Remember Pizzagate? In 2016, a conspiracy theory that high-ranking Democrats were running a pedophile ring out of a D.C. pizzeria compelled a man to open fire inside the restaurant in an attempt to rescue the imprisoned children, who didn’t exist. The story dominated headlines for five minutes before fading into the category of “well, that happened.” The bamboozled gunman, Edgar Maddison Welch, was sent to jail and mostly forgotten, his identity blurring into an avatar for a certain set of social anxieties—that liberalism breeds perversion, that politicians lie, that modern life is emasculating. Any larger lessons which Pizzagate may have held for society were swiftly buried in the trash heap of yesterday’s news.
Something that gets lost in our conversations about ‘unprecedented times’ is that many of our cultural uproars have happened before, often within our own lifetimes. I was born in 1985 during the rise of the ‘Satanic Panic,’ a phenomenon where people all over the country started to believe a conspiracy that daycare providers were committing Satanic ritual abuse on children. The hysteria can be traced back to the 1980 book Michelle Remembers by psychiatrist Lawrence Pazder. Pazder used the now discredited technique of ‘memory recovery therapy’ to spread a story that his patient (and later wife) Michelle Smith had been abused as a child at the hands of an underground Satanic organization. There was no evidence that any of Smith’s ‘recovered’ memories were real, but the book was a hit. Smith appeared on Oprah and stoked nation-wide fears that daycare providers were Satanic pedophiles.
Looking back, it’s easy to connect the Satanic Panic to social anxieties over feminism threatening the traditional family unit. The increase of women in the workplace had increased the need for day care, shaping a community landscape in which children were being raised by strangers. This moral panic coincided with a key time in television history when the news was transitioning from the realm of sober information dissemination to that of entertainment, thanks in part to the abolishment of the FCC fairness doctrine in 1987. The fairness doctrine had required news outlets to present both sides of an issue for balanced coverage. Now, outlets could skip the boring bits of measured and fact-checked counterpoints in their reporting. And in a bewilderingly complex modern world, the notion of a secret, ancient conspiracy being the source of all evil held immense appeal to viewers.
in a bewilderingly complex modern world, the notion of a secret, ancient conspiracy being the source of all evil held immense appeal…America’s Puritan settlers believed in a ‘world of wonders’ in which God and Satan meddled directly in everyday people’s lives like an ongoing chess game. The stakes of such a game could rapidly escalate into hysteria as people accused each other of being on the devil’s side, most famously exemplified by the Salem Witch Trials of 1692-1693. The lure of the moral panic is two-fold: a deep desire to purify society through scapegoating, and the irresistible drama of a witch hunt. What may begin with the earnest goal of rooting out evil becomes a grotesque and twisted form of entertainment, with very real consequences for the individuals wrapped up in it.
In the case of the Satanic Panic, innocent pre-school teachers like the McMartin family in California were arrested and dragged through years of humiliating and expensive trials. The McMartins were eventually acquitted, but their business was destroyed, and their name would forever be associated with a child abuse scandal—if anyone remembered them at all. By the time I was a teenager in the late 90’s era of bubblegum pop and Beanie Babies, the dark madness of the Satanic Panic felt like a surreal, forgotten dream. When ‘fake news’ became a hot button issue during the 2016 presidential election, it was treated as a product of the internet, as if we hadn’t gone through an identical phenomenon before Facebook existed. In a culture where current events are served up as disposable entertainment, the recent past may as well be ancient history.
Most of us know what it’s like to be a consumer of news-as-entertainment. It’s addictive, it’s bad for you, and it’s queasily delicious. During April and May of 2022, I gorged myself on the Johnny Depp vs. Amber Heard defamation trial. Heard was a perfect target for Puritan moral panic with her bisexuality, the vixen-like roles she tended to be cast in, and the unnerving, almost supernatural quality of her beauty (Heard’s face is popularly thought to be a 91.85% match to the ‘Golden Ratio’). I watched the televised court proceedings every day as if it were a thrilling limited series. As I became swept away by the entertainment value of the trial, the truth that was supposedly being litigated seemed less and less important. The case for Heard’s victimhood was lost amid Depp’s antics, her team’s terrible legal strategy, and Heard’s own abysmal performance on the stand. The show of the trial eclipsed its function so totally I felt that watching it had left me with a worse grasp on the truth than someone who hadn’t tuned in at all. After the trial was over, more details about Depp’s alleged abuse emerged, but by then I was, frankly, over it.
While this cultural practice of scapegoating-as-entertainment certainly leaves a nasty taste in the mouth, to criticize it falls into the trap of providing even more fodder for Puritanical outrage. It would be tempting, for instance, to issue a fiery sermon condemning anyone who gets any relish out of someone else’s public humiliation (the term ‘guilty pleasure’ is glaring evidence of the Puritan genetic code still present in our cultural DNA). But heaping more shame upon shame doesn’t seem like an effective way out of this trap to me. It would only continue the cycle in which we instigate witch hunts, enjoy doing it, then shame ourselves for our enjoyment. We would promise not to do it again but forget that promise as soon as the next juicy news item drops about someone doing something bad.
My new novel Rainbow Black is about a young girl whose parents are targeted amid the Satanic Panic like the real life McMartins. It was important to me to center the story around a victim of hysteria, rather than a consumer of it. I wanted to explore the life-long trauma that our unlucky scapegoats carry with them long after the media machine has moved on. What happens to these people once their entertainment value has been sucked dry and we discard them like trash? As consumers, the rush of excitement over the next Satanic Panic can be enough to erase our memory that we went through all this before, and it only made us sick. The only way out of our toxic Puritan cycle is to remember that the people at the center of our moral panics aren’t representations of our sins. They are, simply and profoundly, people.
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