All too often I will hear people say their personal stories aren’t good enough to share. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing very shocking. Nothing that other people would care much about. But some of the best stories are those with a simple narrative, but that also contain great meaning.
Such are the stories that recall childhood memories — those special times spent with family members. In this case, Ryan Roe’s story at The Moth takes us back to the time when he was learning to play the trombone. The story which unfolds is, at first, one of discomfort, but it turns into a father-son bonding experience that Ryan holds onto throughout life.
It’s heartfelt, as you’ll come to find out when you watch Ryan on stage, but it’s also filled with many funny moments. Listen to how he uses the technique of self-deprecating humor that also serves to enhance the visual experience.
You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday.
Without that humor his story would still be meaningful, but it wouldn’t have connected to the audience in the same way. It involves an effort to be near someone we like (we’ve all done that) and also being put into a potentially embarrassing situation (who hasn’t been there), so we’re rooting for Ryan.
Transcript
When I was in fourth grade, that’s when we as students could pick an instrument to take lessons in and play in the school band. And I chose the trombone for two reasons.
The first one was that there’s this cute girl named Jessica who told me that she was going to play the saxophone. And I had heard that the saxophone players and the trombone players took lessons together. Now, the reason I didn’t just also play the saxophone was that the buttons scared me.
And the second reason I chose trombone was that my dad is a phenomenal trombone player. For many years, he played in the Marine Corps Band, and he traveled around the country playing with them. He was based in New Orleans, and he played in a lot of the jazz clubs there. And then after that, he became an instrument repairman.
So, a lot of my memories as a child were of hearing him test the instruments in our house, playing his favorite songs. And I just loved the sound of the trombone. So I felt like if I played trombone, that would make him proud.
Now, the only other trombone player in the school was a fifth grader named Gina. And for months, Gina and I took lessons with our music teacher, and after all this time spent practicing, I just sounded terrible. The noise that came out of my trombone sounded like a hive of angry bees, yet somehow more alarming.
And, you know, it’s a really hard instrument to play for a fourth grader because you have these little fourth-grade arms, and you can’t even reach far enough to hit a C note. And what’s more embarrassing is that when you have an instrument that has a lot of valves and reeds and keys, if it sounds bad, you can sort of blame it on the instrument.
But when it’s just one long horn, if it sounds bad, it’s 100% your fault. I even came to my dad at one point and I was like, “This thing’s busted.” And he’s like, “Here’s the thing, no, it’s not.”
But the only consolation I had in all this was that Gina was also terrible. So as long as she was embarrassing herself, I felt fine embarrassing myself. Until two weeks before our first concert, Gina decides to quit. Up and leaving me as the only trombone player in the whole school, and my music teacher is worried.
But that week, my dad came in for a parent-teacher conference and he met with my music teacher and mentioned to her that he played trombone, and she goes, “Wait. Would you like to play in the winter concert with the fourth graders?” And he’s like, “I don’t know, this is their thing. I don’t want to take anything away from it.” And she’s like, “Please. Will you play in the winter concert?”
So he accepts and when he comes home and he tells me about it, he actually seems really excited about it. And I had to be like, “That’s awesome, Dad. I’m excited too.”
Because at this age, my biggest fear was being the center of attention. I just wanted to blend into the background. I did not want to be sitting in the front row with Jessica on my left and an adult man on my right.
But the concert comes around and we’re holding it in our dimly lit elementary school cafeteria. It was one of those cafeterias that weirdly has a full stage and curtains as if they’re trying to make the students think, “Will there be dinner and a show?” Who knows.
And the families are all there in their metal folding chairs. Suburban moms have their 30-pound camcorders armed and ready. You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And the drummers, they were lucky. They got to sit all the way in the back, along with this kid named Evan who had a triangle because he wasn’t really to be trusted.
And every family that walked into the room instantly looked in my direction and had a confused look because it was exactly as I had predicted. Me in the front row, Jessica on my left, and my adult father on my right.
And we begin playing the first song and immediately my dad and I are in a competition to see who can play the quietest. I’m playing quietly because I don’t want people to hear the noises coming out of my trombone. My dad is playing quietly because he doesn’t want to upstage a bunch of nine-year-olds. We’re both playing so quietly that the music teacher is waving her baton at us and mouthing, “Get louder! Now!”
But we get through the Blue Danube. The Carnival of the Animals goes a little better. And by the time we get to the Funeral March, I can finally relax. But the last song that we played was What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. And you guys know it, it’s a very soft and slow song. It’s a bit easier to play on an instrument.
And as I’m playing, I start to listen to my dad playing next to me. And I’m hearing him hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next. And then I look out into the crowd and I can see everyone else’s dad sitting there. And then I look over at my dad, and he’s smiling because he’s having the time of his life playing the instrument that he loves with his son that he loves.
And I felt really lucky to be playing next to my dad. I finally felt like this is a really special thing, I should cherish it.
And he ended up playing in every concert we did for the next five years. We had zero new trombone players every year for five years. So we just kept inviting him back. And it was awesome. I loved it. Every single time. I was never embarrassed about it, I always looked forward to it, and it was always a special moment.
So much so that when I got to high school and there were some upperclassmen that played trombone, I was no longer the only trombone player, so he didn’t need to play with us anymore. And I only ended up playing one more semester before I decided to quit because it just wasn’t as fun anymore. Something felt missing. So I moved on.
Fast forward to just a few years ago, I was taking a road trip through the South and I stopped for a day in New Orleans. And I was really excited because my dad had told me so many things about New Orleans and the whole experience just felt magical walking around the city because I kept thinking to myself, “This was my dad’s home when he was my age.”
And I ended the day by going to a jazz club called Preservation Hall. And it’s a really small club with these guys that play Dixieland jazz. And they sat me right next to the trombone player. And I’m having a great time listening to these guys, they’re so talented.
And then right before they ended the show, a guy came up from the back of the room and handed the lead man a five-dollar bill and asked him to play What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.
And as I’m listening to the trombone player hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next, I become overwhelmed with emotion because I was being transformed back into being fourth-grade Ryan. And I felt so lucky that I got to have those special moments with my dad.
And so when I got back home, I went to my parents’ house and I told my dad all about it and I thanked him for what he had done all those years ago. And then I went up to the attic and we had kept my trombone this whole time. So every now and then, my dad and I will still get that musical itch and we’ll go up to the attic and we’ll break out our trombones.
And I open up the case and I smell that sweet brass smell. And I put the horn and the slide together and you just hear all the familiar sounds. And when I begin playing, I’m immediately reminded of how terrible I am. But he hits every note perfectly, and that’s the fun part for me.
Thank you.
Now back to you…
Take a moment to think about similar experiences from your youth — from your childhood, to adolescence, to your teenage years. Is there some event (or series of events) that defined your relationship to one or both of your parents? Music, sports, nature, travel, food, etc.
Consider the sweet aspects, the humorous ones, as well as the meaningful ones. What memories have you carried with you throughout your life? As you recall an event, try to go deeper. What did it feel like, sound like, look like? As adults, we’ll too often push those memories into a corner, when the truth is, they are often well worth revisiting and sharing.
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Ryan Roe at The Moth in Philadelphia
/in Family, Humor, Life Lessons, Music, The Moth/by Mark LovettAll too often I will hear people say their personal stories aren’t good enough to share. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing very shocking. Nothing that other people would care much about. But some of the best stories are those with a simple narrative, but that also contain great meaning.
Such are the stories that recall childhood memories — those special times spent with family members. In this case, Ryan Roe’s story at The Moth takes us back to the time when he was learning to play the trombone. The story which unfolds is, at first, one of discomfort, but it turns into a father-son bonding experience that Ryan holds onto throughout life.
It’s heartfelt, as you’ll come to find out when you watch Ryan on stage, but it’s also filled with many funny moments. Listen to how he uses the technique of self-deprecating humor that also serves to enhance the visual experience.
Without that humor his story would still be meaningful, but it wouldn’t have connected to the audience in the same way. It involves an effort to be near someone we like (we’ve all done that) and also being put into a potentially embarrassing situation (who hasn’t been there), so we’re rooting for Ryan.
Transcript
When I was in fourth grade, that’s when we as students could pick an instrument to take lessons in and play in the school band. And I chose the trombone for two reasons.
The first one was that there’s this cute girl named Jessica who told me that she was going to play the saxophone. And I had heard that the saxophone players and the trombone players took lessons together. Now, the reason I didn’t just also play the saxophone was that the buttons scared me.
And the second reason I chose trombone was that my dad is a phenomenal trombone player. For many years, he played in the Marine Corps Band, and he traveled around the country playing with them. He was based in New Orleans, and he played in a lot of the jazz clubs there. And then after that, he became an instrument repairman.
So, a lot of my memories as a child were of hearing him test the instruments in our house, playing his favorite songs. And I just loved the sound of the trombone. So I felt like if I played trombone, that would make him proud.
Now, the only other trombone player in the school was a fifth grader named Gina. And for months, Gina and I took lessons with our music teacher, and after all this time spent practicing, I just sounded terrible. The noise that came out of my trombone sounded like a hive of angry bees, yet somehow more alarming.
And, you know, it’s a really hard instrument to play for a fourth grader because you have these little fourth-grade arms, and you can’t even reach far enough to hit a C note. And what’s more embarrassing is that when you have an instrument that has a lot of valves and reeds and keys, if it sounds bad, you can sort of blame it on the instrument.
But when it’s just one long horn, if it sounds bad, it’s 100% your fault. I even came to my dad at one point and I was like, “This thing’s busted.” And he’s like, “Here’s the thing, no, it’s not.”
But the only consolation I had in all this was that Gina was also terrible. So as long as she was embarrassing herself, I felt fine embarrassing myself. Until two weeks before our first concert, Gina decides to quit. Up and leaving me as the only trombone player in the whole school, and my music teacher is worried.
But that week, my dad came in for a parent-teacher conference and he met with my music teacher and mentioned to her that he played trombone, and she goes, “Wait. Would you like to play in the winter concert with the fourth graders?” And he’s like, “I don’t know, this is their thing. I don’t want to take anything away from it.” And she’s like, “Please. Will you play in the winter concert?”
So he accepts and when he comes home and he tells me about it, he actually seems really excited about it. And I had to be like, “That’s awesome, Dad. I’m excited too.”
Because at this age, my biggest fear was being the center of attention. I just wanted to blend into the background. I did not want to be sitting in the front row with Jessica on my left and an adult man on my right.
But the concert comes around and we’re holding it in our dimly lit elementary school cafeteria. It was one of those cafeterias that weirdly has a full stage and curtains as if they’re trying to make the students think, “Will there be dinner and a show?” Who knows.
And the families are all there in their metal folding chairs. Suburban moms have their 30-pound camcorders armed and ready. You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And the drummers, they were lucky. They got to sit all the way in the back, along with this kid named Evan who had a triangle because he wasn’t really to be trusted.
And every family that walked into the room instantly looked in my direction and had a confused look because it was exactly as I had predicted. Me in the front row, Jessica on my left, and my adult father on my right.
And we begin playing the first song and immediately my dad and I are in a competition to see who can play the quietest. I’m playing quietly because I don’t want people to hear the noises coming out of my trombone. My dad is playing quietly because he doesn’t want to upstage a bunch of nine-year-olds. We’re both playing so quietly that the music teacher is waving her baton at us and mouthing, “Get louder! Now!”
But we get through the Blue Danube. The Carnival of the Animals goes a little better. And by the time we get to the Funeral March, I can finally relax. But the last song that we played was What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. And you guys know it, it’s a very soft and slow song. It’s a bit easier to play on an instrument.
And as I’m playing, I start to listen to my dad playing next to me. And I’m hearing him hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next. And then I look out into the crowd and I can see everyone else’s dad sitting there. And then I look over at my dad, and he’s smiling because he’s having the time of his life playing the instrument that he loves with his son that he loves.
And I felt really lucky to be playing next to my dad. I finally felt like this is a really special thing, I should cherish it.
And he ended up playing in every concert we did for the next five years. We had zero new trombone players every year for five years. So we just kept inviting him back. And it was awesome. I loved it. Every single time. I was never embarrassed about it, I always looked forward to it, and it was always a special moment.
So much so that when I got to high school and there were some upperclassmen that played trombone, I was no longer the only trombone player, so he didn’t need to play with us anymore. And I only ended up playing one more semester before I decided to quit because it just wasn’t as fun anymore. Something felt missing. So I moved on.
Fast forward to just a few years ago, I was taking a road trip through the South and I stopped for a day in New Orleans. And I was really excited because my dad had told me so many things about New Orleans and the whole experience just felt magical walking around the city because I kept thinking to myself, “This was my dad’s home when he was my age.”
And I ended the day by going to a jazz club called Preservation Hall. And it’s a really small club with these guys that play Dixieland jazz. And they sat me right next to the trombone player. And I’m having a great time listening to these guys, they’re so talented.
And then right before they ended the show, a guy came up from the back of the room and handed the lead man a five-dollar bill and asked him to play What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.
And as I’m listening to the trombone player hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next, I become overwhelmed with emotion because I was being transformed back into being fourth-grade Ryan. And I felt so lucky that I got to have those special moments with my dad.
And so when I got back home, I went to my parents’ house and I told my dad all about it and I thanked him for what he had done all those years ago. And then I went up to the attic and we had kept my trombone this whole time. So every now and then, my dad and I will still get that musical itch and we’ll go up to the attic and we’ll break out our trombones.
And I open up the case and I smell that sweet brass smell. And I put the horn and the slide together and you just hear all the familiar sounds. And when I begin playing, I’m immediately reminded of how terrible I am. But he hits every note perfectly, and that’s the fun part for me.
Thank you.
Now back to you…
Take a moment to think about similar experiences from your youth — from your childhood, to adolescence, to your teenage years. Is there some event (or series of events) that defined your relationship to one or both of your parents? Music, sports, nature, travel, food, etc.
Consider the sweet aspects, the humorous ones, as well as the meaningful ones. What memories have you carried with you throughout your life? As you recall an event, try to go deeper. What did it feel like, sound like, look like? As adults, we’ll too often push those memories into a corner, when the truth is, they are often well worth revisiting and sharing.
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If you enjoyed this article…
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Your Stories, AI, and George Washington
/in Democracy, Government, Personal Stories, Writing/by Mark LovettOn this day in 1790, President George Washington signed into law the first U.S. Copyright Act. The Act emerged from the unique intersection of Enlightenment ideals, economic necessity, and the practical challenges facing a new nation as leaders were trying to establish its cultural and intellectual identity.
To understand why the law felt so urgent to the Founders, we need to step back and consider the current situation. In colonial America, there was no protection for authors’ works. Publishers could freely reprint books without compensating the original author, which created an environment of need without incentive.
The Founders recognized this as more than just an economic problem — it was a threat to the kind of society they were trying to build. They believed deeply in the power of knowledge and education to sustain a republic. Think about it: how could America develop its own intellectual traditions, its own literature, its own scientific contributions, if there was no financial incentive for Americans to write and publish?
When Washington signed the Act, he was addressing several interconnected challenges. First, there was the immediate practical need to protect American authors so they could make a living from their work. Second, there was a desire to encourage the growth of American publishing and printing industries, which were still quite small compared to their British counterparts. Third, and perhaps most importantly, there was the recognition that a healthy democracy required an informed citizenry, and that meant fostering a robust marketplace of ideas.
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The law itself reflected these concerns in interesting ways. It protected books, maps, and charts for fourteen years, with the possibility of renewal for another fourteen years if the author was still alive. This was actually quite generous compared to many state laws of the time, but deliberately limited to prevent the kind of perpetual monopolies that the Founders associated with European aristocracy.
It embodied a carefully considered philosophical approach that prioritized societal benefits while providing necessary incentives for creative production. The legislation was conceived in essentially utilitarian terms, taking as its primary goal the encouragement of intellectual activity and production for the good of society as a whole.
This framework aimed to guarantee both material benefits for creators and intellectual benefits for readers, recognizing that sustainable creative industries required economic incentives while knowledge advancement demanded public access to creative works.
The limited scope of the initial law — protecting only books, maps, and charts — demonstrated a focused approach to establishing the copyright system. Rather than creating a centralized copyright office, the legislation directed authors and proprietors to register their works at U.S. district courts in their areas of residence, establishing a decentralized but systematic approach to copyright administration.
Consider how this law would have affected someone like Benjamin Franklin, who was not only a scientist, inventor, and statesman but also a prolific writer and publisher in Philadelphia.
Without copyright protection, Franklin’s “Poor Richard’s Almanac” could have been freely copied by competitors, eliminating his incentive to continue producing it. The same principle applied to countless other potential authors whose stories and ideas might never have reached the public without the economic protection this law provided.
The timing of this legislation — just one year after the Constitution was ratified — reveals how fundamental the Founders considered intellectual property rights to be a critical step in the country’s evolution. They understood that the stories a nation tells about itself, through its literature, its newspapers, its scientific works, and its philosophical treatises, shape its character and destiny. By protecting authors’ rights to profit from their work, they were essentially investing in America’s future capacity to generate and share knowledge.
To ensure broad awareness of the new protections, the Act was widely printed in newspapers following its passage. This dissemination strategy reflected the government’s recognition that the law’s effectiveness depended upon public understanding of both the rights it created and the obligations it imposed.
Copyright Law and AI Training
Navigating Intellectual Property in the Age of Large Language Models
The rapid advancement of large language models (LLMs) has ignited a global debate about the ethical and legal implications of training artificial intelligence systems on copyrighted materials. As AI companies increasingly rely on vast datasets scraped from the internet, questions about intellectual property rights, fair use doctrines, and the boundaries of creative ownership have moved to the forefront of legal and technological discourse.
Major Pending Cases
1. The New York Times v. OpenAI/Microsoft (2024)
2. Sarah Silverman et al. v. Meta (2023)
3. Getty Images v. Stability AI (2023)
Regulatory Developments
Key Legal Arguments
Back to you…
This is obviously a very complex topic, but I bring it up as many of my clients have published books which formed the foundation of their speaking career. In other cases, clients have worked on crafting their signature talk, and now realize there’s a book to be written.
Some storytellers are okay with their stories being referenced by AI — they feel the exposure is a positive thing. Others, however, believe their original works should be protected — they think that if they end up in the public domain they will suffer financially.
I’m not sure what the outcome will be, but I’m thinking that if President George Washington was alive today he would be concerned about how the Act is being circumvented — that the intent of protecting intellectual property was being ignored in the name of amassing wealth.
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It Took Thousands of Personal Stories to Create the Mariner 9 Story
/in Government, History, Science, Technology/by Mark LovettFifty-four years ago today, on May 30, 1971, a symphony of human ambition lifted off from Cape Kennedy. Mariner 9 wasn’t just a spacecraft — it was the culmination of thousands of individual stories, each person contributing their unique thread to a tapestry that would forever change how we see our place within the cosmos.
Launch of Atlas-Centaur Rocket Carrying Mariner 9 Mars Probe
The Genesis of a Dream
The Mariner program began in 1962, nine years before the launch of Mariner 9. NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory conceived this series of robotic explorers as stepping stones to the planets. Each mission built upon the last — Mariner 2 had whispered past Venus, Mariner 4 had glimpsed Mars in passing. But Mariner 9 would be different. It would stay, orbit, & see.
The development of Mariner 9 took approximately four years of intensive work, from initial design concepts in 1967 to its 1971 launch. Yet this timeline barely captures the human drama unfolding behind the scenes — engineers working through weekends, mathematicians recalculating trajectories late into the night, technicians hand-assembling delicate instruments with the precision of watchmakers.
A Cast of Thousands
Picture this: over 5,000 people directly involved in the Mariner 9 mission, with countless more supporting roles spanning across multiple states. From the assembly floors of Denver to the tracking stations scattered across the globe, this was humanity at its collaborative best. Each person — whether they wielded a soldering iron or a slide rule — contributed their personal skills and passion.
Mariner 9 Mars Probe
The mission required an extraordinary convergence of skills, including:
Five Gifts to Humanity
Mariner 9’s achievements resonate through the decades. First, it became the first successful Mars orbiter, proving we could establish a permanent robotic presence around another planet. Second, it mapped most of the Martian surface with unprecedented detail, revealing a world of stunning geological complexity. Third, it discovered evidence of ancient water flows — those mysterious channels that whispered of a warmer, wetter Mars. Fourth, it provided our first detailed study of the Martian moons, Phobos and Deimos, expanding our understanding of small celestial bodies. Fifth, it demonstrated that long-duration interplanetary missions were possible, paving the way for every Mars mission that followed.
The Ripple Effect
Imagine if Mariner 9 had failed. Would we have the rovers — Sojourner (1997), Spirit (2004–2010), Opportunity (2004–2018), Curiosity (2012–present), and Perseverance (2021–present) — exploring Martian soil? Would we still dream of human colonies on the Red Planet? Would countless young minds have been inspired to pursue careers in science and engineering? The mission’s success created a cascade of possibility that continues to shape our technological vision of space exploration.
Back to you…
I’ve worked with a long list of folks whose story involved technical achievements, from scientists to engineers and entrepreneurs. While digging below the surface we invariably discover a cast of supporting characters that made their project a success. If your story involves a team effort, weaving bits of their stories is one way to add depth and richness to your story.
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Billions of Personal Stories as Told on the Golden Gate Bridge
/in Architecture, History, Society, Statistics, Transportation/by Mark LovettIt was 88 years ago, on May 27, 1937 that the Golden Gate Bridge opened, finally making a direct connection (not using a circuitous route) between San Francisco and Marin County, California that did not involve a ferry. Only pedestrian traffic crossed the bridge that day, with vehicles permitted to make the journey the following day.
It’s just one out of the millions of bridges that exist throughout the world, and in one respect its function is basically the same as virtually all the others — getting people from one side to the other — but the unique combination of its location and architecture have made it iconic. A visual recognized the world over.
While bridges evoke the idea of transportation, I think of bridges as storytellers, or to be more precise, story conduits. So how many stories has the Golden Gate Bridge facilitated? That’s hard to say, precisely, but based on numbers I dug up, the total seems to be well over 2 billion. More likely than not beyond 3 billion.
Stories of people coming and going to work. Families on vacation. Those making trips of all sorts; south towards Mexico, and north towards Canada. Both saints and sinners, as well as everything in between. While they’re just physical objects, bridges facilitate a fundamental desire to reach beyond ourselves.
For example, when the ancient Romans built the Pons Sublicius across the Tiber River around 642 BC, they weren’t just connecting 2 banks of earth — they were helping create the destiny of their civilization. Every Roman legion that marched across their bridges carried the seeds of an empire that would shape Western culture for millennia — for better or worse.
In more recent times, but still predating the Golden Gate Bridge, consider how different New York City would be today if the Brooklyn Bridge had never been built. When it opened in 1883, it didn’t just span the East River; it transformed New York from a collection of separate boroughs into the unified city we know today.
Consider the Tower Bridge in London. Completed in 1894, it connected not just the north and south banks of the River Thames, but also the old world with the new industrial age. Imagine the conversations that took place as horse-drawn carriages shared those roadways with new motor cars — generations literally passing each other on a bridge between eras.
When we understand bridges as more than infrastructure, but as the connective tissue of human experience, we begin to appreciate how they’ve shaped not just where we can go, but who we become in the crossing.
Back to you…
Maybe your story involves crossing a physical bridge, as you moved from one place to another, or it may be more metaphorical in nature as you progressed in your career or in a relationship. Think about the starting and ending points, with a chasm in-between, and what changed when you crossed over.
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The House Un-American Activities Committee: The Day Freedom of Expression Became a Crime
/in Democracy, Discrimination, Freedom, Government, History/by Mark LovettThroughout history, personal stories have been adversely affected by the acts of unjust and misguided governments. Such unjust actions are often justified for a variety of reasons, including an individual’s ethnicity, culture, gender, religion or political beliefs. This last item — political beliefs — sparked a decision that had far-reaching effects on the fabric of American society.
The date is May 26, 1938. The United States remains in a fragile state as a result of the Great Depression as its citizens watch with growing unease storm clouds gathering across Europe and Asia. But on this spring day in 1938, a war of a very different sort was being declared as the United States Congress established the House Un-American Activities Committee — a name that would in time become synonymous with fear, suspicion, and repression of free thinking.
Seeds of Suspicion
The committee’s origin grew from the genuine feelings of anxiety and concern in much of America. In the 1930s, the U.S. was a nation caught between ideologies. The rise of fascism in Europe and the spread of communist influence worldwide had many Americans wondering: who among us might harbor allegiances to a foreign power?
The committee’s original purpose seemed straightforward — to investigate any alleged disloyalty and subversive activities by private citizens, public employees, and organizations suspected of having communist or fascist ties. Reflecting the fears of their constituents, Congress believed they were creating a shield to protect American democracy from enemies within.
But what began as a tool for national security would gradually transform into something far more reaching, far more troubling, and far more destructive to the ideals of personal freedom — the freedom to think, act, and speak freely.
The Evolution of Fear
In its early years, the committee investigated various groups and individuals, though not in a way that garnered much attention. But history has a way of amplifying certain loud voices, and the committee found its loudest voice in Representative Martin Dies Jr. of Texas, who chaired it from 1938 to 1944.
Dies cast a wide net, often making sensational accusations that grabbed headlines but sometimes lacked substantial evidence.
The committee’s approach evolved with the times, and during World War II, it focused on Nazi sympathizers and fascist organizations. But as the war ended and the Cold War began, the committee’s attention shifted decisively toward communist influences.
This is when the committee truly found its dark purpose — and when it began touching the lives of ordinary Americans in ways that would forever change how we think about loyalty, dissent, and freedom.
The post-war years brought us to the era most associated with the committee’s infamy: the reign of Senator Joseph McCarthy and the broader phenomenon we now call McCarthyism. Though McCarthy himself wasn’t directly part of HUAC, the committee became a central stage for the anti-communist fervor that swept the nation.
Pencil Drawing of Senator Joseph McCarthy
Hollywood in the Crosshairs
Perhaps no single episode better illustrates the committee’s reach — and its tragedy — than its investigation of Hollywood. In 1947, the committee turned its attention to the film industry, convinced that communist writers, directors, and actors were using movies to spread subversive propaganda.
The hearings produced the infamous “Hollywood Ten“—writers and directors who refused to answer questions about their political beliefs and associations. These men were cited for contempt of Congress, served prison sentences, and found themselves blacklisted from working in their chosen profession.
Imagine being a screenwriter, someone whose life’s work involved crafting stories that moved audiences, only to find yourself branded as un-American for your political beliefs. The ripple effects were profound: careers destroyed, families torn apart, and an entire industry gripped by fear. Actors, writers, and directors began policing their own associations, their scripts, even their thoughts.
Pencil Drawing of American screenwriter Dalton Trumbo
This wasn’t just about Hollywood, though. The committee’s actions sent a clear message to every American: think carefully about what you believe, what you say, and whom you associate with. The very foundation of free thought and expression — pillars upon which America was built — began to crack under the weight of suspicion.
The Human Cost
The point is, history isn’t just about government policies and committees — it’s about the human stories that unfold in their wake. Teachers lost their jobs for belonging to the wrong organizations. Labor union leaders found themselves under investigation. Even librarians were questioned about the books they chose to stock.
The committee’s influence extended beyond those directly called to testify. It created what we might call a “culture of conformity” — a climate where Americans began to self-censor, to avoid controversial associations, to keep their political thoughts private. In trying to protect American values, the committee was inadvertently changing what it meant to be American.
The Reckoning
Thankfully, history has a way of (eventually) correcting course, though often at great cost. By the late 1950s and early 1960s, public opinion began to turn against the committee’s methods. The excesses became too obvious to ignore, the damage to innocent lives too severe to justify.
The committee existed until 1975, but its influence waned significantly. Court decisions began to protect the rights of those called before congressional committees. Public sentiment shifted toward valuing civil liberties over security paranoia. The very people the committee had targeted — intellectuals, artists, activists — began to speak out about their experiences.
The Long Shadow
Looking back at the House Un-American Activities Committee, we can now see it as a cautionary tale about the dangers of letting fear override our fundamental values. Historians largely view the committee’s actions as a dark chapter in American history — a time when the pursuit of security led to the trampling of civil liberties.
But here’s what makes this story particularly relevant to our times: the underlying tensions that created HUAC haven’t disappeared. Every generation faces the challenge of balancing security with freedom, of protecting society while preserving individual rights. The specific threats may change — terrorism, cyber warfare, foreign interference — but the fundamental questions remain the same.
Lessons for Today
We can only speculate how history would have unfolded had the House Un-American Activities Committee never been established. Would American society have been more open, more tolerant of dissent, more willing to engage with uncomfortable ideas? Would the civil rights movement, the anti-war protests, or the explosion of artistic expression have happened sooner?
As we navigate our own complex times, with our own fears and uncertainties, the story of HUAC whispers to us across the decades: be vigilant not just against external threats, but against the erosion of the very values that make our society worth protecting. For in the end, the greatest danger to any democracy may not come from its enemies, but from the compromises it makes with its own principles in the name of security.
Even though the House Un-American Activities Committee was disbanded nearly fifty years ago, its shadow still falls across American life, and its basic premise of persecuting people for their beliefs has seen a resurgence in America.
Back to you…
How has your personal story been influenced by some form of discrimination or persecution? Have you ever felt that it wasn’t safe to express your true feelings for fear that you would have to pay a price — a price so high that you remained silent? Do you live in a country — or have lived in a country — that is repressing freedom of thought? Sharing such stories is vital if we want personal freedom to thrive.
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