Reporters used to be blue-collar; at the Globe now, it's

In the words of Howie Carr, “Reporters used to be blue-collar; at the Globe now, it’s practically required that you have a trust fund.” These words are not a casual remark, but a lament, a cry of warning about the changing nature of truth-tellers in society. Once, the reporter was the son or daughter of the working class, armed not with wealth but with grit, hunger, and the raw voice of the streets. They knew the language of the taverns, the struggles of the factory, the desperation of the unemployed. Their pens were sharpened on hardship, and their words carried the strength of lived reality.

But Carr reveals a transformation. He tells us that now, to write for the powerful institutions of journalism, one must often be born into privilege. Trust funds have become the invisible ticket to the newsroom, replacing sweat and sacrifice. What is lost in this exchange? It is authenticity, the lifeblood of journalism. When the reporters no longer reflect the people, their stories grow distant, polished, and sterile. The ink dries without fire, and the truth—though dressed in elegance—no longer carries the pulse of the common heart.

This truth is not new. History is filled with moments when the voices of the people were silenced by the dominance of the privileged. Recall the early years of the Industrial Revolution. Writers like Charles Dickens did not emerge from the mansions of aristocrats but from the grind of the city, bearing witness to child labor, poverty, and injustice. His words moved nations, not because they were lofty, but because they were rooted in suffering and compassion. If Dickens had been cushioned by a trust fund, could he have spoken with such urgency? Likely not.

The same is true of America’s own muckrakers—Upton Sinclair, Ida Tarbell, Lincoln Steffens—who tore open the corruption of corporations and government in the early twentieth century. These journalists did not speak from ivory towers; they walked among the people, inhaled the smoke of factories, and listened to the cries of the oppressed. Their blue-collar spirit gave them the courage to confront power, for they knew firsthand what was at stake. And it was their rough, unpolished dedication that gave journalism its noble calling.

Carr’s words remind us, then, of a great danger: when the guardians of truth come only from the wealthy, the struggles of ordinary people may vanish from the page. The poor may still suffer, the workers may still sweat, but their stories will go unheard, drowned out by the comfort of those who have never known hunger. Journalism without diversity of class becomes like a mirror that reflects only the faces of the privileged, leaving the multitude unseen.

The lesson for us is this: truth must always be guarded by those who live close to it. The poor, the working, the struggling must not be excluded from the telling of the human story. If you are privileged, do not forget to listen. If you are from humble beginnings, do not silence yourself out of fear. For it is the union of all voices—rich and poor, powerful and weak—that makes the story of humanity complete. Reporters must once again be the bridge, not the barrier, between the people and the powerful.

Practically, this calls us to support journalism that honors real voices. Read and share the works of those who come from the ground, not only from the towers. Encourage diversity not only of race or gender, but of class and struggle. And if you have a story, speak it—whether with pen, microphone, or memory—for truth dies when only the wealthy are allowed to tell it.

Thus, Howie Carr’s words echo like a warning bell: “Reporters used to be blue-collar…now it’s practically required that you have a trust fund.” May we never forget that journalism’s nobility lies not in privilege, but in proximity to the human condition. Let us guard this truth, and ensure that the stories of the many are never silenced by the comfort of the few.