Frazier is an assistant professor at the Crump College of Law at St. Thomas University. He previously clerked for the Montana Supreme Court.
Generations from now, historians will wonder why we choose to leave certain communities behind while allowing technology to race ahead. They’ll point out that we had plenty of examples to learn from — and, yet, prioritized “progress” over people.
The lessons we could have learned are tragically obvious. In the 1850s and ’60s, the telegraph took off and people assumed it would serve a great civic purpose. Instead, Western Union captured the market, jacked up the message rates and restricted the use of this powerful technology to the already powerful. Next, in the 1990s and 2000s, the internet inspired us all to dream of a more connected future. Instead, a digital divide has formed – leaving certain communities and individuals without meaningful access to an increasingly essential technology. Others surely could list other similar examples.
Clear steps could have mitigated those outcomes. Generations of postmasters general called for increasing access to the telegraph network; Congress said it was too expensive. Likewise, for decades advocates have been calling on the government to invest in the infrastructure necessary to bring reliable, high-speed internet to every home; again, equal access to opportunity was deemed too costly.
So far, the introduction of artificial intelligence seems to fit this pattern: Despite it having the potential to benefit billions, it’s been harnessed by those already benefiting from the last technological advance. And, while it’s true that some AI use cases may have tremendous benefits for all, those benefits seem likely to first go to those already financially secure and technologically savvy.
Reversing the historical trend of technological progress causing inequality to expand and become more entrenched isn’t going to be cheap but it’s imperative if we want AI to live up to its potential.
First things first, we have to make sure all Americans have access to the Internet. COVID-19 reminded us of the digital divide and, for a brief moment, led to massive government spending that helped increase access to educational, cultural and professional opportunities. That funding appears to be going the way of the dodo bird. President Joe Biden ought to insist on internet access being a core part of our national AI strategy. Absent making access a priority, we’re bound to repeat a problematic past.
Second, the government should — at a minimum — nudge and — more appropriately — subsidize the development of AI models specifically addressing the needs and challenges facing communities that have traditionally been on the losing end of similar advances.
Third, AI labs should release annual societal impact statements. Such reports would give policymakers and the public a chance to evaluate whether the pros of AI advances really outweigh the cons.
All of this will cost money, require time and (likely) delay the rate of AI development and deployment. Nevertheless, it's an investment in our community and our collective potential. If any of the three steps above were pursued, my hunch is that history will celebrate a shift in our priorities from profit and “progress” to people and patience.
What’s clear is that we cannot afford to stick with the traditional playbook. Technology must always be viewed as a tool — one we can deploy, delay and ... gasp ... decide to forgo. That’s right — AI is not the solution to everything and AI should not be allowed to upend every aspect of our individual and collective affairs.
Learning from the past is dang hard. But there’s still time for us to redirect the future by reorienting our approach to AI in the present. For too long certain Americans have been digitally forgotten; AI has given us a chance to remind ourselves of the importance of aligning technology with the public interest.
A deep look at how "All in the Family" remains a striking mirror of American politics, class tensions, and cultural manipulation—proving its relevance decades later.
All in This American Family
There are a few shows that have aged as eerily well as All in the Family.
It’s not just that it’s still funny and has the feel not of a sit-com, but of unpretentious, working-class theatre. It’s that, decades later, it remains one of the clearest windows into the American psyche. Archie Bunker’s living room has been, as it were, a small stage on which the country has been working through the same contradictions, anxieties, and unresolved traumas that still shape our politics today. The manipulation of the working class, the pitting of neighbor against neighbor, the scapegoating of the vulnerable, the quiet cruelties baked into everyday life—all of it is still here with us. We like to reassure ourselves that we’ve progressed since the early 1970s, but watching the show now forces an unsettling recognition: The structural forces that shaped Archie’s world have barely budged. The same tactics of distraction and division deployed by elites back then are still deployed now, except more efficiently, more sleekly.
Archie himself is the perfect vessel for this continuity. He is bigoted, blustery, reactive, but he is also wounded, anxious, and constantly misled by forces above and beyond him. Norman Lear created Archie not as a monster to be hated (Lear’s genius was to make Archie lovable despite his loathsome stands), but as a man trapped by the political economy of his era: A union worker who feels his country slipping away, yet cannot see the hands that are actually moving it. His anger leaks sideways, onto immigrants, women, “hippies,” and anyone with less power than he has. The real villains—the wealthy, the connected, the manufacturers of grievance—remain safely and comfortably offscreen. That’s part of the show’s key insight: It reveals how elites thrive by making sure working people turn their frustrations against each other rather than upward.
Edith, often dismissed as naive or scatterbrained, functions as the show’s quiet moral center. Her compassion exposes the emotional void in Archie’s worldview and, in doing so, highlights the costs of the divisions that powerful interests cultivate. Meanwhile, Mike the “Meathead” represents a generation trying to break free from those divisions but often trapped in its own loud self-righteousness. Their clashes are not just family arguments but collisions between competing visions of America’s future. And those visions, tellingly, have yet to resolve themselves.
The political context of the show only sharpens its relevance. Premiering in 1971, All in the Family emerged during the Nixon years, when the “Silent Majority” strategy was weaponizing racial resentment, cultural panic, and working-class anxiety to cement power. Archie was a fictional embodiment of the very demographic Nixon sought to mobilize and manipulate. The show exposed, often bluntly, how economic insecurity was being rerouted into cultural hostility. Watching the show today, it’s impossible to miss how closely that logic mirrors the present, from right-wing media ecosystems to politicians who openly rely on stoking grievances rather than addressing root causes.
What makes the show unsettling today is that its satire feels less like a relic and more like a mirror. The demagogic impulses it spotlighted have simply found new platforms. The working-class anger it dramatized has been harvested by political operatives who, like their 1970s predecessors, depend on division to maintain power. The very cultural debates that fueled Archie’s tirades — about immigration, gender roles, race, and national identity—are still being used as tools to distract from wealth concentration and political manipulation.
If anything, the divisions are sharper now because the mechanisms of manipulation are more sophisticated, for much has been learned by The Machine. The same emotional raw material Lear mined for comedy is now algorithmically optimized for outrage. The same social fractures that played out around Archie’s kitchen table now play out on a scale he couldn’t have imagined. But the underlying dynamics haven’t changed at all.
That is why All in the Family feels so contemporary. The country Lear dissected never healed or meaningfully evolved: It simply changed wardrobe. The tensions, prejudices, and insecurities remain, not because individuals failed to grow but because the economic and political forces that thrive on division have only become more entrenched. Until we confront the political economy that kept Archie and Michael locked in an endless loop of circular bickering, the show will remain painfully relevant for another fifty years.
Ahmed Bouzid is the co-founder of The True Representation Movement.