Board Editorial

We stand at a strange time for both the Scroll and journalism.

Upon the arrival of the radio a century ago, the newspaper industry went into a state of panic. The newspaper industry lobbied politically, pressured advertisers, and monopolized the news—a period known as the Press Radio War. Those efforts succeeded in 1933, when the press forced the major wire services to stop providing news to broadcasters altogether. The press was trying to strangle this new medium in its cradle, yet the radio, ever accessible, won over the rural and working-class households unable to afford daily subscriptions.

Radio became credible because specific people dedicated their lives to make it so. Edward R. Murrow arrived at CBS in 1937 with no reporting experience. Then, the radio barely reported the news at all, mainly just announcers reading headlines. What Murrow built, broadcasting live from London rooftops during the Nazi bombing of Britain, was something refreshingly different: eyewitness journalism, staked to a real person’s real presence at a real event. His reporting on the German occupation of Austria and the Munich conference demonstrated what the new medium could be. He made the radio credible through his well-known phrase, “This is London.”

Then, in the 1950s, television came, and journalists dismissed it initially. Walter Cronkite became the most trusted man in America not because the new medium earned him that trust, but because he himself did, story by story, for two decades. The internet arrived, and the obituaries for journalism ran again. Bloggers would replace reporters, they would say. Anyone with a laptop could now publish. But the truth is unchanged, for the medium itself was neutral; only the serious work done within it gives it credibility. 

Which brings us here. Now, The Washington Post is hollowing out. The NYT has survived twice, ironically, by the political chaos of a single presidency, which drove subscription spikes. Sources of funding that sustained journalism for a century are no longer sufficient. A lot of people, especially high schoolers, get their news from social media feeds and algorithm recommendations, which are all systems that care about audience engagement rather than much accuracy, profiting off disseminating polarizing and exaggerated news. A 2026 Pew Research Center analysis tells us that a majority (57%) of Americans report having low trust at all in the press. The state of the industry is, to put it plainly, bad.

And yet more people have access to more information than at any point in history. Voices that used to be excluded from the press now have platforms to speak. Credibility, however, needs to be earned by aspiring individuals. This is what the board has spent 100 volumes trying to learn how to do.

We are no Murrow. We are no Cronkite. Many of us do not crouch on London rooftops, nor do we risk our lives. However, the principles that make up their work are not reserved for war correspondents and professionals. They are available to anyone willing to practice them, at any scale with any sort of medium. This is also partially what the Scroll is for: a place to practice. 

Every member of the board has shared a similar sentiment. When a writer publishes a story, they always feel a bit of discomfort knowing that their name is on it, that when someone mentions their article, they might need to buttress and defend it. The discomfort is the entire point. It is what separates a published report from a random post. A name is like a ledger, holding weight and context—every word makes a deposit. Cronkite’s broadcasts were authoritative through his work; his name, therefore, was synonymous with verification and trust.  

We have found, after over 100 volumes, that people who are inspired by the spirit of journalism are not hard to find on Deerfield’s campus. Everyone has an opinion about journalism—what it should be, and its shortcomings. Most people in 2026 might go about their entire lives consuming information without ever experiencing what it feels to be accountable for producing information. In order to facilitate true change, someone needs to sit down, put in the work, and put in their name. 

To attempt closing the gap between holding ideals of good, honest journalism and practicing them, we show up. We show up semester after semester, united by our will of getting the facts right, willing to say so publicly as well. The journalistic world outside changed many times over in the span of these one hundred volumes, and this paper was present for all of it. 

The Scroll became a place where each generation of Deerfield student editors worked out, in their own small way, what it meant to carry out student journalism honestly in the moment they were living in. The publication we inherit is 100 years of people who showed up and 100 volumes of bylines, headmasts, and writers putting their names up to their work. 

If you believe in the spirit of journalism and think the Scroll could better embody it, come join us to change that.