We live in a time when anyone with a cellphone carries a computer more powerful than those that sent humans to the moon and back. Yet few of us can sustain a thought beyond a few seconds. One study suggested that the average human attention span dropped from about 12 seconds in 2000 to roughly 8 seconds by 2015—although the accuracy of this figure has been disputed (Microsoft Canada, 2015 Attention Spans Report). Whatever the number, the trend is clear: our ability to focus is not what it used to be.
This contradiction—constant access to unlimited information paired with a decline in critical thinking—perfectly illustrates what Oxford named its 2024 Word of the Year: “brain rot.” More than a funny meme, it represents a genuine threat to democracy. The ability to deeply engage with issues, weigh rival arguments, and participate in collective decision-making is key to a healthy democratic society. When our capacity for focus erodes due to overstimulation, distraction, or manufactured outrage, it weakens our ability to exercise our role as citizens.
The Collapse of Civic Thought
Those old cartoons about how the internet ruins our attention spans were once funny, but technology has quietly and profoundly altered how we think and interact with the world. Social media rewards speed and emotion, valuing reaction over reflection. In this environment, sustained attention and thoughtful analysis have become rare skills. The overwhelming volume of content fractures our focus, making it harder to process complex ideas or engage in meaningful dialogue. As nuance gives way to outrage, the space for deliberation shrinks, and public discourse suffers.
We’re drowning in an ocean of information and struggling to make sense of it all. People don’t know which sources to trust, civic knowledge is slipping, and news feeds become background noise. The problem isn’t data—it’s how to think. When emotion replaces understanding in public debate, public life spirals into outrage and distraction.
The Politics of Cognitive Decline
Bad actors have learned to weaponize this situation. The erosion of critical thinking makes manipulation easy. Politics becomes performance—presidential decrees, culture-war theatrics, and partisan spectacles dominate while genuine policymaking disappears.
Take, for example, the extended recess called by House Speaker Mike Johnson during the longest government shutdown in history. Instead of negotiating to end the crisis, the House abstained entirely from governing, leaving even Republicans anxious (Politico, October 9, 2025). Johnson’s decision prioritized optics and posturing over the hard work of legislating. The Founders envisioned a republic of educated citizens making informed political choices. Instead, we have a politics consumed as entertainment, and demagogues thrive in the confusion.
“Brain rot” isn’t just a symptom—it’s a strategy for a political system drifting toward authoritarianism. It dulls public resistance and normalizes authoritarian behavior.
It starts with the president himself. His rise is rooted in the social media pathologies previously noted. Outrage-driven engagement and short attention cycles comprise his political brand. Each Truth Social or X post, feud, or headline reinforces a feedback loop in which spectacle drives support and policy fades further into the background.
Rebuilding the Cognitive Commons
There’s no going back with technology, and with AI’s rise, misinformation will only spread faster. But the war isn’t lost. Rebuilding democracy requires reviving the capacity to think freely and collectively—and that begins with education.
Technology and AI amplify misinformation, but democracy can be rebuilt through education. Fortunately, there are role models for reclaiming our attention. Illinois pioneered media literacy requirements in public high schools (Illinois Law), while California integrated digital literacy across core subjects (California Law). Beyond the U.S., Finland sets a global standard by teaching students, from the earliest grades, how to recognize propaganda and resist manipulation—skills embedded throughout its national curriculum (Media Literacy Index; Finnish Curriculum).
If Congress were functioning normally, it could reinforce state efforts by tying Title I and Title II funding to evidence‑based media‑literacy and civic‑reasoning standards, requiring school districts to report progress similar to math and reading scores, and expanding Department of Education grants for civics innovation labs—local partnerships that teach students how to verify claims, evaluate evidence, and understand how misinformation spreads. These reforms would help rebuild the cognitive tools on which democracy depends.
These reforms prioritize debate, logic, and media literacy over rote learning and ideological conformity. They provide models for teaching people to evaluate competing claims, spot manipulation, and engage in reasoned disagreement—skills essential for democratic citizenship that are fast disappearing from classrooms. Too often, high schools and universities emphasize technical mastery at the expense of civic understanding. We must give equal value to both in the education process.
Renewal Through Reflection
Democracy today resembles the brain of someone in recovery: overstimulated, fatigued, and searching for clarity. Renewal will not come from AI or political saviors but from our decision to reclaim our collective attention from those who profit by dividing it. In a world built for distraction, the most radical act is to listen, reflect, and think for ourselves.
Bottom line: The cure for our societal brain rot requires us to practice vigilance together, to question constantly, and to summon the courage to think clearly even when confusion is easier. Governments can help with this project, but ultimately it is a decision each one of us must make for ourselves.
Robert Cropf is a Professor of Political Science at Saint Louis University.
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.