In an era of increasing social isolation, platforms like Facebook and Twitter are among the most important tools we have to understand each other. However, social media can also lead to polarization and misunderstanding as author Chris Bail discusses in this episode of Democracy Works.
Rampant calls to avoid sharing the video of Charlie Kirk’s death have been swift and emphatic across social media. “We need to keep our souls clean,” journalists plead. “Where are social media’s content moderators?” “How did we get so desensitized?” The moral outrage is palpable; the demands for human dignity urgent and clear.
But as a Black woman who has been forced to witness the constant virality of Black death, I must ask: where was this widespread anger for George Floyd? For Philando Castile? For Daunte Wright? For Tyre Nichols?
The contrast shows something deeply disturbing about how America processes death, trauma, and whose humanity deserves protection. When Charlie Kirk was killed, the immediate response centered on his humanity. He was a loving father, devoted husband, and tragic loss. His past controversial statements—comparing Islam’s Prophet Muhammad to Jeffrey Epstein, claiming white Americans were under attack—are now treated as off-limits during this time of mourning. When Black people are murdered, the questions arrive before any centering of personhood: What were they doing? Did they have a criminal record? Were they resisting arrest? Why didn’t they just comply?
Black victims get investigated posthumously, their past mistakes weaponized to justify their deaths before their bodies are cold. Trayvon Martin’s family had to prove he was a “good kid.” George Floyd’s criminal history became national news. The same publications now demanding privacy and respect for Kirk’s family had no problem consuming, sharing, and endlessly analyzing footage of Black people's final moments.
And why wouldn’t they? The economics of Black death are undeniable. A Pew Research Center study showed that “a large share of Americans (88%)—including about nine-in-ten each among White, Black, Republican and Democratic adults” have watched videos of Black death. Google trends shows that the murder of Black people is “amongst the most popular searches in Google’s history.” Images of Black people being killed by police often “garner over 2.4 million clicks in 24 hours, and the average ‘cost per click’ often reaches $6 per click,” making the virality of Black death not only incentivized but nearly guaranteed.
Many of the same voices now demanding “decency” around Kirk’s death were notably silent when Black death videos were being monetized and shared endlessly. The commodification shows a fundamental hierarchy of whose life has inherent value versus whose death serves a utilitarian purpose.
Watch how the media frames these deaths differently. Kirk was killed or assassinated—active language that centers the crime and demands justice. Black victims often “died during a police encounter” or “lost their lives in an incident”—passive language that obscures responsibility. Kirk’s killer is a shooter or assassin. Police who kill Black people are “officers involved in the incident.”
When white people die violently, their death is sacred, an untouchable tragedy demanding reverence and privacy. When Black people die violently, their deaths are educational content, evidence to be analyzed, footage to be replayed during panel discussions, and content to be dissected for lessons about American racism.
George Floyd’s death wasn’t treated as a private family tragedy deserving dignity. It became required viewing for America’s racial education. His final moments were played on loop, analyzed frame by frame, and transformed into memes and political statements. The same media outlets now calling for restraint around Kirk’s death video had no qualms about turning Floyd’s murder into content.
The family treatment differs drastically, too. Kirk’s family gets immediate protection from scrutiny. Their grief is respected, their privacy defended. Black families get thrust into the spotlight, forced to become activists and advocates while processing trauma. They must educate America about their loved one’s humanity while Kirk’s family gets to grieve privately.
Even the calls for justice follow different patterns. Kirk’s death demands swift action, comprehensive investigation, and retribution. Black deaths spark debates about “both sides,” calls for more information, and suggestions that we wait for all the facts. The urgency is different, the moral clarity conditional.
This hierarchy of death reflects America’s hierarchy of life. Some deaths are tragedies that unite us in grief. Others become teachable moments that divide us in debate. Some victims get privacy and dignity in death. Others get transformed into hashtags and causes.
The performative outrage around Kirk’s death video exposes this hypocrisy perfectly. Where was this moral clarity when Black death became America’s most consumed content?
Sanctity of death for Black victims would mean their final moments stay sacred, not viral. It would mean their families get privacy to grieve instead of becoming public educators about their loved one's humanity. It would mean their deaths inspire justice, not clicks. But that’s not where we are. America has denied Black victims these basic dignities while demanding them instantly for others.
This racial hierarchy of death is one of America’s most revealing double standards. And so, the question isn’t whether we should share videos of death—we shouldn’t. The question is why our answer changes depending on whose death we’re watching.
Stephanie Toliver is a Public Voices Fellow and a member of the OpEd Alumni Project sponsored by the University of Illinois.
Kevin Frazier warns that one-size-fits-all AI laws risk stifling innovation. Learn the 7 “sins” policymakers must avoid to protect progress.
Imagine it is 2028. A start-up in St. Louis trains an AI model that can spot pancreatic cancer six months earlier than the best radiologists, buying patients precious time that medicine has never been able to give them. But the model never leaves the lab. Why? Because a well-intentioned, technology-neutral state statute drafted in 2025 forces every “automated decision system” to undergo a one-size-fits-all bias audit, to be repeated annually, and to be performed only by outside experts who—three years in—still do not exist in sufficient numbers. While regulators scramble, the company’s venture funding dries up, the founders decamp to Singapore, and thousands of Americans are deprived of an innovation that would have saved their lives.
That grim vignette is fictional—so far. But it is the predictable destination of the seven “deadly sins” that already haunt our AI policy debates. Reactive politicians are at risk of passing laws that fly in the face of what qualifies as good policy for emerging technologies.
Policymakers rightly sense that AI is moving faster than the statutory machinery built for the age of the horse and buggy, not the supercomputer. The temptation is to act first and reflect later. Yet history tells us that bad tech laws ossify, spread, and strangle progress long after their drafters leave office. California’s flame-retardant fiasco—one state’s sofa rule turned nationwide toxin—is Exhibit A. As of 1975, the state’s Bureau of Home Furnishings and Thermal Insulation insisted on flame retardant being included in certain furniture. Companies across the country compiled; it was cheaper to design their products for California’s standards rather than segment their manufacturing processes. Turns out that the flame-retardant foam was highly toxic and highly prone to end up in the hands and mouths of kids. It’s unclear how many hundreds or thousands of kids have suffered severe health issues as a result. Yet, the law remained on the books for decades. If we repeat that regulatory playbook for AI, we will not merely ruin couches; we will foreclose entire classes of life-improving algorithms.
The best way to avoid missing out on a better future due to bad laws is to identify and call out bad policy habits as soon as possible. With that in mind, lawmarks should avoid all seven of these sins and take care to instead adopt more flexible and evidence-based provisions.
Taken together, these antidotes form a simple governing philosophy: regulate like a scientist, not like a fortune-teller. Start narrow. Measure relentlessly. Revise or repeal when evidence demands it. And always, always weigh the cost of forgone breakthroughs—lives un-saved, jobs un-created, problems unsolved—against the speculative harms that dominate headlines.
The payoff? A legal environment where responsible innovators can move fast and fix things, where regulators are nimble rather than reactive, and where the public enjoys both the fruits of AI and meaningful protection from its risks. We need not choose between innovation and accountability. We only need the discipline to avoid the seven sins—and the imagination to envision what humanity loses if we fail.
The final word? If my cancer-spotting start-up withers in a tangle of red tape, the obituaries will never say, “Killed by a visionary legislature.” They will simply say, “Cure delayed.” Our charge as lawyers and policymakers is to ensure that sentence never gets written. By exorcising the seven deadly sins of AI policy now, we can safeguard both the public and the next generation of world-changing ideas. The clock is ticking—let’s legislate with humility, measure with rigor, and keep the door open to the innovations we cannot yet imagine.
Kevin Frazier is an AI Innovation and Law Fellow at Texas Law and Author of the Appleseed AI substack.The United States is living through a moment of profound democratic vulnerability. I believe the Trump administration has worked in ways that weaken trust in our institutions, including one of democracy’s most essential pillars: a free and independent press. In my view, these are not abstract risks but deliberate attempts to discredit truth-telling. That is why, now more than ever, I think journalists must recommit themselves to their core duty of telling the truth, holding power to account, and giving voice to the people.
As journalists, I believe we do not exist to serve those in office. Our loyalty should be to the public, to the people who trust us with their stories, not to officials who often seek to mold the press to favor their agenda. To me, abandoning that principle would be to betray not just our profession but democracy itself.
I chose this career because I believe in journalism’s potential to humanize, to dignify, and to connect. Coming from a Mexican household, I know firsthand the resilience and hard work of Latino families. Yet far too often, our communities are misrepresented, or worse, erased from the mainstream narrative. Like many other journalists of color my duty to tell stories truthfully is not just professional; it is personal.
I am not alone in this belief. My colleagues at USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism share similar views. As graduate students training for the same profession, we often reflect on what journalism means at this moment. Karla Cruz told me, “I think that the role of journalism in a government that's so polarizing that we live in now is just to keep telling like the truths, like different truths that people might not be, that might not be uncovered to certain types of people in different demographics. Like it's extremely important to tell all the stories, and not just the ones that the government wants to focus on or the ones that the government might want to misconstrue…I think we need to just continue and give it our all to make sure that it stays the art that it is, because it's really, it's like, we have to make sure that it's not a dying art, that it just continues and gets better.”
At the same time, I recognize that trust in the press is fragile. A 2024 Pew Research Center study found that over half of U.S. adults say they at least sometimes get news from social media, where misinformation and disinformation often spread faster than the truth. I think this makes our work even more urgent. Newsrooms have tried to meet audiences where they are by expanding their digital presence, but the online world is crowded with people who are not trained in ethical code or journalism and proper fact checking procedures. This makes it harder for the public to distinguish who to trust.
Constanza Montemayor, another of my graduate journalism colleagues at USC Annenberg, emphasized the importance of maintaining trust. “It's so important to know what facts are true and what commonalities people can share in voting….And journalism is an essential part of that; it is providing a place for that analysis of policy or politicians…I think it's just so important to have that line of communication and transparency that journalism provides between the government and its constituents…journalists can serve as a really important kind of third party, witness, and independent observer to protect the public's interests.”
That is why I believe we must double down on accuracy, transparency, and fairness. I think we must remind our audiences, not just through words but through our actions, that journalism is for them. Their struggles, fears, and hopes matter, and we have a responsibility to highlight their realities with respect.
Karla also reminded me of another important dimension: “I think just being able to uplift different voices and show, don't tell that's one of the things that really stuck with me when I first started getting into journalism…and I think that's just extremely important in a democracy, being able to have freedom of speech, which has unfortunately been threatened. But I think again, we've got to continue on with it.”
In many cases, the absence of a strong press leaves communities less informed and less able to hold leaders accountable. I believe the United States is not immune to these challenges. These are uncertain times for our democracy, and I believe the press has a crucial responsibility not to retreat from its role.
Constanza put it best: “Journalism can save lives. It can change governments, and it keeps our democracy in check from falling into more tyrannical power structures. It helps keep one person from having absolute power or being absolutely unquestioned. It helps give the people a voice in government. Also, people don't have time in their daily lives to go out and question their politicians all the time. So journalists do it for them”
I think this is a time for journalist to return to the basics of our profession: verifying facts, protecting sources, amplifying truth, and holding leaders accountable. In my view, these practices are how we begin to rebuild trust and strengthen our democracy.
Lluvia Chavez, a Mexican-American bilingual journalist dedicated to amplifying the stories of underrepresented communities, and a cohort member with the Fulcrum Fellowship
In 2023, the RAND Corporation released a study on a phenomenon known as "Truth Decay," where facts become blurred with opinion and spin. But now, people are beginning to doubt everything, including authentic material.
Two weeks before the 2024 election, a fake robocall mimicking President Biden's voice urged voters to skip the New Hampshire primary. According to AP News, it was an instance of AI-enabled election interference. Within hours, thousands had shared it. Each fake like this erodes confidence in the very possibility of knowing what is real.
The RAND Corporation refers to this phenomenon as "Truth Decay," where facts become blurred with opinion and spin. Its 2023 research warns that Truth Decay threatens U.S. national security by weakening military readiness and eroding credibility with allies. But the deeper crisis isn't that people believe every fake—it's that they doubt everything, including authentic material.
Here's what we're missing in the AI deepfake debate: researchers found that "cheap fakes"—misleading cuts, mislabeled clips, or altered speed—were used seven times more often than AI deepfakes in 2024. AI's real danger is the "liar's dividend": the erosion of confidence that any evidence can be trusted.
This loss of shared reality fractures society; climate action stalls when manufactured doubt overwhelms the scientific consensus. Democratic institutions weaken when citizens question basic election facts. Public health suffers when misinformation spreads faster than accurate guidance. Kathleen Hall Jamieson, director of the Annenberg Public Policy Center and co-founder of FactCheck.org, warns that what's at stake is not only accuracy but the very idea that facts matter.
Why are we so susceptible? As Daniel Kahneman explained in Thinking, Fast and Slow, our brains default to "System 1" thinking—fast, instinctive, and emotional. This is precisely what disinformation targets. AI-driven lies are designed to trigger immediate emotional reactions —fear, anger, outrage —that bypass our slower, more careful "System 2" thinking. When we're in System 1 mode, we share first and verify later, if at all.
Most of us don't have time for the careful verification that democracy requires. We're sun-dazed and expensively caffeinated, as one democracy researcher puts it, insulated by privilege from the immediate consequences of misinformation—until, suddenly, we're not.
Digital literacy expert Mike Caulfield developed the SIFT method that anyone can use:
Professional fact-checkers practice lateral reading—opening multiple tabs to see what other outlets say about a claim. Tools like AllSides and Ground News help break echo chambers by showing how stories are covered across the political spectrum.
Browser extensions and bias-rating sites such as NewsGuard, Media Bias/Fact Check, and emerging provenance standards like C2PA that aim to certify media authenticity provide additional context.
But technical solutions aren't enough. We need better practices to address the emotional impacts of information overload:
Time-boxing media consumption—checking news at set intervals rather than continuously prevents artificial urgency while improving comprehension.
Diversifying inputs—reading across disciplines, listening to long-form debates such as those at Open to Debate, and seeking perspectives that challenge assumptions.
The 24-hour rule—giving claims time before reacting or sharing prevents emotional manipulation.
Living with uncertainty—perfect information is impossible, but reasonable decisions can still be made with incomplete data. The American Psychological Association documents how unfiltered media exposure contributes to stress and decision fatigue.
Cynics argue that personal verification is futile against industrial-scale disinformation. They're half-right—individuals can't solve this alone. But individual action still creates collective defenses when combined with institutional responsibility.
Democracy requires both. Individuals must take responsibility for thoughtful engagement with information, especially when the stakes are high or before sharing widely. Institutions, schools, newsrooms, agencies, and workplaces must treat the risk of misinformation with the same seriousness as cybersecurity.
Communities with strong media literacy programs and diverse information diets tend to be more resistant to manipulation. We need to cultivate a culture where truth-seeking is valued and where we collectively reject the amplification of blatant falsehoods.
The tools exist. The question is whether we'll use them when democracy needs us to.
Democracy requires citizens who can navigate complexity, not retreat from it. Protecting information integrity is now as essential to the survival of democracy as safeguarding elections themselves.
The stakes couldn't be higher. In an age when anyone can manufacture convincing lies, our democracy depends on citizens who choose the harder path of verification over the easier path of confirmation bias.
Edward Saltzberg is the Executive Director of the Security and Sustainability Forum, writes the Stability Brief, and leads a professional education program at George Washington University.
