by Dan Rather
Some may argue, and with merit, that ours is inherently a conservative system of government, one that has prevented rapid progress on a host of important issues. Unlike a parliamentary system, in which the leader of the executive branch derives his or her support from the legislature, we often have divided government with different political parties controlling the presidency and Congress. This can often stymie big actions. Whether one thinks that is a good thing or not, it usually depends on whether those in power align with your political views. When they do, we often chafe at their inability to get through their agenda. When they do not, we tend to revel in the checks on power within our system. An oppositional Democratic Congress stopped President George W. Bush from privatizing Social Security. And a Republican Congress stymied President Barack Obama’s attempts to pass environmental legislation. How you respond to those two pieces of legislation depends more on your politics than your views on the separation of powers.
It is important to note that this stability of our system of government has only intermittently prevented progress. In the decades after the Korean War, we saw meaningful and positive action on racial and social justice, the economy and the environment, infrastructure, and workers’ rights. But in recent years, I have worried increasingly that the mechanics of our government may be coming under a debilitating strain. We have seen two presidential elections in a short span where the winner of the popular vote did not win the antiquated electoral college. That is deeply troubling. Far greater political retrenchment, exacerbated by gerrymandered congressional districts, has led to political parties in Congress voting as blocs, with far less room for compromise. We have seen a push for far more ideological purity from our judges, and especially from those justices selected for the Supreme Court. We have seen inaction on important issues even where there is large agreement among the voting public—for example, on background checks for gun purchases, criminal justice reform, and campaign financing.
I see all this, and I am worried, but I hear the voice of my father once more: “Steady, Danny. Steady.” I remind myself and others that we have been through big challenges in the past, that it often seems darkest in the present. The pendulum of our great nation seems to have swung toward conceit and unsteadiness once again, but it is in our power to wrest it back. Our government is there to serve us, not the other way around.
My friends, family, and colleagues will tell you that I have struggled, as most of us do, to walk the line between confidence and conceit. Such, I fear, is the human condition. It seems that each generation must in some way learn its own lessons about overreach. We would do well to study our history. For in it lies not only evidence of American greatness, but also the need for humility. And regardless of the invariable ups and downs that stretch before us in the future, I hope we can at least vow to try to remain steady. I would like to think that those around me would say that was one lesson I learned well.
One of the biggest tests to my own personal steadiness, and that of the nation, occurred with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. In the chaotic hours after I had reported on his death from Dallas, I finally found a moment to call my wife, Jean, to see how she and our two young children were doing. She asked how I was holding up. I was somehow hanging in there, I said, and I could tell she was worried about me. I knew I had to get back to work, but this woman who understood me better than anyone else on earth had one final message to send me into the night. It has become one of my most cherished memories, and I have returned to it countless times for strength. “I love you,” she said, and after a long pause, she added, “Steady.”
Courage
Manhattan is largely an island of straight lines — the avenues run north – south and the streets run east – west. Having lived in New York for much of my adult life, I have grown accustomed to charting my movements according to this urban grid. And for much of that time, I would undertake a daily western migration from my home on the East Side to the CBS Broadcast Center, which nearly abuts the Hudson River. This became a journey of such frequency that I knew all the landmarks on every possible route between the two points. I could catalog the colors of the awnings on the grand apartment buildings, and I could tell you which blocks were lined with the most trees. I would see the bustling bodegas and the queues of commuters awaiting the buses heading downtown. I witnessed the city as it oscillated between waves of confidence and doubt, triumph and tragedy. I saw businesses open and close, entire blocks demolished and replaced by shiny new construction. I often thought how, with all this change, the dreams of countless individuals were rising, and dying. It got to the point where I could predict the path of the sun in the sky for each season and the lengths of shadows it would cast amid the skyscrapers. Time ticked onward, years into decades, but I was so rooted in my routine that I felt it would go on forever, even though I knew, rationally, that all things must end.
And then, suddenly, it was all over. There would be no more journeys between those two points. A building I had entered almost as much as my own home was now off limits, and I knew I would probably never walk its hallways again. At first I was beset by anger—I felt I had been wronged, and I wanted answers. Few would come. The great wheel of fortune had spun, and this was where it had landed. With time, my anger began to recede, and it was replaced by a sense of emptiness and sadness. I bring this up not to revisit my departure from CBS News (plenty has already been written on that topic, probably too much, by me and by others), but to note that certainties can evaporate in an instant. A life path that you expected to stretch into the future can suddenly take you off a cliff. On the scale of human tragedy, this one was extremely minor. I, and my family, still had our health. I did not have to worry about my ability to put food on our table or a roof over our heads. I had already had a long and happy life. I knew how fortunate I was, and when I did sink into occasional periods of self-pity, Jean let me know in no uncertain terms how unattractive that quality was.
What I really didn’t want to admit, least of all to myself, was that I was afraid. I was afraid that this was how it was going to end, that the final chapter of my professional career had been written. I was not really afraid about my public reputation. Sure, everyone wants to be liked, but I had long ago come to understand that being a reporter required you to raise unpleasant truths that would make you unpopular. As for whatever fame I had accrued over the course of my career, I can honestly say that I always saw that as fleeting. The news business is one mostly of the moment. But I still loved reporting and I didn’t know if I was ever going to be able to do it again. Like an injured or aging slugger, I wondered whether I had rounded the bases for the last time.
All my adult life, I have prided myself on being a man who woke up each day and went to work. After I left CBS, I probably could have gotten a cushy emeritus position somewhere and ambled in and out of an office at times of my choosing. But those who knew me best understood, as I did, that this would have been a hollow and unfulfilling existence. My life had been dictated for years by a sense of order, in a career and a place of work. I could feel hints of chaos closing in.
When I would read the stories in the morning papers, I wanted to still be reporting myself. I was eager for meaningful work and, to be completely honest, to show that I still had it. Luckily, I got a chance with a weekly, one-hour cable news program called Dan Rather Reports. I assembled a team of top-notch reporters, producers, and editors, and it was pure joy. What we perhaps lacked in audience reach we more than made up for in editorial freedom. We traveled the world doing the type of deep-digging investigations and international reporting I have always cherished. We broke news and reported through long-form storytelling, the kind that had largely fallen out of favor at many network news divisions and cable channels.
I have long lived by the precept “Courage is being afraid, but going on anyhow.” And eventually my fear of meaninglessness after CBS News dissipated. I felt I had not only persevered—I had thrived. Even after Dan Rather Reports ra
n its course, I was energized with a new sense of purpose. I embraced social media. I launched a production company, and I continue to read through several newspapers each morning looking for the next great story to chase.
My travels between work and home these days keep me mostly on the East Side of Manhattan. Occasionally, I have an event or a commitment that takes me west, and I find myself heading up Tenth Avenue past CBS News. I do not feel a tug in the chest or an overwhelming desire to turn my head. It would be nice to return at least once more to those halls that were home, but most of the people I knew there are gone. I can take memories of them with me wherever I go. Courage, I know, means going forward.
Recently, I have thought back to my own personal journey as the nation has careened into an existential crisis. The order of the past, of how governments were meant to run and how presidents were supposed to behave, has cracked. I worry especially for the young children. What must they think of our perilous state? My children and grandchildren are in adulthood, or approaching it. But I have heard from friends with children in grade school about the effects of this pervasive anxiety on young minds. One can only imagine the sense of disconnect that they feel. Children learn about our respected institutions of government and the steadfast leaders of our history in their textbooks, but the talk at home and on television describes an increasingly fragile system and increasingly vulnerable times.
I remember hearing from a scientist once that the universe tends toward chaos, a sobering reality that underpins the laws that govern our planet and the vastness of space. But it is also a concept readily apparent to any of us who has tidied up a child’s scattered toys or struggled to untangle a ball of string. It takes work to clean things up, to provide order. And these days, it feels as if our world is coming apart.
However, it would be fatalistic to think that we are powerless. Maybe we cannot change the equation at the level of the universe, but life is about creating order out of chaos. In the natural world, cells come together to form complex living beings. That’s pretty orderly, and inspirational. And we can do something similar by bringing order to our own lives for the betterment of our community. The heroes we laud today in our history books are mostly men and women who stood up and said, “The work may be hard, the personal rewards uncertain, but we refuse to accept that the world cannot be made a better place.”
The list of such people is long and wonderfully diverse. It includes women like Jane Addams, who pioneered social work, tended to the poor and the immigrant, advocated for women’s rights, and won a Nobel Peace Prize. And it includes men like Jackie Robinson, who integrated Major League Baseball with courage and grace in the face of bigotry and hatred. There is Ida B. Wells, the African American investigative journalist and activist who exposed the horrors of lynching; John Muir, the naturalist and writer who helped convince America that its natural wonders should be protected; and Eleanor Roosevelt, who used her position of prominence to advocate for the marginalized and dispossessed. There is Harvey Milk, the first openly gay elected official in the United States, who was assassinated; Cesar Chavez, who fought on behalf of the rights of farmworkers; and “Fighting Bob” La Follette, the Republican governor and senator from Wisconsin who campaigned against political corruption and the corrosive effects of corporate power over our political system. These are but a few of the millions of Americans who, in ways big and small, famously and anonymously, have worked to make our nation more inclusive and just. When we think about a universe of chaos, it’s helpful to remember Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s own equation for our journey through time and space: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
This is a task that falls to each of us now, to summon the highest ideals of citizenship and patriotism and claim them as our birthright. Thirteen independent states joined, under an unprecedented national charter, to form the most improbable of unions. We have been tested many times. But thus far we have had leaders who have risen up to reaffirm that we have a common destiny. On March 4, 1865, with the bloody Civil War almost over, Abraham Lincoln was sworn in for his second term as president. His eyes were on the hard work of peace that would follow. “With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.” Lincoln understood that the United States had to be a land of compassion and empathy, but a lasting peace had to be a just one. A little over a month after he gave that stirring speech, he would be dead and the work of which he spoke far from finished. It always will be.
As we seek common ground with our fellow citizens, we cannot forsake our core values. Compromise cannot be confused with capitulation. Recently, many of you have come up to me and asked what can or should you do in a country you no longer seem to recognize. I have suggested, and will do so again here, that we all reach down deep into the soul of this nation and hold on to the central principles that have made us great. Do not let go. Do not apologize or explain away your brand of patriotism. Do not sacrifice your ideals.
Ultimately, democracy is an action more than a belief. The people’s voice, your voice, must be heard for it to have an effect. Currently, many hurdles diminish the power of our collective speech, such as how we finance campaigns, our discriminatory voting laws, and the preferred place of moneyed interests in Washington. Despite all these obstacles, I am enough of an optimist to believe that if we come together to speak, and vote, and participate, the nation will bend its path. It is especially important that we engage in action for our children. This struggle is not only about creating the country we wish them to inherit, it is also about teaching them (and relearning ourselves) how democracy is rooted in civic activity.
Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, in his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize, said, “I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere.” I am pleased that I had the opportunity to get to know Elie Wiesel, and that we became friends. I always stood in awe of his positive but determined approach to life, this from a man who had lost his parents and sister to the concentration camps. It is sometimes easy to magnify one’s own struggles or the difficulties of the present age. In the face of people like Wiesel, or those who are confronting serious illness or economic hardship, I marvel anew at the resilience of the human spirit.
I understand that my time to shape and help this world is passing. This is the circle of life. I hope now to inspire others to love this country, to pledge to work hard to make it a healthier and more just place to live. I ultimately have faith in the basic decency of our American citizenry, and indeed people around the globe. I believe strongly that the core tenets I love most about this nation can be a foundation for commonality and strength once more. I believe in a wide and expansive vision of our national destiny. And I believe in all of you to help make it a reality. Courage.
Acknowledgments
This book is a product of more than eight decades of living and loving my country, but it would not have been possible without the last several satisfying and encouraging years of my career—ones for which I am extremely appreciative. I have long said that I am a reporter who got lucky, very lucky. This luck began early, with wonderful family, friends, teachers, and mentors. And it has remarkably continued into the present, an unlikely and unexpected chapter of my life.
For this I will always owe a debt of gratitude to Mark Cuban, who allowed me to continue with my lifelong love of journalism. Many of the ideas for this book grew out of the years at Dan Rather Reports, which Mark made possible with his financial and moral support. He is a firm believer that this country benefits fr
om a vibrant and fearless press and that the necessary debates of governance are useless without an informed citizenry.
I would like to thank the wonderful, intelligent, and dedicated staff at Dan Rather Reports. I consider what we produced some of the best work of my career. Away from the trappings of network news, I reconnected with my country and its people in simple but powerful ways that reaffirmed my belief in the basic dignity and honesty of my fellow citizens. Being around young, energetic journalists filled me with optimism for the future of our country that I hope is evident in this book. I see new generations of clear-eyed patriots who love America enough to want to make it a better place.
Dan Rather Reports was led by executive producer Wayne Nelson, a fellow Texan and pure newsman. Wayne is indefatigable in chasing down a story and making sure the reporting is fair and true. His broad interests led us to report on wide-ranging stories, which helped provide a foundation for many essays in the book. He is now ensuring that the highest traditions in journalism are a cornerstone of my production company, News and Guts. My hope is that we can pursue production projects that build off the themes of this book, and I am thankful for having my longtime colleague Phil Kim lead the development of these efforts. He is a trusted visionary who understands that in a changing media world, we cannot be afraid to adapt and experiment while holding true to our ideals.
Much of the spirit for What Unites Us came out of my surprising experience on social media. It was a strategy conceived and implemented by my coauthor, Elliot Kirschner (who was also the senior producer on Dan Rather Reports). As we collaborated on tone, style, and writing, he proposed we do the kinds of posts we wanted, and not worry if they were too long or too nuanced for the conventional wisdoms of Facebook. He was right, and I am grateful.