tell myself in hindsight that he was happy—and that I did a good job.

We don’t know how anything will turn out—but we show up anyway. Take some time to observe as you go.

*Lenfest Institute for Journalism, that is**

A president plays king of the world while the next ones take notes. No institution is immune as consensus reality frays. AI stumbles through a midlife crisis. Understanding without feeling is a dangerous practice. A call brings joy. Anger yields to love. A steel spiral threads through narrow space. Great journalism endures.

Each month, I put together a Spotify playlist of the songs that caught my ear. Some are familiar to me, some aren’t. Some are old, some are new. The playlist tends to span eras, genres, and sounds. It’s probably not for everyone but here it is!

2024