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The First Amendment to the United States Constitution is first of ten Amendments that constitute the so-called “Bill of Rights.” It originally bound only the federal government–not state governments–but after the Civil War, it slowly began to be “incorporated” through the Fourteenth Amendment to apply to the states as well. It reads as follows:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

It consists of multiple parts:

1. The Establishment Clause, which forbids government support of any particular religion. This is also considered to be the foundation for the “separation of church and state”: the requirement that religious and governmental matters not overlap. It is not an absolute prohibition, and many conservatives see it not as requiring the removal of God or prayer from public life, but rather as a prohibition on establishing and promoting one specific state church.
2. The Free Exercise Clause, which generally forbids governmental interference in religious practices absent a “compelling state interest.”
3. Freedom of Speech, which generally–although not absolutely–protects the right to speak even if it offends others. The classic example of an acceptable limitation is that one may be punished for the harm that results from yelling, “Fire!” in a crowded theater. The protection is against government restrictions on speech, not private restrictions, although private restrictions that invoke state power (as with a libel action) are subject to First Amendment scrutiny as well.
4. Freedom of the Press, a right very related to the previous one, but focused more on publications than individuals. It is also subject to limitation (libel, for example). Regulation of broadcast media is not generally a violation of press freedoms, although content-based regulations are usually not allowable.
5. The Freedom of Assembly and to Petition, although directly stated, have rarely been ruled on by the Supreme Court. The general idea is that–subject to reasonable time, place, and manner requirements–citizens are allowed to gather and ask for a redress of grievances.
6. Freedom of Association is a right implied by the First Amendment, although not directly stated. Thus, political parties may exclude those of another party from voting in their primaries, and the Boy Scouts may exclude openly gay scoutmasters.

For this reason, Bracton’s thirteenth-century treatise On the Laws and Customs of England “reflected the canonist [i.e., the civil law] rule … that ‘one must judge not by examples but by reasons’” (see “The Transformation of English Legal Science” by Harold Berman and Charles Reid, Jr., ):

Cases, that is, judicial decisions, could be used to illustrate legal principles, but were not themselves an authoritative source of law. … If a judge did not approve of a previous decisions, or even of a previous custom of the court, he might say it was wrong and disregard it. (445)

In the seventeenth century, this began to change. Edward Coke began some of the first modern compendiums of judicial decisions, connecting the reasoning for new cases to the authority granted by previous decisions. But this was still not binding precedent, and Coke “would reach out for anything said by a judge in an earlier case if it seemed to him to reflect a true legal principle” (447). In other words, Coke made precedent more authoritative, but the ultimate search was still for universal principles. 

The eighteenth century jurist Matthew Hale saw prior decisions as evidence of the true principle or rule (448). But judicial decisions themselves “did not make a Law properly so-called, (for that only the King and Parliament can do)” (448). In other words, judges “do not ‘make’ laws, but ‘find’ them in the received legal tradition, and ‘declare’ them” (448). Modern judicial precedent–strict stare decisis, requiring lower courts to follow previous decisions (but not dictum)–did not emerge until the nineteenth century. Before this, it was a “line of cases” that mattered, not a particular holding. Judicial custom matters because it involves multiple decisions over time. Thus, in 1762, Lord Mansfield still maintained that “[t]he reason and spirit of cases make law; not the letter of particular precedents” (449).

Berman and Reid summarize the development of precedent as follows:

1. common lawyers had always discussed cases and opinions, and did not simply look to written statutes;
2. but prior to the sixteenth century, they had “no doctrine of precedent,” and only in the seventeenth century developed a version of persuasive authority largely confined to procedure and custom;
3. Coke and others challenged the King by using pre-Tudor precedents, and thus brought precedent forward as an important part of common-law decisions;
4. but common-law courts avoided binding precedent still, and looked to prior decisions to extract the principles of judicial custom, but began to apply precedent to both procedural and substantive matters;
5. at the end of the seventeenth century, common-law courts continued to develop doctrines involving precedent, especially distinguishing dicta from holdings to extract principles that could apply to the past and the future: “the principle of precedent was a dynamic and not a static one” (450).

Berman and Reid further tie the development of precedent to scientific and empirical developments of the Enlightenment as well. Even as Robert Boyle and Isaac Newtown emphasized reason and evidence in their scientific pursuits, so too did English jurists seek the “professional verification and acceptance of empirical observation” (450). Thus, repeated applications of similar approaches became good empirical evidence for the validity of a rule, “just as the repeated confirmation of the results of scientific experiments by physicists and chemists was treated as proof of the probable truth of their findings” (451).

“Silos” by Sean Kelly. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

The push for “privacy” that demands an ability to allow us to restrict who sees what–enabled, for example, by new tools in Facebook and Google+–also creates and reinforces silos (filter bubbles, echo chambers) that prevent our exposure to different ideas. But  this move highlights potential conflicts between a number of rights: freedom of association and freedom of speech and the press (both from the First Amendment) and rights to privacy (from the First, Fourth, Fifth, and Fourteenth Amendments). What is this conflict? Is it real? How can we (begin) to resolve it?

The Marketplace of Ideas

Core to many American arguments on behalf of the value to a liberal democracy (in the old sense of liberal) of the freedom to speak is the concept of a “marketplace of ideas,” articulated by both Thomas Jefferson and, perhaps most persuasively, by John Stuart Mill in On Liberty. The idea is that only through free and prolific competition amongst ideas, achieved through open discussion, can one ascertain truth and, in turn, advance society. Without hearing falsehoods, one can never be sure of one’s truth, and through proving something false one verifies and re-invigorates truth and beliefs. But without the competition, truth is unobtainable, and even if obtained, belief in it becomes enervated and weak. Constant exposure to different viewpoints is absolutely key to a functioning, progressing society.

Republic.com and the Problem of Silos

In 2002, prolific author Cass Sunstein (in Republic.com, then again in Republic.com 2.0 in 2007) expressed deep concern about exactly this, arguing that trends in individualizing information flow were as harmful to democracy as were trends to centralize information control. In other words, having 1,000 individual silos tailored to personal interests could limit the free-flow of ideas as much as (or more than) having, say, three sources of broadcast news once did. In either case we would limit our exposure to diverse viewpoints and, in the individualized, modern case, also limit the beneficial unifying effect that shared viewpoints provided.

Free Speech and Privacy

This concern is different, though possibly related, to that expressed by Eugene Volokh in regards to free speech and privacy. His argument is with governmental regulations/laws/decisions that attempt to protect privacy by restricting what other people can say. That is, privacy laws that prevent, for example, a journalist from writing about my medical history infringe on the First Amendment.

In contrast to governmental action, the impact of speech silos on democracy is not a question of infringement on private liberties. Instead, through purely private decisions, freely achieved by my own decisions and without interference from government, the same pernicious, long-term impact on democracy and liberty is achieved. In one case, government blocks the sharing of ideas to protect me, while in the other, I block my own sharing of, and my own exposure to, the ideas of others. But in both cases, the marketplace is undermined.

But in the case of government regulations, the Constitution can be invoked as an authority, while in the case of Facebook and Google+ privacy settings, there is no legal check aimed at preserving the marketplace of ideas. Arguments for liberty, which appear to fruitfully favor a multiplicity of viewpoints in the case of government regulations that restrict speech in the name of privacy, instead favor allowing individuals and companies to enable avoiding the kinds of other viewpoints that Mill–and Volokh–argue are valuable for a liberty-loving democracy. One might argue to simply get government out of the privacy game at all (since the government has encouraged Facebook, for example, to focus on allowing privacy controls)–but that doesn’t deal with the very real market ($$$, eyeballs) demand for greater control over sharing.

Sunstein advocates for a larger governmental role in overseeing media and sites in order to guarantee that people have the option, at least, of exposure to a myriad of viewpoints. (Exactly how one might do this is far from clear, though.) But the core of the contemporary filter problem is not one of big corporations restricting our exposure (or not that alone) to new ideas. Instead, it is our own individual choices to limit our own exposure to alternative viewpoints that is to blame. A benevolent dictator might be able to counteract this trend, but a liberal democracy cannot (or can it?) do so through government fiat. The conflict, then, is not so much between constitutional rights as much as it is a conflict between core values: privacy and control vs. exposure and learning.

Education

So how can we attempt to solve this conundrum? An effective K-12 educational system, backed up by a robust university education, is the best societal approach I can imagine. (Individual parents can help, too.) A classroom is one of the few locations where we as a society have the chance to force people to be exposed to new ideas. Teaching and inspiring students to seek out alternative perspectives and critically analyze them–without rejecting the new and unusual out of hand–is perhaps the least coercive method I can imagine for maintaining a marketplace of ideas in the face of tools that enable an individual to opt out.

But I’m open to other ideas, so if you have any, please share!

Related articles

• Thinking about privacy and the First Amendment (inpropriapersona.com)
• The Echo Chamber Revisited (On the Media, npr.org)
• The Filter Bubble (amazon.com)

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In my 1996 paper, “But that Speaking Makes it So”: The Role of Narrative in the Formation of Community, I wrote:

The creation of a narrative–the telling of a story–is a means of smoothing out the rough edges of existence, a means of transforming raw experience into the webs of significance which constitute culture. Indeed, narrative is such a basic component of culture, of humanity, that we never actually have access to “raw experience.” Nothing exists for us “but that speaking makes it so,” and it is this speaking which provides the coherent meaning in our lives, rather than leaving them a series of discontinuous, unrelated events.

I was speaking from a literary-critical point of view, but Michael S. Gazzaniga’s brain research suggests that this is actually how the brain deals with the world:

Gazzaniga suggests that one of the modules in the human brain should go under the name of the “Interpreter.” This system–located in the left hemisphere, along with the speech center–is what concocts a coherent narrative out of all the brain’s activity, and the annals of neuroscience are now full of bizarre neurological conditions and deft experiments that reveal this constant creative act at work. Of great importance to Gazzaniga’s argument are some oft-cited experiments purportedly demonstrating that conscious awareness of making a decision registers only after the brain has primed itself for that course of action, and sometimes even after the action has been performed. Gazzaniga calls this living in “a post-hoc world.” … According to Gazzaniga, the stories the Interpreter tells tend to be bravely forward-looking, all about steering the ship of fate into uncertain waters, equipped with free will and unity of purpose; but these parables of moral courage are no more than specious retrospective rationalizations for things we do automatically.

via Cathy Gere’s review in Atmospheric Disturbances: On Michael Gazzaniga | The Nation.

According to Gere, for Gazzaniga these “specious retrospective rationalizations” suggest a dis-unified consciousness that then calls into question the entire concept of free will: “If our brains act according to the causal laws governing all matter, in what sense can we be said to be free?” In legal terms, Gazzaniga suggests that this finding potentially undermines the criminal requirement of mens rea (the “guilty mind” element of most crimes): if our actions are in many situations automatic, and our explanations of them–our decision-making moral sense, as it were–only post-hoc, then “‘My brain made me do it’ threatens to become a get-out-of-jail-free card available to everyone, not just to sufferers of fetal alcohol syndrome or schizophrenia.”

Gere contests this conclusion by arguing that there is a difference between automatic reflexes–“primed by millenniums of natural selection”–and rational, deliberate consideration done before an act. She discusses the legal concept of “diminished responsibility”: the idea that, for example, children have a less-developed sense of moral thinking, and thus should not be held as responsible for their actions as an adult. Insanity–a complex area of interaction between medicine and law–is another site where the law recognizes that some people–but certainly not all people–lack the ability to properly consider their actions. (Although neither seems to mention it, this is pretty much the difference between murder “with malice aforethought” and manslaughter in American common law.)

Gazzaniga gestures at one standard of legal insanity–the “policeman at the elbow” test–but Gere says all he does is “wag an admonishing finger” at the notion. Gere suggests that Gazzaniga’s absolute standard is that one either has reason or not, and that one is thus either responsible or not for one’s actions. She argues that reality–and the law–is more complex in its evaluations that this, and that Gazzaniga fails to acknowledge this complexity.

In criticizing Gazzaniga’s overly simplistic, and overly worried, notions about what his findings do for the idea of responsibility, Gere writes that “the concept [of responsibility] has been refined by witnesses, judges and juries ever since naturalistic accounts of mental illness began to gain traction, and it seems fairly robust as an intuition about justice.”

Although I would agree with Gere in many respects, I am not convinced that the (American, at least) legal system has really developed a “fairly robust” (in the sense of having a common, stable agreement on the matter) sense of how responsibility should function. There are numerous definitions of “insanity” in various states, and the standards have gone back and forth as first doctors suggest grounds for diminished responsibility, and then the public reacts against a sense that criminals are “getting off too easily” by virtue of an insanity defense, and push for tightening the rules.

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Jared Lee Loughner, for example, the accused shooter of numerous people in Arizona (including U.S. Representative Gabrielle Gifford), was declared “unfit to stand trial” in federal court due to schizophrenia. Under federal law (revised due to popular anger after John Hinckley, the man who tried to assassinate President Ronald Reagan, was found not guilty by reason of insanity in 1982), this does not mean he is somehow not guilty. He can be forced to take medication until he is deemed “fit,” and can then be tried. Arizona state law is different: in Arizona, even if Loughner is found to have been completely insane at the time of the killings (and therefore “not responsible” in at least some sense), he would first be committed to a mental institution if convicted, then transferred to prison if he recovers his sanity. There is no such thing in Arizona as “not guilty by reason of insanity” anymore.

In the end, although I do not share Gazzaniga’s worry about the likelihood that his findings will result in reducing criminal liability, I am not convinced by Gere’s argument that the law has already established a more “robust” approach to the question. For me, the question of diminished responsibility, especially as a consequence of mental illness, is still a contested area of the law that is neither settled nor necessarily just.

But despite this quibble, I do agree with Gere that there is more risk that the legal rules that establish diminished responsibility  are being eroded than is the fundamental concept of individual responsibility itself: “the concept of diminished responsibility is almost as much a pillar of the Anglo-American legal system as responsibility itself, and its actual erosion–as in the tabloid-stoked trend in Britain of trying minors as adults–is at least as troubling as its still-theoretical extension to all of us.”

For me, at least, just because we construct a post-hoc narrative about an action does not mean we cannot still be responsible for that action, nor do I think there’s a real risk that the legal system will disagree.

The Wealth of Networks by Yochai Benkler

In The Wealth of Networks: How Social Production Transforms Markets and Freedom, Yochai Benkler discusses his vision of the role of technology in social change. He rejects an overly deterministic vision of technology (which he connects with Lewis Mumford and Marshall McLuhan), but also rejects a view of technology as immaterial to a society’s direction:

A view of technologies as “tools that happen, more or less, to be there, and are employed in any given society in a pattern that depends only on what that society and culture makes of them is too constrained. A society that has no wheel and no writing has certain limits on what it can do.” (17)

Instead, he adopts a “simple” idea that is “distinct from a naive determinism”:

Different technologies make different kinds of human action and interaction easier or harder to perform. All other things being equal, things that are easier to do are more likely to be done, and things that are harder to do are less likely to be done. All other things are never equal. That is why technological determinism in the strict sense–if you have technology “t,” you should expect social structure or relation “s” to emerge–is false. (17)

To illustrate the point, he describes the different impacts that new ocean-going technologies had on Spain or Portugal (their land ambitions were curtailed by strong neighbors) and China (which focused inland). He also notes how the printing press impacted Protestant countries (where individual reading of the Bible was encouraged) differently than Catholic countries (where “where religion discouraged individual, unmediated interaction with texts, like France and Spain”).

He summarizes his position by saying the following:

Neither deterministic nor wholly malleable, technology sets some parameters of individual and social action. It can make some actions, relationships, organizations, and institutions easier to pursue, and others harder. (17)

In regards to modern networking technologies (like the Internet), he warns:

The same technologies of networked computers can be adopted in very different patterns. There is no guarantee that networked information technology will lead to the improvements in innovation, freedom, and justice that I suggest are possible. (18)

Jack M. Balkin, from the Knight Foundation. CC BY-SA 2.0.

In “Digital Speech and Democratic Culture: A Theory of Freedom of Expression for the Information Society,” Jack Balkin (of the blog Balkinization) writes about what he sees as the appropriation of free speech ideals by media corporations in an effort to maximize their capital investments:

Thus, in the digital age, media corporations have interpreted the free speech principle broadly to combat regulation of digital networks and narrowly in order to protect and expand their intellectual property rights. … Invoking a property-based theory of free expression, they have rejected arguments that public regulation is necessary to keep conduits open and freely available to a wide variety of speakers. (22)

Balkin sees this as reminiscent of a similar appropriation during the first Gilded Age of the 1870s and 1880s especially, when the “robber barons” grew wealthy and strong. Corporations of the time lobbied (and won) for new property rights and new constitutional protections against employment regulations (24). The abolitionists and others had celebrated the freedom to labor for whom one chose as a rejection of slavery; the corporations reinterpreted this as the “freedom of contract,” and used it to prevent government labor regulations (24). So, for example, when Congress passed a child labor law in 1916, the courts–drawing on the freedom of contract now enshrined as a principle in the Constitutional theory of the day–struck it down two years later (in Hammer v. Dagenhart).

Bilkin writes:

In what Clinton Rossiter called the “Great Train Robbery of Intellectual History,” laissez-faire conservatives appropriated the words and symbols of early nineteenth-century liberalism–liberty, opportunity, progress, and individualism–and gave them an economic reinterpretation that served corporate interests. … By the turn of the twentieth century, the best legal minds that money could buy had reshaped the liberal rights rhetoric of the 1830s into a powerful conservative defense of property that they claimed was the rightful heir to the best American traditions of individualism and personal freedom. (24–25)

Today, Bilkin said, we’re seeing a similar move: “The right to speak has been recast as a right to be free from business regulation” (25). Corporations have moved to extend copyright, making it both broader (covering more) and longer (lasting for 70+ years instead of the original fourteen years of 1790. ) They have also argued that networks should be freer than ever of government regulation, because such regulations–passed in the name of protecting the public’s speech–infringes on their freedom of speech.

(Interesting note: this move–discussed in Balkin’s 2004 article–is very similar to what happened with corporate money and speech in the 2010 Citizen’s United decision.)

Copyright law is often approached in terms of debates over competing interpretations of the law: should copyright be used to protect the author’s freedom, or to encourage the public distribution of culture and information, or to turn intellectual products into marketplace commodities, or to serve the interests of corporate publishers and distributors?

He then explains that, at least in the Western–and perhaps especially in the American–tradition, “copyright is the enactment of the dream that the disparate goals and values of individual creative freedom, commerce, and informational dissemination can be reconciled in law.”

In the United States, copyright has always served a functional purpose:

To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries  (Article I, Section 8, Clause 8 of the United States Constitution).

Drawing on this, Streeter writes that:

From the beginning, therefore, copyright was understood more in functional than in formal or moral terms; the emphasis was more on copyright’s role in encouraging the distribution of culture and information than on its inherent justice.

American law depends on conceptual distinctions, particularly originality and the distinction between an idea and its expression, that are derived from the romantic image of authorship as an act of original creation whose uniqueness springs from and is defined in terms of the irreducible individuality of the writer.

But, Streeter points out, modern broadcast mediums–especially television, but also music, movies, and more–do not have individual “authors,” and yet our legal approaches to copyright still assume some notion of an individual author or creator.

One way the law has handled this is through the fictional “corporate person” who now owns copyrights and substitutes for individual creative humans. These large bureaucratic institutions now “create” most modern works, but still argue that consumers have a moral right to compensate them for their creation in a way that tends to invoke romantic authorship–and breaks down when the “creator” is a large multinational corporation.

Corporations have responded to create bureaucratic enforcement mechanisms, so-called “copyright collectives,” such as ASCAP and BMI. These groups create licensing arrangements that only roughly correspond to “actual” use or “actual” creators (and often strike me as rather reminiscent of a protection racket…).

New technologies that have emerged after Streeter’s book hold the potential for revolutionizing this relationship, although Amazon, Netflix, Hulu, Spotify, et. al. fundamentally do nothing about the problem of corporate content creation. They do, however, re-enable the possibility of individual creators (if such a thing really exists…) to escape the old bureaucratic confines and to more directly connect with consumers via mediators that can reduce the communications and collections overhead.

So is this really a revolution? Perhaps–but as I said, it does nothing about the major point of Streeter that much of today’s media has no individual creator at all. In such a case, these new technologies merely permit more efficient collection, cutting back on the number of “middlemen,” but don’t otherwise revolutionize anything at all.

By Robert Horwitz

Robert Horwitz’s The Irony of Regulatory Reform: The Deregulation of American Telecommunications, published in 1989, explores in depth the issue of telecommunications regulation at a time when telecommunications was once again in transition. My own interest is in the revolutions in communications technologies that occurred with the spread of American post offices in the 18th century, the telegraph in the 19th, and the telephone–and then radio, TV, and cable–in the 20th. Horwitz writes:

Telecommunications constitutes one of the four essential modes or channels that permit trade and discourse among members of a society, the other three being transportation, energy utilities, and the system of currency exchange, or money. … These services are “connective” institutions. They are central to the circulation of capital and literally constitute both the foundation and the limit for the overall functioning of a society. This is why … they are called infrastructures.

In 1989, deregulation of industries overseen by agencies created during the New Deal was in full swing. The irony for Horwitz is that “deregulation has most strongly affected those regulatory agencies whose actions have been least odious to business.” Thus, agencies created later and earlier than the New Deal were largely unaffected.

History

Looking backwards, Horwitz says that the “emergency of regulatory agencies constituted the building of a national administrative structures in a state which had been institutionally localistic and court-centered.” He argues that in the 19th century, the courts provided the oversight of economic development that would eventually be taken over by modern administrative agencies. This changed in the 1890s, after laissez-faire economic principles had created “a general crisis of social control.” The era of big business necessitated an (eventual) government response.

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The Progressive Era saw the first new regulatory bodies emerge, largely “in response to popular political activism.” This gave us what would become the Food and Drug Administration, the Justice Department’s antitrust division, and the Federal Trade Commission. New Deal agencies, on the other hand, were created to bring stability to specific markets, and was generally greeted with enthusiasm by businesses desperate for such stability. In the 1960s and 70s, the regulatory focus shifted to more general social protections, especially of citizens as a whole. This was the era of the Environmental Protection Agency and the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.

The New Regulatory Agencies of the 20th Century

Regulatory agencies of the 20th century are a new phenomenon. According to Horwitz,

Regulatory agencies constitute a new structure of federal political power in the American political system; they represent a mixture of legislative, executive, and judicial functions.

In the American system of separated powers, they are an odd delegation of Congressional power: legislatively created, administered by the executive branch, and often given quasi-judicial responsibilities to hear and decide cases (with judicial review, of course, the level of which has varied over time).

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While industry regulation serves a certain level of private interest–especially in the creation of stability–much regulation involves what Horwitz calls the “public interest”: “something larger, something more general.” Although the 20th-century regulatory agency was a new beast in the United States, “the construction and maintenance of infrastructures usually have been the responsibility of governments” as far back as 13th-century England (in the Anglo-American tradition, at least–but remember that the Roman state built aqueducts and roads much earlier, for example).

In the United States, the Commerce Clause justified federal government intervention. Because this economically focused rationale underpins the American regulatory approach, Horwitz argues that, “[i]f there is a general concept of the public interest informing state intervention into infrastructure industries, it is a commerce-based concept.” Thus, in regulation transportation, “nondiscrimination” has been key. The goal? To ensure “[t]hat carriers would serve the needs of commerce rather than inhibit commerce.”

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In telecommunications, the “common carrier principle is really little more than a commerce-based notion of the public interest.” It “guaranteed access to the means of transmission.” Granting individual people access was really just “a logical extension of expanding the marketplace.” But despite this limited original impetus, “common carrier law embraces principles broader than commerce” as it made the telephone “available (in principle) to all citizens.”

Liberty

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Telecommunications, though, involves essential aspects of liberty, especially the ideals of “free speech” embodied in the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. Freedom of commerce does connect to freedom of speech is historically linked to the liberal (in the tradition of Locke and Mill) ideology of the free market. Thus, the ideology of free speech has for many years been to encourage the “marketplace of ideas.” The assumption, says Horwitz, is that “a democratic public sphere will emerge consequent to the unimpeded, private actions of speech-entrepreneurs.”

But what happens when those “speech-entrepreneurs” are a few powerful corporations who demand significant money to utilize their infrastructure? The result can be that “those with wealth can disseminate their views, the First Amendment ‘right’ of most citizens is merely to listen and read. Yet a free marketplace of ideas implies dialogue.”

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Today we have the Internet and the World Wide Web, which have the potential to turn everyone into contributors as well as consumers of information. Does this mean, then, that the natural form of these new mediums reduce of eliminate the necessity of their regulation? Or is regulation still needed to maintain a “free marketplace” of both ideas and commerce?

Deregulation

Deregulation can reduce the power of established cartels and allow for innovation and novelty: “It permits the resurgence of competition and the anarchistic play of market forces.”  This, though, is certainly not in the interest of established players–so why is modern deregulation so associated with big (entrenched) business?

Partly, says Horwitz, this is due to the divergence of “administrative rationality and economic rationality.” Regulatory agencies are conservative and bureaucratic by their nature, and the logic of rules be lost even as their enforcement continues. Irrationality–and the regulatory delay of agencies struggling to apply outdated rules to a complex environment–can lead to business uncertainty instead of stability. The burden on the regulated industries thus grows over time. This was made worse as the social goals of the 1960s and 70s created “new obligations, costs, and time delays.” The result? Deregulation won out in many–but not all!–contexts.

“George Carlin” by mindelei (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Balancing strong First Amendment (“free speech”) speech protections with the desire to protect the delicate sensibilities of America’s youth is always a complex task. Two seminal Supreme Court cases–Cohen v. California and FCC v. Pacifica Foundation–illustrate the struggle the Court has had to find the right path.

In Cohen, decided in 1971, the Supreme Court overturned the conviction of a man wearing a jacked in a courthouse that attacked the draft with a four-letter word (“Fuck the Draft”). In that case, Justice Harlan, writing for the majority, “one man’s vulgarity is another’s lyric,” and said that offended readers could simply turn away. A state has no right to ban profanity to maintain “civility.”

Nonetheless, in 1978 the court upheld fines imposed by the FCC on the owner of a New York radio station for broadcasting George Carlin’s “Filthy Words.” Why the difference? Is the medium of radio really so different that it requires different rules, ones that now do permit the state (in this instance, the federal government) to ban profanity? Or was Carlin’s speech in a different, less protected category than Cohen’s opinion on the draft?

The majority in FCC v. Pacifica Foundation sees no conflict with Cohen, and in fact cites Harlan’s vulgarity statement approvingly–but then proceeds to say that

content of that character [i.e., “vulgar,” “offensive,” and “shocking”] is not entitled to absolute constitutional protection under all circumstances, we must consider its context in order to determine whether the Commission’s action was constitutionally permissible.

Indeed, Cohen foresees this issue of considering the circumstances, and ties those circumstances to invasions of privacy interests, especially in the home:

The ability of government, consonant with the Constitution, to shut off discourse solely to protect others from hearing it is, in other words, dependent upon a showing that substantial privacy interests are being invaded in an essentially intolerable manner. Any broader view of this authority would effectively empower a majority to silence dissidents simply as a matter of personal predilections.

This is the exception seized upon most strongly by the majority in Pacifica Foundation:

Patently offensive, indecent material presented over the airwaves confronts the citizen, not only in public, but also in the privacy of the home, where the individual’s right to be left alone plainly outweighs the First Amendment rights of an intruder. Rowan v. Post Office Dept., 397 U. S. 728.

(Additionally, the Court also argues for the importance of protecting children–an argument that the Court in Cohen found unconvincing, but which the majority here thinks is quite important.)

In his concurrence, Justice Powell makes the case that broadcast media are uniquely capable of intruding on “unwilling adults … in their homes”:

The result turns instead on the unique characteristics of the broadcast media, combined with society’s right to protect its children from speech generally agreed to be inappropriate for their years, and with the interest of unwilling adults in not being assaulted by such offensive speech in their homes. Moreover, I doubt whether today’s decision will prevent any adult who wishes to receive Carlin’s message in Carlin’s own words from doing so, and from making for himself a value judgment as to the merit of the message and words.

Justice Brennan, though, strongly dissents, and attacks the majority for imposing its views of words and morality on the public at large:

the Court’s decision may be seen for what, in the broader perspective, it really is: another of the dominant culture’s inevitable efforts to force those groups who do not share its mores to conform to its way of thinking, acting, and speaking.

Brennan also argues that there is nothing so invasive about radio as a broadcast media that uniquely allows it to invade the home:

unlike other intrusive modes of communication, such as sound trucks, “[t]he radio can be turned off,“Lehman v. Shaker Heights, 418 U. S. 298,302 (1974)— and with a minimum of effort. As Chief Judge Bazelon aptly observed below, “having elected to receive public air waves, the scanner who stumbles onto an offensive program is in the same position as the unsuspecting passers-by in Cohen and Erznoznik [v. Jacksonville, 422 U. S. 205 (1975)]; he can avert his attention by changing channels or turning off the set.” 181 U. S. App. D. C. 132, 149, 556 F. 2d 9, 26 (1977).

In other words, for Brennan, there is nothing intrinsically different about radio. Unlike amplified sound–and like seeing a jacket with swear word on it–one can simply turn it off or turn away.

So–ignoring stare decisis–which approach do you find more persuasive? Is broadcast particularly invasive because it is transmitted into the home? Are children as a result particularly vulnerable? And what about the Internet, which while not a push medium like radio or TV, certainly enters the home?

Spreading the news: the American postal system from Franklin to Morse By Richard R. John

In Spreading the News, Richard R. John writes about the development of the American postal system in the eighteenth century, and the police choices that leverages the system as a means of newspaper distribution.

The technological devices of the post and the newspaper were not new in the eighteenth century; horses, paper, and printing presses had been around for centuries. But the new American government prioritized newspaper delivery, and utilized postage fees from merchants to subsidize the development of profit-losing rural routes in order. Of course, the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries brought to Europe a new technological development of a different kind: bureaucracies and various corporate forms that more efficiently organized people and their actions.

Nonetheless, the technologies did not determine the outcome that John discusses, but rather enabled it. Instead, it was the policy choices in Washington, D.C. that determined (retrospectively, anyway) the outcome. These policies favored newspapers and avoided using the postal system (despite the fact that in the early nineteenth century it composed roughly 3/4 of the entire federal government and federal budget) to subsidize other federal activities. The result? A sense of national–and even world–identity beyond mere connection to one’s individual state or locality.