vox--2020-06-05--The New York Times staff revolt over Tom Cotton’s op-ed, explained

This week , the New York Times staff revolted against its editors .
The inciting incident was the decision to publish an op-ed by Sen. Tom Cotton ( R-AR ) titled “ Send In the Troops.
” Claiming that “ rioters have plunged many American cities into anarchy , ” Cotton argued that soldiers be sent as “ backup ” for the police to end the violence .
“ One thing above all else will restore order to our streets : an overwhelming show of force to disperse , detain and ultimately deter lawbreakers , ” the senator wrote .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ on Wednesday evening , a number of Times staffers began tweeting a screenshot of the piece ’ s headline captioned with the same phrase : “ Running this puts Black @ NYTimes staff in danger.
” Dozens of Times staff members sent out variants over the course of the evening , with black staffers taking the lead ; many non-Times journalists tweeted the same message in solidarity .
James Bennet , the editor of the opinion section , wrote a Twitter thread explaining the decision to run the op-ed , but it wasn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Bennet later admitted he hadn ’ t read the piece pre-publication ) .
The complaints from Times staffers continued to roll in on Thursday ; several used a sick day to take the day off in protest , and many staged a virtual walkout .
Late on Thursday , the Times issued a statement apologizing for the decision — blaming a “ rushed editorial process ” for an op-ed that “ did not meet our standards.
” The paper vowed to reduce the number of op-eds going forward and step up its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meeting , Times publisher A.G. Sulzberger unequivocally denounced the piece , saying it “ should not have been published.
” One narrative of these events , circulated most prominently by staff editor Bari Weiss in a Thursday tweet thread , cast the conflict in ideological terms : an internal war between free speech advocates and young social justice warriors .
But Weiss ’ s characterization was widely rejected by her colleagues ; several Times reporters I spoke to , all of whom asked to remain anonymous for fear of retaliation , cited professional @ @ @ @ @ @ @ disagreement .
( Times representatives did not respond to my request for comment . )
They argued that elements of Bennet ’ s op-ed page — including Weiss , deputy editor James Dao ( who oversaw the Cotton piece ) , and columnist Bret Stephens — have elevated trolling the Times ’ liberal readership into a kind of raison d ’ être , one that has led to the publication of poor-quality material and damaged the ability of other staffers to do their jobs .
“ Does op-ed care at all about how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and sweat it trades on in order to sling hot takes ?
It ’ s not clear that they do , ” one Times staffer told me .
This internal staff conflict , insular as it may seem to outsiders , speaks to a fundamental question not only about the Times but all of mainstream journalism .
It ’ s not a debate about whether the Times should have conservative voices at all .
The op-ed page employs Ross Douthat and David Brooks as staff columnists and regularly publishes outside contributions by Republicans @ @ @ @ @ @ @ controversy .
Rather , it ’ s a question of how journalists should think about their roles as guardians of mainstream discourse .
Does every idea that ’ s popular in power , no matter how poorly considered , deserve some kind of respectful airing in mainstream publications ?
Or are there boundaries , both of quality of argument and moral decency , where editors need to draw the line — especially in the Trump era ?
Why the Cotton op-ed was such a flashpoint Broadly speaking , traditional newspapers like the Times @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and opinion sections : separate editors , separate contributors , separate missions .
These lines are fuzzy intellectually — sometimes news writers analyze news in a way that reads like opinion , sometimes columnists break previously unreported news — but taken very seriously institutionally .
The idea is for reporters to appear unbiased and unattached to the provocative opinions expressed by their opinion colleagues , the editorial board ( which writes unsigned opinion articles ) , and the outside contributors they publish .
After James Bennet was hired to lead the Times opinion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ part of his mission would be challenging the Times ’ s mostly liberal readership with views they don ’ t agree with .
This is a point he ’ s been explicit on throughout his tenure .
“ We owe our readers an honest struggle over the right paths ahead , not a pretense that we ’ re in possession of God ’ s own map , ” he wrote in a 2018 memo .
“ That means being willing to challenge our own assumptions ; it means being open to counter-arguments even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it means listening to voices that we may object to and even sometimes find obnoxious , provided they meet the same tests of intellectual honesty , respect for others and openness.
” In practice , however , Bennet ’ s approach to this goal has frustrated not only Times readers but some Times reporters and editors , who believe he ’ s pushed out low-quality articles on hot-button issues in the name of listening to “ obnoxious ” views .
The Cotton op-ed provoked such a strong backlash not only because of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ staffers — especially black ones — but also because it crystallized this internal critique of Bennet ’ s tenure .
The core thesis of Cotton ’ s argument is that American streets were beset by an “ orgy of violence ” that “ has nothing to do with George Floyd.
” Rather , “ nihilist criminals are simply out for loot and the thrill of destruction ” — and must be put down by an overwhelming show of force by the US military , as local police are simply not up to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that the rioting has overwhelmed local police ; the best reporting suggests the looting is significantly less devastating than the 1992 LA riots ( the last time the military was called in to restore order ) .
Cotton asserts that deploying the military would calm the situation , but he does not make any clear argument as to why this would be the case .
In fact , we have good reason to believe that more militarized displays of force from police tend to turn peaceful protests violent .
It ’ s entirely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
This is the meaning of the protest that “ running this op-ed puts black New York Times reporters in danger ” : If Trump were to send in the troops , it could lead to harm to Times reporters who are covering protests or merely walking near them while black .
Only one line in the piece acknowledges that the protests are primarily peaceful — “ a majority who seek to protest peacefully shouldn ’ t be confused with bands of miscreants ” — and there is no acknowledgment that governors and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ military deployed .
It ’ s not clear , reading Cotton ’ s argument , how the military could distinguish between “ peaceful protesters ” and “ looters.
” It comes across as a call to put down the largely peaceful racial justice demonstrations by force , over the objections of local authorities .
It also contained a significant factual distortion .
Cotton argued that “ cadres of left-wing radicals like antifa ” were “ infiltrating protest marches to exploit Floyd ’ s death for their own anarchic purposes.
” There ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ idea that this a large-scale problem .
A May 31 FBI report from the Washington field office found “ no intelligence indicating Antifa involvement/presence ” in looting .
The Times itself reported that claims of widescale antifa involvement in the violence are , by one metric , “ the biggest piece of protest misinformation ” currently spreading in reports on the protests .
The problem with the piece wasn ’ t just its call for potentially deadly use of force , though that was part of it — it ’ s that it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ well served by robust and ideologically diverse public discourse that includes radical , liberal , and conservative voices , ” tweeted Roxane Gay , a Times writer and public intellectual who writes about social issues .
“ [ Cotton ’ s piece ] is not that .
His piece was inflammatory and endorsing military occupation as if the constitution doesn ’ t exist.
” The bigger context for the Times revolt Since Donald Trump ’ s election , there have been running discussions in every mainstream media organization about how to cover a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ enemy .
At the same time , subscribing to a paper like the Times has become a kind of performance of resistance for liberal Americans ( who can then threaten to unsubscribe from the paper when it publishes a provocative op-ed in Bennet ’ s section ) .
There ’ s a subtle interplay at work between the need to cover the president fairly despite his anti-media tirades , the generally left-leaning tilt of journalists themselves , and the need to hold onto subscriptions in an era where advertising is an increasingly unstable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ factors play into the way the Times in general has approached covering Trump and the Republican party he dominates .
In this case , many Times staff members believe that Bennet ’ s attempt to serve as a counterweight to the anti-Trump and anti-Republican incentives have become too heavy-handed .
In their view , the Times op-ed section had elevated the provocation of its liberal readers into a value — that the newspaper has been willing to publish even badly argued pieces so long as they ’ re sufficiently abrasive to a liberal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the rest of the paper .
Bennet ’ s 2017 decision to hire Stephens , then a Wall Street Journal scribe who had once written about “ the disease of the Arab mind , ” is a paradigmatic case .
From Stephens ’ s very first Times column , widely criticized for distorting climate science , to his March 2020 piece about how Woody Allen was a misunderstood victim of cancel culture , he embodied an ethos of “ owning the libs ” at any cost that much of the newsroom found galling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
She has a penchant for writing right-leaning culture war pieces , including popularizing the term “ intellectual dark web ” to describe a group of online writers who challenge liberal nostrums around race and gender .
But her writing has also contained analytic sloppiness and factual errors .
For example , in a 2018 column on antifa and the left ’ s purported hostility to free speech , she cited a fake Twitter account purporting to represent the movement .
In another column , she misinterpreted the colloquial meaning of the word @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a socialist podcast host to accuse him of anti-Semitism .
If the op-ed section were really as siloed from news in practice as it is in theory , this might be a more containable problem .
However , the Times ’ s reputation is a holistic thing — opinion pieces do affect the way people see the paper , and that affects the ability of reporters and editors to do their jobs .
( There is also a fair amount of staff movement between the two sides . )
The fallout from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Marc Tracy , a media reporter at the Times , spoke with three reporters who say that sources would not talk to them after the opinion ’ s publication .
Freelance journalist Kara Brown turned down an assignment out of frustration with the Cotton piece : The fact that a certain element of the opinion section was not only publishing bad work but bad work that had this kind of adverse consequences for other staffers , crystallized the long-running frustrations with Bennet ’ s tenure as opinion leader — prompting the public revolt @ @ @ @ @ @ @ workplace messaging app ] was burning up overnight with pretty close to universal outrage at the op-ed and a lot of clearly pent-up frustration with the op-ed side more generally , ” a Times staffer told me .
“ But obviously a lot of people on the op-ed site , especially editors who are people of color , [ are ] also publicly rebuking the decision to publish it.
” This isn ’ t a purely ideological issue .
It ’ s a question of professional respect and thoughtfulness about how two sections @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on their core missions .
What is the Times revolt really about ?
If you don ’ t have all of this context , it ’ s easy to see this fight as being some kind of ideological proxy war .
You could imagine this as a story of overly woke social justice warriors on the Times staff fighting to suppress the publication of views that they find dangerous , opposed by older staff who understand the importance of free expression and hearing competing views .
Indeed , that ’ s how Weiss @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a meeting of the site ’ s op-ed staff : It ’ s easy to understand where Weiss is coming from here ideologically , especially given the prominence of somewhat oblique complaints about putting black staffers in danger in the public discourse surrounding the op-ed .
The interpretation , as she says in the thread , pretty neatly confirms her prior beliefs about the dynamics of public life in the era of “ woke ” politics .
But that doesn ’ t make it right .
“ I am in the same meeting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This [ is ] inaccurate in both characterizations , ” Max Strasser , an opinion editor , tweeted .
“ It ’ s not a civil war , it ’ s an editorial conversation ; and it ’ s not breaking down along generational lines.
” After Weiss ’ s tweetstorm , Twitter exploded with Times reporters and opinion writers accusing her of inaccurately describing the internal conversation surrounding these issues .
My own conversations with Times staffers gave the same perception : Weiss seemed to be ginning up this “ controversy ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Times discussions on Slack , its main work communication tool , the staff appeared largely unified around opposition to publishing the op-ed .
“ I ’ ve seen way over a hundred people posting comments , into the hundreds if you count people posting supportive Slack response emojis , and not one person pushing back , ” said one Times staffer .
“ The idea of a big divide or internal argument just has no basis that I ’ m at all aware of.
” The brass seem to have sided with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ piece in Friday ’ s company meeting , as did Bennet .
“ I ’ m very sorry for the pain this piece has caused .
...
I ’ m responsible for this , ” Bennet said .
“ We need to interrogate everything [ about the op-ed section ] .
” That ’ s certainly a productive first step , from the perspective of the Times ’ s aggrieved workforce .
So too were Bennet ’ s comments rebuking Weiss ’ s tweet thread , saying that he “ felt betrayed ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Weiss may have the narrative wrong , that doesn ’ t mean there aren ’ t profound ideological questions surrounding the decision to publish the Cotton op-ed .
The best description of the issue I ’ ve seen is from Times opinion columnist Michelle Goldberg .
In her Friday piece , Goldberg argues that there might have been some value in publishing the piece — not enough to justify its publication , but still some .
Cotton ’ s argument is so abhorrent , so poorly reasoned , that it sheds real light @ @ @ @ @ @ @ United States : It ’ s not wrong to write about Cotton ’ s view or engage with it in some way .
It ’ s actually vital that liberal audiences understand the nature of the modern conservative movement , the degree to which reactionary and authoritarian racial politics occupy its center rather than its margins .
But commissioning an op-ed from the loudest proponent of this view — the Times reached out to Cotton , not vice-versa — does not put the views in proper context .
It seems to serve more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of trolling them , rather than informing them .
It ’ s the characteristic problem of the Bennet era , emerging at one of the worst possible times .
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Update, June 7: On Sunday, New York Times opinion editor James Bennet resigned from his post. “Last week, we saw a significant breakdown in our editing processes, not the first we’ve experienced in recent years,” publisher A.G. Sulzberger wrote in an email to the Times’s employees. “James and I agreed that it would take a new team to lead the department through a period of considerable change.” James Dao, the editor under Bennet directly responsible for the Cotton op-ed, is being transferred to a different role.
The following piece, originally published on Friday, explains the context for this resignation. The precipitating event was the opinion section’s publication of an inflammatory op-ed by Sen. Tom Cotton (R-AR) calling for the deployment of US military to protest hot spots in the name of quelling “riots” — a piece that touched off a revolt within the Times newsroom. It was later reported that the Times’s opinion section had in fact reached out to Cotton and, to make matters worse, Bennet had not read the piece prior to publication.
But the Cotton saga was just the latest flare-up in a tenure marked by deep tensions between Bennet and Times staff — tensions revealed by Vox interviews with Times staff and explained below.
This week, the New York Times staff revolted against its editors.
The inciting incident was the decision to publish an op-ed by Sen. Tom Cotton (R-AR) titled “Send In the Troops.” Claiming that “rioters have plunged many American cities into anarchy,” Cotton argued that soldiers should be sent as “backup” for the police to end the violence.
“One thing above all else will restore order to our streets: an overwhelming show of force to disperse, detain and ultimately deter lawbreakers,” the senator wrote.
Shortly after the column’s publication on Wednesday evening, a number of Times staffers began tweeting a screenshot of the piece’s headline captioned with the same phrase: “Running this puts Black @NYTimes staff in danger.” Dozens of Times staff members sent out variants over the course of the evening, with black staffers taking the lead; many non-Times journalists tweeted the same message in solidarity.
James Bennet, the editor of the opinion section, wrote a Twitter thread explaining the decision to run the op-ed, but it wasn’t enough for many Times staffers (Bennet later admitted he hadn’t read the piece pre-publication). The complaints from Times staffers continued to roll in on Thursday; several used a sick day to take the day off in protest, and many staged a virtual walkout.
Running this put Black @nytimes staffers in danger. In solidarity with my colleagues who agree. pic.twitter.com/UfkZkE1xvj — Jenna Wortham (@jennydeluxe) June 3, 2020
Late on Thursday, the Times issued a statement apologizing for the decision — blaming a “rushed editorial process” for an op-ed that “did not meet our standards.” The paper vowed to reduce the number of op-eds going forward and step up its fact-checking process. And at a Friday meeting, Times publisher A.G. Sulzberger unequivocally denounced the piece, saying it “should not have been published.”
One narrative of these events, circulated most prominently by staff editor Bari Weiss in a Thursday tweet thread, cast the conflict in ideological terms: an internal war between free speech advocates and young social justice warriors. But Weiss’s characterization was widely rejected by her colleagues; several Times reporters I spoke to, all of whom asked to remain anonymous for fear of retaliation, cited professional concerns as the reason for the public disagreement. (Times representatives did not respond to my request for comment.)
They argued that elements of Bennet’s op-ed page — including Weiss, deputy editor James Dao (who oversaw the Cotton piece), and columnist Bret Stephens — have elevated trolling the Times’s liberal readership into a kind of raison d’être, one that has led to the publication of poor-quality material and damaged the ability of other staffers to do their jobs.
“Does op-ed care at all about how its actions affect the newsroom whose legitimacy and sweat it trades on in order to sling hot takes? It’s not clear that they do,” one Times staffer told me.
This internal staff conflict, insular as it may seem to outsiders, speaks to a fundamental question not only about the Times but all of mainstream journalism.
It’s not a debate about whether the Times should have conservative voices at all. The op-ed page employs Ross Douthat and David Brooks as staff columnists and regularly publishes outside contributions by Republicans and conservative thinkers, mostly without serious controversy.
Rather, it’s a question of how journalists should think about their roles as guardians of mainstream discourse. Does every idea that’s popular in power, no matter how poorly considered, deserve some kind of respectful airing in mainstream publications? Or are there boundaries, both of quality of argument and moral decency, where editors need to draw the line — especially in the Trump era?
Why the Cotton op-ed was such a flashpoint
Broadly speaking, traditional newspapers like the Times draw pretty strict distinctions between their news and opinion sections: separate editors, separate contributors, separate missions. These lines are fuzzy intellectually — sometimes news writers analyze news in a way that reads like opinion, sometimes columnists break previously unreported news — but taken very seriously institutionally. The idea is for reporters to appear unbiased and unattached to the provocative opinions expressed by their opinion colleagues, the editorial board (which writes unsigned opinion articles), and the outside contributors they publish.
After James Bennet was hired to lead the Times opinion section, he made it clear that part of his mission would be challenging the Times’s mostly liberal readership with views they don’t agree with. This is a point he’s been explicit on throughout his tenure.
“We owe our readers an honest struggle over the right paths ahead, not a pretense that we’re in possession of God’s own map,” he wrote in a 2018 memo. “That means being willing to challenge our own assumptions; it means being open to counter-arguments even as we advance our own convictions; it means listening to voices that we may object to and even sometimes find obnoxious, provided they meet the same tests of intellectual honesty, respect for others and openness.”
In practice, however, Bennet’s approach to this goal has frustrated not only Times readers but some Times reporters and editors, who believe he’s pushed out low-quality articles on hot-button issues in the name of listening to “obnoxious” views.
The Cotton op-ed provoked such a strong backlash not only because of the incredibly high stakes of the argument for staffers — especially black ones — but also because it crystallized this internal critique of Bennet’s tenure.
The core thesis of Cotton’s argument is that American streets were beset by an “orgy of violence” that “has nothing to do with George Floyd.” Rather, “nihilist criminals are simply out for loot and the thrill of destruction” — and must be put down by an overwhelming show of force by the US military, as local police are simply not up to the task.
Cotton provides no hard evidence that the rioting has overwhelmed local police; the best reporting suggests the looting is significantly less devastating than the 1992 LA riots (the last time the military was called in to restore order). Cotton asserts that deploying the military would calm the situation, but he does not make any clear argument as to why this would be the case.
In fact, we have good reason to believe that more militarized displays of force from police tend to turn peaceful protests violent. It’s entirely possible the military would make things worse.
Amplifying a call from an official of the ruling party for a federal crackdown of aggrieved citizens exercising rights of assembly & speech was wrong on its face, and made more so by a glaring, gratuitous insult included therein. — C.J. Chivers (@cjchivers) June 5, 2020
This is the meaning of the protest that “running this op-ed puts black New York Times reporters in danger”: If Trump were to send in the troops, it could lead to harm to Times reporters who are covering protests or merely walking near them while black.
Only one line in the piece acknowledges that the protests are primarily peaceful — “a majority who seek to protest peacefully shouldn’t be confused with bands of miscreants” — and there is no acknowledgment that governors and mayors don’t actually want the military deployed. It’s not clear, reading Cotton’s argument, how the military could distinguish between “peaceful protesters” and “looters.” It comes across as a call to put down the largely peaceful racial justice demonstrations by force, over the objections of local authorities.
It also contained a significant factual distortion. Cotton argued that “cadres of left-wing radicals like antifa” were “infiltrating protest marches to exploit Floyd’s death for their own anarchic purposes.” There’s vanishingly little public evidence to support the idea that this is a large-scale problem. A May 31 FBI report from the Washington field office found “no intelligence indicating Antifa involvement/presence” in looting. The Times itself reported that claims of widescale antifa involvement in the violence are, by one metric, “the biggest piece of protest misinformation” currently spreading in reports on the protests.
The problem with the piece wasn’t just its call for potentially deadly use of force, though that was part of it — it’s that it was bad journalism.
“We are well served by robust and ideologically diverse public discourse that includes radical, liberal, and conservative voices,” tweeted Roxane Gay, a Times writer and public intellectual who writes about social issues. “[Cotton’s piece] is not that. His piece was inflammatory and endorsing military occupation as if the constitution doesn’t exist.”
The bigger context for the Times revolt
Since Donald Trump’s election, there have been running discussions in every mainstream media organization about how to cover a man who openly treats them as the enemy. At the same time, subscribing to a paper like the Times has become a kind of performance of resistance for liberal Americans (who can then threaten to unsubscribe from the paper when it publishes a provocative op-ed in Bennet’s section).
There’s a subtle interplay at work between the need to cover the president fairly despite his anti-media tirades, the generally left-leaning tilt of journalists themselves, and the need to hold onto subscriptions in an era where advertising is an increasingly unstable source of revenue.
All of these factors play into the way the Times in general has approached covering Trump and the Republican party he dominates. In this case, many Times staff members believe that Bennet’s attempts to serve as a counterweight to the anti-Trump and anti-Republican incentives have become too heavy-handed. In their view, the Times op-ed section had elevated the provocation of its liberal readers into a value — that the newspaper has been willing to publish even badly argued pieces so long as they’re sufficiently abrasive to a liberal audience, in ways that actively damage the rest of the paper.
Bennet’s 2017 decision to hire Stephens, then a Wall Street Journal scribe who had once written about “the disease of the Arab mind,” is a paradigmatic case. From Stephens’s very first Times column, widely criticized for distorting climate science, to his March 2020 piece about how Woody Allen was a misunderstood victim of cancel culture, he embodied an ethos of “owning the libs” at any cost that much of the newsroom found galling.
Weiss is a similar recent hire. She has a penchant for writing right-leaning culture war pieces, including popularizing the term “intellectual dark web” to describe a group of online writers who challenge liberal nostrums around race and gender. But her writing has also contained analytic sloppiness and factual errors. For example, in a 2018 column on antifa and the left’s purported hostility to free speech, she cited a fake Twitter account claiming to represent the movement. In another column, she misinterpreted the colloquial meaning of the word “owns” in a tweet by a socialist podcast host to accuse him of anti-Semitism.
If the op-ed section were really as siloed from news in practice as it is in theory, this might be a more containable problem. However, the Times’s reputation is a holistic thing — opinion pieces do affect the way people see the paper, and that affects the ability of reporters and editors to do their jobs. (There is also a fair amount of staff movement between the two sides.)
The fallout from the Cotton piece makes the issue clear. Marc Tracy, a media reporter at the Times, spoke with three reporters who say that sources would not talk to them after the opinion’s publication. Freelance journalist Kara Brown turned down an assignment out of frustration with the Cotton piece:
I was asked to write something for the @nytimes today. pic.twitter.com/cgcc7NMxtk — KB (@KaraRBrown) June 3, 2020
The fact that a certain element of the opinion section was not only publishing bad work, but bad work that had this kind of adverse consequences for other staffers, crystallized the long-running frustrations with Bennet’s tenure as opinion leader — prompting the public revolt.
“Internal NYT Slack [a workplace messaging app] was burning up overnight with pretty close to universal outrage at the op-ed and a lot of clearly pent-up frustration with the op-ed side more generally,” a Times staffer told me. “But obviously a lot of people on the op-ed site, especially editors who are people of color, [are] also publicly rebuking the decision to publish it.”
This isn’t a purely ideological issue. It’s a question of professional respect and thoughtfulness about how two sections can work together while still following through on their core missions.
What is the Times revolt really about?
If you don’t have all of this context, it’s easy to see this fight as being some kind of ideological proxy war. You could imagine this as a story of overly woke social justice warriors on the Times staff fighting to suppress the publication of views that they find dangerous, opposed by older staff who understand the importance of free expression and hearing competing views.
Indeed, that’s how Weiss cast it in a tweetstorm sent during a meeting of the site’s op-ed staff:
The civil war inside The New York Times between the (mostly young) wokes the (mostly 40+) liberals is the same one raging inside other publications and companies across the country. The dynamic is always the same. (Thread.) — Bari Weiss (@bariweiss) June 4, 2020
The Old Guard lives by a set of principles we can broadly call civil libertarianism. They assumed they shared that worldview with the young people they hired who called themselves liberals and progressives. But it was an incorrect assumption. — Bari Weiss (@bariweiss) June 4, 2020
The New Guard has a different worldview, one articulated best by @JonHaidt and @glukianoff. They call it "safetyism," in which the right of people to feel emotionally and psychologically safe trumps what were previously considered core liberal values, like free speech. — Bari Weiss (@bariweiss) June 4, 2020
I've been mocked by many people over the past few years for writing about the campus culture wars. They told me it was a sideshow. But this was always why it mattered: The people who graduated from those campuses would rise to power inside key institutions and transform them. — Bari Weiss (@bariweiss) June 4, 2020
I'm in no way surprised by what has now exploded into public view. In a way, it's oddly comforting: I feel less alone and less crazy trying to explain the dynamic to people. What I am shocked by is the speed. I thought it would take a few years, not a few weeks. — Bari Weiss (@bariweiss) June 4, 2020
It’s easy to understand where Weiss is coming from here ideologically, especially given the prominence of somewhat oblique complaints about putting black staffers in danger in the public discourse surrounding the op-ed. The interpretation, as she says in the thread, pretty neatly confirms her prior beliefs about the dynamics of public life in the era of “woke” politics.
But that doesn’t make it right.
“I am in the same meeting that Bari appears to be livetweeting. This [is] inaccurate in both characterizations,” Max Strasser, an opinion editor, tweeted. “It’s not a civil war, it’s an editorial conversation; and it’s not breaking down along generational lines.”
After Weiss’s tweetstorm, Twitter exploded with Times reporters and opinion writers accusing her of inaccurately describing the internal conversation surrounding these issues.
Bari Weiss is seeing and hearing a different conversation in the @nytimes newsroom than I am. Other NYT journalists will testify to this. https://t.co/BnuRR3zYBT — Edward Wong (@ewong) June 4, 2020
This is such a willful misrepresentation of things and ignores so many of our older colleagues, many who have been with the NYT for decades, who have spoken out. https://t.co/yfNOg52XZ2 — Taylor Lorenz (@TaylorLorenz) June 4, 2020
Bari, I strongly encourage you to have conversations with your colleagues, especially your black ones, instead of tweeting about them. You have the privilege of directly contacting any of them, yet you choose to reduce your co-workers concerns to a “woke civil war.” https://t.co/CAeIKQA8wY — Lil Uzi Hurt at Home (@lostblackboy) June 4, 2020
also ... b*ri w*iss isnt even in the feedback channel where most of the conversation about that op-ed is happening ... someone just added her ... — Jenna Wortham (@jennydeluxe) June 4, 2020
My own conversations with Times staffers gave the same perception: Weiss seemed to be ginning up this “controversy” largely out of thin air. In Times discussions on Slack, its main work communication tool, the staff appeared largely unified around opposition to publishing the op-ed.
“I’ve seen way over a hundred people posting comments, into the hundreds if you count people posting supportive Slack response emojis, and not one person pushing back,” said one Times staffer. “The idea of a big divide or internal argument just has no basis that I’m at all aware of.”
The brass seem to have sided with the non-Weiss newsroom. Sulzberger apologized for the piece in Friday’s company meeting, as did Bennet. “I’m very sorry for the pain this piece has caused. ... I’m responsible for this,” Bennet said. “We need to interrogate everything [about the op-ed section].”
That’s certainly a productive first step, from the perspective of the Times’s aggrieved workforce. So, too, were Bennet’s comments rebuking Weiss’s tweet thread, saying he “felt betrayed” by the bad judgment.
But while Weiss may have the narrative wrong, that doesn’t mean there aren’t profound ideological questions surrounding the decision to publish the Cotton op-ed.
The best description of the issue I’ve seen is from Times opinion columnist Michelle Goldberg. In her Friday piece, Goldberg argues that there might have been some value in publishing the piece — not enough to justify its publication, but still some. Cotton’s argument is so abhorrent, so poorly reasoned, that it sheds real light on who currently wields power in the United States:
When I first saw the Cotton Op-Ed I wasn’t as horrified as perhaps I should have been; I figured he’d helpfully revealed himself as a dangerous authoritarian. But as I’ve seen my colleagues’ anguished reaction, I’ve started to doubt my debating-club approach to the question of when to air proto-fascist opinions... It’s important to understand what the people around the president are thinking. But if they’re honest about what they’re thinking, it’s usually too disgusting to engage with. This creates a crisis for traditional understandings of how the so-called marketplace of ideas functions. It’s a subsidiary of the crisis that has the country on fire.
It’s not wrong to write about Cotton’s view or engage with it in some way. It’s actually vital that liberal audiences understand the nature of the modern conservative movement, the degree to which reactionary and authoritarian racial politics occupy its center rather than its margins.
But commissioning an op-ed from the loudest proponent of this view — the Times reached out to Cotton, not vice-versa — does not put the views in proper context. It seems to serve more as a way of shocking readers, of trolling them, rather than informing them. It’s the characteristic problem of the Bennet era, emerging at one of the worst possible times.


vox--2020-06-05--“I’m deeply ashamed”: Another Facebook employee resigned in protest over the company’s handling of T

“I’m deeply ashamed”: Another Facebook employee resigned in protest over the company’s handling of Trump’s posts

In the past week , hundreds of Facebook employees have shown unprecedented levels of dissent after the company decided to take no action on an incendiary post from President Trump last week .
The post , which also appeared on Twitter , referred to the ongoing US protests against racism and police brutality by saying , “ when the looting starts , the shooting starts.
” While Twitter flagged Trump ’ s post for “ glorifying violence , ” Facebook decided to do nothing ; the company said that Trump ’ s post was discussing the use of state force @ @ @ @ @ @ @ policies .
The decision has divided Facebook , with hundreds of employees protesting , several early employees penning an open letter imploring the company to reverse the decision , and at least two Facebook employees resigning in protest over the matter earlier this week .
Now , Recode has learned that another employee has also resigned in protest .
The employee posted a resignation note on a group in Facebook ’ s internal “ Workplace ” app on Thursday .
This note — a copy of which was obtained by Recode — is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ makes an argument that Facebook is hurting black people inside and outside the company with its hands-off approach to Trump ’ s inflammatory posts .
“ I ’ m deeply ashamed of working in a company that gives free rein to a racist post because it is by a politician , ” wrote the employee , who is not black but identifies as a person of color .
Recode has redacted their name .
“ Black employees from your own company have asked you to respond meaningfully , but you remain alternately defensive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ us all — the few people of color in your company — and your refusal to speak out against violence against Black people is chilling.
” While Zuckerberg has said he strongly disagrees with Trump ’ s “ shooting … looting ” post and that he finds the history around such language “ troubling , ” the CEO said in a Tuesday all-hands meeting that Trump ’ s post falls short of “ being read as a dog whistle for vigilante supporters to take justice into their own hands.
” The employee ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that assessment , particularly because segregationists have used the phrase while cracking down on black protesters since the civil rights era .
“ We know [ Trump ’ s post ] uses the language of the segragationists .
... Just because you don ’ t believe it ’ s a signal for further violence ( and please tell us how you researched this — did you collect data for how words are interpreted ? )
, can you honestly look Black people in the eye and say that there is not a chance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” The employee said that since posting the letter in the internal employee group on Thursday , several of their colleagues have reached out to them , saying they ’ re also considering resigning in protest .
Read this employee ’ s note in full , emphasis theirs .
I am resigning in protest at the appalling lack of empathy with which you and Sheryl Sandberg refuse to admit that Trump ’ s racist post not only acts as an incitement for further violence against Black people , but that it breaks Facebook @ @ @ @ @ @ @ m deeply ashamed of working in a company that gives free rein to a racist post because it is by a politician .
I feel , as I know everyone who thinks critically does nowadays , that I am living in a dystopian novel whose plot is getting darker by the page .
That I have to make this point , when it should have been obvious what the right choice is ( hint : put an explicit warning or take down the racist post ) is appalling .
I ’ m going @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transcript : I actually think the fact that the video of the murder was posted through giving people a voice on our service , something that becomes enabled that way , has just had an immense impact .
And I just — I would urge people to not look at the moral impact of what we do just through the lens of harm and mitigation .
That ’ s clearly — that ’ s a huge part of what we have to do .
I ’ m not downplaying that , and we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ working on this and billions of dollars a year .
But it ’ s also good to remember the upside and the good and the giving people a voice who wouldn ’ t have previously been able to get into the news and talk about stuff and having painful things be visible .
Are we comparing the video of George Floyd being posted on Facebook to giving a voice to Trump ’ s hate speech ?
Are we so tone-deaf today that we can not tell the difference between free speech and bigotry @ @ @ @ @ @ @ harm ” not one of our community standards ?
Does Trump really need a platform on which he can broadcast his racist views , which you insist “ is not ” a signal to legitimize violence against Black people .
I quote below for reference : So we ’ re getting into the history of the comment around “ when the looting starts , the shooting starts , ” and it ’ s clearly a troubling historical statement and reference , whether or not it ’ s inciting supporters to go to violence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ research and after everything I ’ ve read and all the different folks that I ’ ve talked to , that that reference is clearly to aggressive policing — maybe excessive policing — but has no history of being read as a dog whistle for vigilante supporters to take justice into their own hands .
We know it uses the language of the segragationists .
Just because you don ’ t believe it ’ s a signal for further violence ( and please tell us how you researched this - did you collect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) , can you honestly look Black people in the eye and say that there is not a chance it will be interpreted as such ?
In a political climate as fraught as this one , in an election year , with overwhelming violence against Black people already rampant , are you really going to hide behind the claim that Facebook is still only a platform for communication ?
That it hasn ’ t modified the behavior of two generations since its inception ?
Nothing , especially language , is ever neutral .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ terrified and appalled .
Black employees from your own company have asked you to respond meaningfully , but you remain alternately defensive and evasive .
I broke down after I saw a Black friend and colleague in so much pain because the struggle Black people have had to undergo for so long finally came to light .
And what happens when you have a chance to make a difference ( and I mean a real difference - speaking out - not just throwing money at the problem ) ?
Nothing .
You ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people of color in your company - and your refusal to speak out against violence against Black people is chilling .
I am not as good as you are at not looking at the “ moral impact of what we do ” , and so I leave Facebook in protest .
I can not give my time and intellectual contribution to a company whose leadership is too cowardly to take a stand .
Every day at Vox , we aim to answer your most important questions and provide you , and our audience @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has the power to save lives .
Our mission has never been more vital than it is in this moment : to empower you through understanding .
Vox ’ s work is reaching more people than ever , but our distinctive brand of explanatory journalism takes resources — particularly during a pandemic and an economic downturn .
Your financial contribution will not constitute a donation , but it will enable our staff to continue to offer free articles , videos , and podcasts at the quality and volume that this moment requires .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ today .

In the past week, hundreds of Facebook employees have shown unprecedented levels of dissent after the company decided to take no action on an incendiary post from President Trump last week. The post, which also appeared on Twitter, referred to the ongoing US protests against racism and police brutality by saying, “when the looting starts, the shooting starts.”
While Twitter flagged Trump’s post for “glorifying violence,” Facebook decided to do nothing; the company said that Trump’s post was discussing the use of state force and therefore didn’t violate its policies. The decision has divided Facebook, with hundreds of employees protesting, several early employees penning an open letter imploring the company to reverse the decision, and at least two Facebook employees resigning in protest over the matter earlier this week.
Now, Recode has learned that another employee has also resigned in protest. The employee posted a resignation note on a group in Facebook’s internal “Workplace” app on Thursday. This note — a copy of which was obtained by Recode — is addressed to Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg and makes an argument that Facebook is hurting black people inside and outside the company with its hands-off approach to Trump’s inflammatory posts.
“I’m deeply ashamed of working in a company that gives free rein to a racist post because it is by a politician,” wrote the employee, who is not black but identifies as a person of color. Recode has redacted their name.
“Black employees from your own company have asked you to respond meaningfully, but you remain alternately defensive and evasive ... You’ve disappointed us all — the few people of color in your company — and your refusal to speak out against violence against Black people is chilling.”
While Zuckerberg has said he strongly disagrees with Trump’s “shooting … looting” post and that he finds the history around such language “troubling,” the CEO said in a Tuesday all-hands meeting that Trump’s post falls short of “being read as a dog whistle for vigilante supporters to take justice into their own hands.” The employee’s note sharply disagrees with Zuckerberg in that assessment, particularly because segregationists have used the phrase while cracking down on black protesters since the civil rights era.
“We know [Trump’s post] uses the language of the segragationists. ... Just because you don’t believe it’s a signal for further violence (and please tell us how you researched this — did you collect data for how words are interpreted?), can you honestly look Black people in the eye and say that there is not a chance it will be interpreted as such?”
The employee said that since posting the letter in the internal employee group on Thursday, several of their colleagues have reached out to them, saying they’re also considering resigning in protest.
Read this employee’s note in full, emphasis theirs.
Hello Mr. Zuckerberg,
I am resigning in protest at the appalling lack of empathy with which you and Sheryl Sandberg refuse to admit that Trump’s racist post not only acts as an incitement for further violence against Black people, but that it breaks Facebook’s community standards. I’m deeply ashamed of working in a company that gives free rein to a racist post because it is by a politician.
I feel, as I know everyone who thinks critically does nowadays, that I am living in a dystopian novel whose plot is getting darker by the page. That I have to make this point, when it should have been obvious what the right choice is (hint: put an explicit warning or take down the racist post) is appalling.
I’m going to quote you here through the already-leaked transcript:
I actually think the fact that the video of the murder was posted through giving people a voice on our service, something that becomes enabled that way, has just had an immense impact. And I just — I would urge people to not look at the moral impact of what we do just through the lens of harm and mitigation. That’s clearly — that’s a huge part of what we have to do. I’m not downplaying that, and we spend massive resources, thousands of people working on this and billions of dollars a year.
But it’s also good to remember the upside and the good and the giving people a voice who wouldn’t have previously been able to get into the news and talk about stuff and having painful things be visible.
Are we comparing the video of George Floyd being posted on Facebook to giving a voice to Trump’s hate speech? Are we so tone-deaf today that we cannot tell the difference between free speech and bigotry? Is “not doing real world harm” not one of our community standards? Does Trump really need a platform on which he can broadcast his racist views, which you insist “is not” a signal to legitimize violence against Black people. I quote below for reference:
So we’re getting into the history of the comment around “when the looting starts, the shooting starts,” and it’s clearly a troubling historical statement and reference, whether or not it’s inciting supporters to go to violence, and we basically concluded after the research and after everything I’ve read and all the different folks that I’ve talked to, that that reference is clearly to aggressive policing — maybe excessive policing — but has no history of being read as a dog whistle for vigilante supporters to take justice into their own hands.
We know it uses the language of the segragationists. Just because you don’t believe it’s a signal for further violence (and please tell us how you researched this - did you collect data for how words are interpreted?), can you honestly look Black people in the eye and say that there is not a chance it will be interpreted as such? In a political climate as fraught as this one, in an election year, with overwhelming violence against Black people already rampant, are you really going to hide behind the claim that Facebook is still only a platform for communication? That it hasn’t modified the behavior of two generations since its inception?
Nothing, especially language, is ever neutral.
Black people across the entire nation are terrified and appalled. Black employees from your own company have asked you to respond meaningfully, but you remain alternately defensive and evasive. I broke down after I saw a Black friend and colleague in so much pain because the struggle Black people have had to undergo for so long finally came to light. And what happens when you have a chance to make a difference (and I mean a real difference - speaking out - not just throwing money at the problem)? Nothing. You’ve disappointed us all - the few people of color in your company - and your refusal to speak out against violence against Black people is chilling.
I am not as good as you are at not looking at the “moral impact of what we do”, and so I leave Facebook in protest. I cannot give my time and intellectual contribution to a company whose leadership is too cowardly to take a stand.


vox--2020-06-05--The tragic lie behind the beautiful dream of Terrace House

In many ways , Terrace House , the hit Japanese reality show where 20-something strangers move into a house together ( à la The Real World ) , is a utopian dream of what reality TV could be at its best .
Since it began in 2012 , the show has forgone the typical traits that drag down the genre — there are no media restrictions , contrived twists , interpersonal competitions , regrettable hookups , or $ 1 million prizes .
Instead , the denizens of the titular swanky-but-not-too-swanky house simply share a living space , while remaining able @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , continue their usual routines , and exit the house and show altogether whenever they want .
To its obsessed international fan base , the appeal of Terrace House lies in its naturalistic ambiance and how relatable — even soothing — these normal , unassuming people are as they just live their lives .
But the illusion that Terrace House is a peaceful retreat from the typically sordid drama of other reality TV shattered last month , with the apparent suicide of Terrace House resident Hana Kimura .
Kimura , a pro wrestler @ @ @ @ @ @ @ media since joining the latest season of the show in fall 2019 , and that harassment intensified following a recently aired episode , in which she argued with another housemate .
Kimura ’ s death brought swift reactions : Members of the Japanese legislature vowed to enact cyberbullying laws in response , while the producers of Terrace House quickly canceled the rest of the 2019- ’ 20 season .
The show had already been on hiatus due to the Covid-19 pandemic , so producers chose not to air the rest of what had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s unclear whether the show will produce new seasons going forward .
What is clear is that Terrace House ’ s particular brand of storytelling might not be sustainable in a world where social media is increasingly toxic .
But to understand why , we have to understand how Terrace House experiments with the reality TV format — and where it all went wrong .
Terrace House is a show where nothing happens .
It ’ s a huge hit .
Terrace House started in 2012 in Japan as a single series , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ x Girls Next Door .
The show immediately won praise in Japan for its authenticity and naturalism , and when it was exported internationally it won further praise as a window into modern Japanese youth culture .
Boys x Girls Next Door was so popular , it ballooned into a total of eight seasons aired between 2012 and 2014 , along with a movie , Closing Doors ( 2015 ) .
In 2015 , Netflix stepped in to produce four more sub-series : Terrace House : Boys & Girls in the City ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which the show tried relocating to Hawaii ) ; Terrace House : Opening New Doors ; and the most recent series , Terrace House : Tokyo 2019–2020 .
With each subsequent series , the show has only expanded its international popularity .
But the show ’ s appeal isn ’ t exactly easy to explain .
That ’ s because very frequently , nothing “ happens ” on the show — at least not in the usual sense of reality show drama .
It has none of the genre ’ s melodramatic plot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ constant emotional upheavals .
In fact , the New York Times in 2017 called it “ staggeringly banal.
” The setup of Terrace House is , indeed , deceptively simple .
The show provides participants with a swanky house , which comes with a titular terrace , and two nice cars to share between them .
The residents — there are always six of them , three women and three men , all initially strangers — go about their lives , sharing meals , going shopping together , hanging out , interacting , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the weeks progress .
They ’ re constantly filmed by cameras , placed strategically ( and with a meticulous eye for scenic composition ) around the entire house .
Cutting throughout each episode , a set of camera-ready panelists watch the edited footage of the housemates — the same footage we ’ re seeing — and deliver sparkling , snarky commentary on the miniature dramas playing out in the house each week .
The panelists mediate the viewer ’ s reaction and experience for us as we watch them watching the housemates — @ @ @ @ @ @ @ react to themselves on TV when new episodes air , along with the rest of the world .
We then watch the panelists watch the housemates watch themselves on the next episode , in an endless refractory cycle .
That ’ s it .
That ’ s all that happens .
Except that ’ s just the start .
Terrace House combines a naturalistic , even literary aesthetic with layered meta-commentary on the reality TV genre — and on itself Terrace House ’ s focus on the mundane aspects of life is , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reviewer , Andrew Ridker , called it “ hypnotically boring ” right before saying he ’ d inhaled 46 episodes in a month .
One of my favorite reactions to Terrace House consists of a baffled YouTuber , Derek Fults , rattling off things he loves/hates about the show and then babbling , “ I don ’ t know what to do !
I don ’ t know what to do anymore !
” — which is exactly how a true TV addiction can hit you , scrambling your brain and leaving you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A huge aspect of the show ’ s appeal seems to be a supply of wholesome authenticity — or at least a successful simulation of it .
On camera , the show ’ s “ characters ” are almost unfailingly nice and caring , even when they ’ re arguing or making each other cry .
Writing for Polygon , Justin McElroy praised Terrace House for “ letting actual humans be delightfully , heartbreakingly human.
” Where other reality shows benefit from their emotional highs and lows , here , as McElroy notes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of obvious stakes ” that make the housemates ’ minor tensions “ infinitely more compelling and relatable.
” The show ’ s lack of high stakes can make viewers feel the way Derek the YouTuber did — intensely invested in these small conflicts .
In one story arc from Boys and Girls in the City , colloquially referred to as “ The Meat Incident , ” a woman cooks up her boyfriend ’ s $ 200-a-pound steak without asking him , and doesn ’ t leave him any .
It ’ s the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that would shoot to the top of Reddit ’ s Am I the Asshole ?
— only it plays out over two relatively quiet episodes of the show through a series of calm exchanges and frustrated expressions , and what starts out as “ just meat ” becomes a stand-in for larger underlying tensions and conflicts in the pair ’ s still-new relationship .
The show does this type of micro/macro exchange again and again — like , for example , when one of its residents tries to ask another one out only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to invite her on a date into taking a trip to Costco instead .
“ Costco ” is both a hilarious euphemism for her lack of interest and a weighty representation of his rejection — and it somehow gets both funnier and sadder as the scene is drawn out : Many viewers have compared the series to the casual naturalism of a YouTube vlog , or even a “ Let ’ s Play ” video game stream — but as I watched Terrace House for the first time , I kept being reminded @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dielman , Chantal Akerman ’ s 1975 film about a slowly unraveling single mom , and Louis Malle ’ s My Dinner With Andre ( 1981 ) , in which Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory exchange conversation ranging from the menial to the profound over the course of an evening .
Unlike Terrace House , which claims to be entirely unscripted , both of these films are scripted — but what all three have in common is that they ’ re all drenched in the self-aware artifice of pretending not to be staged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the feel of improvisation ; the former has long sequences filmed in real time while the latter is essentially an entire movie composed of a single scene .
Like Terrace House , both films use their cinematic techniques to resist your expectations for how they should be playing out , forcing the viewer to surrender and submit to their internal logic .
As Ridker put it : “ I stopped expecting shocking twists , or revelations , or other rewards for my attention .
I started living on ‘ Terrace House ’ time.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Japanese cinematic aesthetic .
Its highly symmetrical , carefully framed scenes especially invite comparisons to the films of cinema master Yasujiro Ozu .
Ozu is especially known for creating scenes of deliberately staged naturalism , which gain a sense of fraught tension from the viewer ’ s encroaching awareness that it is staged .
Our awareness of that falseness bleeds into the story themes Ozu likes to explore — it means something to the narrative itself .
The artifice of Terrace House similarly plays a huge part in its narrative , even though @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s all real .
For instance , the “ unscripted ” show is reportedly highly staged and carefully edited in the way of all other reality shows , with some of the unfolding romantic relationships between residents being called into question as well .
And while the show invites us into what ’ s supposed to be the residents ’ day-to-day lives , that invitation involves a film crew showing up to the house once or twice daily , and comes with the requirement that the residents watch every episode of their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ edited for television .
The show , then , is a perpetual commentary on what it means to be a public figure living an “ authentic ” life in the intensely private space of the Terrace House , nonetheless aware at all times that you ’ re being filmed .
As the house ’ s residents watch the show on TV , they frequently cringe at themselves and adjust their behavior week after week , trying to recalibrate their expectations of themselves and each other , according to the edits onscreen and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s viewers .
Where other reality TV shows normally sequester their stars , Terrace House crafts dramatic narratives for its seasons by doing just the opposite .
It allows residents to interact with the world as the world reacts each week to the show .
This meta-layering creates what Ridker called “ genuine literary excellence.
” But it also may have created a parasocial illusion of intimacy that was always destined to blow up — though not in a way anyone could have predicted , staged , or scripted .
Hana Kimura got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ House .
The argument turned the show ’ s entire premise on its head .
On March 31 , an episode of Terrace House aired in Japan , in which cast member and resident Hana Kimura got mad at a fellow housemate for accidentally washing her expensive wrestling costumes , worth several thousand dollars and of great sentimental value to her .
As with “ the meat incident , ” her frustration was not just about the monetary damages , although Kimura did argue that the housemate relied too heavily on others for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back .
But the greater subtext of the conversation is that Kimura feels her identity as a professional wrestler isn ’ t being taken seriously or respected .
If Kimura had been able to get over her anger without the added pressure of a media spotlight , we probably wouldn ’ t be talking about this momentary blow-up .
But Kimura , visibly upset and unwilling to be polite about it , rejected both her housemates ’ attempts to placate her as well as many of the unspoken conventions of Terrace House itself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its participants as wholesome , unassuming , and low-key , Kimura got loud and angry , swearing , and demanding .
In the scene of her breakdown alone , Kimura thoroughly punctured the show ’ s primary conceit — that it runs on the unforced , totally natural relatability of its cast .
It ’ s perhaps significant that the argument that garnered Kimura so much backlash was over the destruction of her wrestling costume , the chief mediator between her authentic real self and her public persona .
With the costumes out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kimura ’ s unbridled anger for the first time — and in response , Kimura received a deluge of harassment .
And this is , of course , where Terrace House breaks with its arthouse cinema aesthetic and slow reflections on the layers of meaning in a trip to the supermarket .
Because Terrace House really is a reality show , with reportedly staged drama , a team of editors , and a global viewing audience of fans who obsess over each small conflict .
In this artificial context , one of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its house residents watch themselves on camera and interact with the edited version of themselves being distributed for public consumption — became a horrible punishment for Kimura .
On May 23 , Kimura died at age 22 .
“ Every day , I receive nearly 100 honest opinions and I can not deny that I get hurt , ” she reportedly tweeted soon before her death .
Following Kimura ’ s death , other current castmates and former Terrace House cast members posted on social media , echoing her feelings about the harassment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Honestly speaking , I receive lots of slander every day , ” former castmate Ryo Tawatari wrote on Instagram .
“ Other members are in agony too.
” “ We have to end this trend where you can say anything to so-called famous people , ” wrote castmate Emika Mizukoshi , also on Instagram .
But at this point , ending such a trend would require ending the internet altogether — and this , perhaps , was the primary Terrace House illusion shattered by Kimura ’ s death : The conceit that none @ @ @ @ @ @ @ taking place in the real world , but rather an alternate version where everyone was inherently kind , and where the internet , as much as it intrudes into the lives shown onscreen , is a neutral presence .
Instead , the brutal truth is that social media can encourage people to become their worst selves .
Ultimately , that ugly aspect of reality intruded into the show ’ s utopian aesthetic in a way it couldn ’ t control or corral .
There ’ s no official word on whether the show @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that it can after this high-profile , very public death — at least not in quite the same way .
It wasn ’ t really Kimura ’ s death that may have brought a final end to Terrace House after so much success .
It was , rather , the conceit of Terrace House itself — a pipe dream of reality that was never going to last .
Every day at Vox , we aim to answer your most important questions and provide you , and our audience around the world , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lives .
Our mission has never been more vital than it is in this moment : to empower you through understanding .
Vox ’ s work is reaching more people than ever , but our distinctive brand of explanatory journalism takes resources — particularly during a pandemic and an economic downturn .
Your financial contribution will not constitute a donation , but it will enable our staff to continue to offer free articles , videos , and podcasts at the quality and volume that this moment requires .
Please consider making a contribution @ @ @ @

In many ways, Terrace House, the hit Japanese reality show where 20-something strangers move into a house together (à la The Real World), is a utopian dream of what reality TV could be at its best. Since it began in 2012, the show has forgone the typical traits that drag down the genre — there are no media restrictions, contrived twists, interpersonal competitions, regrettable hookups, or $1 million prizes.
Instead, the denizens of the titular swanky-but-not-too-swanky house simply share a living space, while remaining able to come and go as they please, continue their usual routines, and exit the house and show altogether whenever they want. To its obsessed international fan base, the appeal of Terrace House lies in its naturalistic ambiance and how relatable — even soothing — these normal, unassuming people are as they just live their lives.
But the illusion that Terrace House is a peaceful retreat from the typically sordid drama of other reality TV shattered last month, with the apparent suicide of Terrace House resident Hana Kimura. Kimura, a pro wrestler, had endured constant harassment on social media since joining the latest season of the show in fall 2019, and that harassment intensified following a recently aired episode, in which she argued with another housemate.
Kimura’s death brought swift reactions: Members of the Japanese legislature vowed to enact cyberbullying laws in response, while the producers of Terrace House quickly canceled the rest of the 2019-’20 season. The show had already been on hiatus due to the Covid-19 pandemic, so producers chose not to air the rest of what had been filmed so far. It’s unclear whether the show will produce new seasons going forward.
What is clear is that Terrace House’s particular brand of storytelling might not be sustainable in a world where social media is increasingly toxic. But to understand why, we have to understand how Terrace House experiments with the reality TV format — and where it all went wrong.
Terrace House is a show where nothing happens. It’s a huge hit.
Terrace House started in 2012 in Japan as a single series, with the subhead Terrace House: Boys x Girls Next Door. The show immediately won praise in Japan for its authenticity and naturalism, and when it was exported internationally it won further praise as a window into modern Japanese youth culture. Boys x Girls Next Door was so popular, it ballooned into a total of eight seasons aired between 2012 and 2014, along with a movie, Closing Doors (2015).
In 2015, Netflix stepped in to produce four more sub-series: Terrace House: Boys & Girls in the City; Terrace House: Aloha State (in which the show tried relocating to Hawaii); Terrace House: Opening New Doors; and the most recent series, Terrace House: Tokyo 2019–2020. With each subsequent series, the show has only expanded its international popularity.
But the show’s appeal isn’t exactly easy to explain. That’s because very frequently, nothing “happens” on the show — at least not in the usual sense of reality show drama. It has none of the genre’s melodramatic plot twists, suspenseful love triangles, or constant emotional upheavals. In fact, the New York Times in 2017 called it “staggeringly banal.”
The setup of Terrace House is, indeed, deceptively simple. The show provides participants with a swanky house, which comes with a titular terrace, and two nice cars to share between them. The residents — there are always six of them, three women and three men, all initially strangers — go about their lives, sharing meals, going shopping together, hanging out, interacting, and often falling for one another as the weeks progress. They’re constantly filmed by cameras, placed strategically (and with a meticulous eye for scenic composition) around the entire house.
Cutting throughout each episode, a set of camera-ready panelists watch the edited footage of the housemates — the same footage we’re seeing — and deliver sparkling, snarky commentary on the miniature dramas playing out in the house each week. The panelists mediate the viewer’s reaction and experience for us as we watch them watching the housemates — who, in turn, watch and react to themselves on TV when new episodes air, along with the rest of the world.
We then watch the panelists watch the housemates watch themselves on the next episode, in an endless refractory cycle.
That’s it. That’s all that happens.
Except that’s just the start.
Terrace House combines a naturalistic, even literary aesthetic with layered meta-commentary on the reality TV genre — and on itself
Terrace House’s focus on the mundane aspects of life is, somehow, immediately addictive. The Times reviewer, Andrew Ridker, called it “hypnotically boring” right before saying he’d inhaled 46 episodes in a month. One of my favorite reactions to Terrace House consists of a baffled YouTuber, Derek Fults, rattling off things he loves/hates about the show and then babbling, “I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do anymore!” — which is exactly how a true TV addiction can hit you, scrambling your brain and leaving you unable to concentrate on anything else.
A huge aspect of the show’s appeal seems to be a supply of wholesome authenticity — or at least a successful simulation of it. On camera, the show’s “characters” are almost unfailingly nice and caring, even when they’re arguing or making each other cry. Writing for Polygon, Justin McElroy praised Terrace House for “letting actual humans be delightfully, heartbreakingly human.” Where other reality shows benefit from their emotional highs and lows, here, as McElroy notes, it’s “the lack of obvious stakes” that make the housemates’ minor tensions “infinitely more compelling and relatable.”
The show’s lack of high stakes can make viewers feel the way Derek the YouTuber did — intensely invested in these small conflicts. In one story arc from Boys and Girls in the City, colloquially referred to as “The Meat Incident,” a woman cooks up her boyfriend’s $200-a-pound steak without asking him, and doesn’t leave him any. It’s the kind of (literally) juicy scenario that would shoot to the top of Reddit’s Am I the Asshole? — only it plays out over two relatively quiet episodes of the show through a series of calm exchanges and frustrated expressions, and what starts out as “just meat” becomes a stand-in for larger underlying tensions and conflicts in the pair’s still-new relationship.
The show does this type of micro/macro exchange again and again — like, for example, when one of its residents tries to ask another one out only for her to continually redirect his attempt to invite her on a date into taking a trip to Costco instead. “Costco” is both a hilarious euphemism for her lack of interest and a weighty representation of his rejection — and it somehow gets both funnier and sadder as the scene is drawn out:
Many viewers have compared the series to the casual naturalism of a YouTube vlog, or even a “Let’s Play” video game stream — but as I watched Terrace House for the first time, I kept being reminded of two iconic arthouse films: Jeanne Dielman, Chantal Akerman’s 1975 film about a slowly unraveling single mom, and Louis Malle’s My Dinner With Andre (1981), in which Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory exchange conversation ranging from the menial to the profound over the course of an evening.
Unlike Terrace House, which claims to be entirely unscripted, both of these films are scripted — but what all three have in common is that they’re all drenched in the self-aware artifice of pretending not to be staged. Both Jeanne Dielman and Andre approximate the feel of improvisation; the former has long sequences filmed in real time while the latter is essentially an entire movie composed of a single scene. Like Terrace House, both films use their cinematic techniques to resist your expectations for how they should be playing out, forcing the viewer to surrender and submit to their internal logic. As Ridker put it: “I stopped expecting shocking twists, or revelations, or other rewards for my attention. I started living on ‘Terrace House’ time.”
Terrace House also draws on a Japanese cinematic aesthetic. Its highly symmetrical, carefully framed scenes especially invite comparisons to the films of cinema master Yasujiro Ozu. Ozu is especially known for creating scenes of deliberately staged naturalism, which gain a sense of fraught tension from the viewer’s encroaching awareness that it is staged. Our awareness of that falseness bleeds into the story themes Ozu likes to explore — it means something to the narrative itself.
The artifice of Terrace House similarly plays a huge part in its narrative, even though the show wants you to believe it’s all real. For instance, the “unscripted” show is reportedly highly staged and carefully edited in the way of all other reality shows, with some of the unfolding romantic relationships between residents being called into question as well. And while the show invites us into what’s supposed to be the residents’ day-to-day lives, that invitation involves a film crew showing up to the house once or twice daily, and comes with the requirement that the residents watch every episode of their own lives as they’ve been edited for television.
The show, then, is a perpetual commentary on what it means to be a public figure living an “authentic” life in the intensely private space of the Terrace House, nonetheless aware at all times that you’re being filmed. As the house’s residents watch the show on TV, they frequently cringe at themselves and adjust their behavior week after week, trying to recalibrate their expectations of themselves and each other, according to the edits onscreen and the social media reactions of the show’s viewers. Where other reality TV shows normally sequester their stars, Terrace House crafts dramatic narratives for its seasons by doing just the opposite. It allows residents to interact with the world as the world reacts each week to the show.
This meta-layering creates what Ridker called “genuine literary excellence.” But it also may have created a parasocial illusion of intimacy that was always destined to blow up — though not in a way anyone could have predicted, staged, or scripted.
Hana Kimura got upset on the latest season of Terrace House. The argument turned the show’s entire premise on its head.
On March 31, an episode of Terrace House aired in Japan, in which cast member and resident Hana Kimura got mad at a fellow housemate for accidentally washing her expensive wrestling costumes, worth several thousand dollars and of great sentimental value to her. As with “the meat incident,” her frustration was not just about the monetary damages, although Kimura did argue that the housemate relied too heavily on others for money he had no intention of paying back. But the greater subtext of the conversation is that Kimura feels her identity as a professional wrestler isn’t being taken seriously or respected.
If Kimura had been able to get over her anger without the added pressure of a media spotlight, we probably wouldn’t be talking about this momentary blow-up. But Kimura, visibly upset and unwilling to be polite about it, rejected both her housemates’ attempts to placate her as well as many of the unspoken conventions of Terrace House itself. On a show that unfailingly frames its participants as wholesome, unassuming, and low-key, Kimura got loud and angry, swearing, and demanding. In the scene of her breakdown alone, Kimura thoroughly punctured the show’s primary conceit — that it runs on the unforced, totally natural relatability of its cast.
It’s perhaps significant that the argument that garnered Kimura so much backlash was over the destruction of her wrestling costume, the chief mediator between her authentic real self and her public persona. With the costumes out of service, the viewing public saw Kimura’s unbridled anger for the first time — and in response, Kimura received a deluge of harassment.
And this is, of course, where Terrace House breaks with its arthouse cinema aesthetic and slow reflections on the layers of meaning in a trip to the supermarket. Because Terrace House really is a reality show, with reportedly staged drama, a team of editors, and a global viewing audience of fans who obsess over each small conflict.
In this artificial context, one of the show’s only requirements — that its house residents watch themselves on camera and interact with the edited version of themselves being distributed for public consumption — became a horrible punishment for Kimura. On May 23, Kimura died at age 22. “Every day, I receive nearly 100 honest opinions and I cannot deny that I get hurt,” she reportedly tweeted soon before her death.
Following Kimura’s death, other current castmates and former Terrace House cast members posted on social media, echoing her feelings about the harassment they’re subjected to. “Honestly speaking, I receive lots of slander every day,” former castmate Ryo Tawatari wrote on Instagram. “Other members are in agony too.”
“We have to end this trend where you can say anything to so-called famous people,” wrote castmate Emika Mizukoshi, also on Instagram.
But at this point, ending such a trend would require ending the internet altogether — and this, perhaps, was the primary Terrace House illusion shattered by Kimura’s death: The conceit that none of the show’s stories were taking place in the real world, but rather an alternate version where everyone was inherently kind, and where the internet, as much as it intrudes into the lives shown onscreen, is a neutral presence. Instead, the brutal truth is that social media can encourage people to become their worst selves. Ultimately, that ugly aspect of reality intruded into the show’s utopian aesthetic in a way it couldn’t control or corral.
There’s no official word on whether the show will return, but it seems unlikely that it can after this high-profile, very public death — at least not in quite the same way. It wasn’t really Kimura’s death that may have brought a final end to Terrace House after so much success. It was, rather, the conceit of Terrace House itself — a pipe dream of reality that was never going to last.