When the Record Is Refused: From Content to Erasure
In The New Bloodsport: Public Records as Entertainment, I wrote:
"In theory, public records are the conscience of local government. … In practice, in 2025, they're also content. Clips. Feeds. A never-ending series where plot twists arrive by PDF—or Dropbox—a dopamine hit straight to the inbox."
That transformation—turning records into sensational content—is a blow to civic trust. Records are used to feed a machine that churns out suspicion, outrage, and spectacle. What should serve as a shared foundation for accountability instead becomes raw material for a narrative economy where the loudest frame wins, regardless of accuracy.
But distortion alone isn't the end. The deeper fracture comes when the record itself is refused—when municipal facts are excluded or framed as suspect at their first appearance, as if City Hall's very act of documenting and reporting had become a kind of dishonesty.
The Shock of Refusal
As Communications Director for the City of Cleveland Heights, I expected critique, even pushback. Actions I celebrate. It is the public's duty to question the government. But I counted on the record—the memos, meeting minutes, official statements—to be the foundation of public discourse.
Instead, I've seen facts excluded or, when published, treated as misleading—as if producing facts is itself an act of bad faith. This isn't interpretation or debate; it's a denial of the record as fact. And when records are refused, the very possibility of shared truth collapses.
The Disappointment of Gatekeeping
That rejection is more than disappointing. It corrodes civic trust. A record that is refused as fact cannot do its job of making government accountable. Residents are left with the impression that truth itself is out of reach—that the only "real" story is whichever distortion gets printed.
Here, the role of the press is pivotal. When media outlets decline to publish corrections, refuse to print official statements, or frame municipal documents as inherently misleading, they don't just report on distrust—they manufacture it. The refusal becomes its own kind of story: City Hall is not to be believed. The press becomes less a watchdog and more a gatekeeper, deciding not only how, but whether, the record enters public view.
Content, even when sensational, still includes the record. Refusal removes it. Distortion was painful; erasure is more damaging.
And, ironically, distrust doesn't end here. Any future administration—even one that works to expand transparency, as Mayor Kahlil Seren has in Cleveland Heights by instituting the regular recording and broad release of public meetings—will inherit a public already primed to disbelieve. Once the record is routinely framed as misleading, residents are conditioned to assume City Hall has something to hide, no matter who occupies the office. The ideology becomes baked in, and it will take a long time to reverse.
A Cleveland Heights Case Study
This dynamic has already shaped the city I serve in ways that are both concrete and damaging.
Personnel disputes that should have been understood through the lens of HR documentation and internal investigation were instead reframed as a scandal. The record existed — timelines, memos, reviews — but those details were sidelined in favor of narratives that suggested impropriety or dysfunction. Residents who read the headlines were left with an impression of chaos, even when the facts showed a much different and more procedural reality.
An employee open letter, which I spearheaded, was treated no differently. It was a genuine workplace record — a statement of truth from inside City Hall meant to clarify false claims of a hostile environment. Yet the letter was depicted in the press as theater, as if it were a political stunt rather than the testimony of people doing their jobs. Its very nature as a record of lived experience was stripped away, leaving the public with commentary rather than context.
Municipal statements themselves have at times been excluded, condensed, or overshadowed in coverage. The effect is not neutral — it shapes a perception that City Hall had “nothing to say,” or worse, that it chose silence. In reality, records and statements often existed, but the way they were filtered through editorial choices meant the public never saw them in full.
In each of these cases, what reached the public was not the record itself, but an interpretation of it.
The Work of Course Correction
If refusal has become part of the media landscape, then the responsibility of municipal communication is to ensure that the record survives and circulates. Producing clarity is not enough; the record must be both visible and accessible.
That means multiplying points of access so no single outlet determines what residents see. Newsletters, social media, neighborhood forums, and direct public briefings all serve to place facts where people already are.
It means maintaining transparent archives — permanent, searchable repositories of memos, minutes, and statements that allow residents to consult the record directly rather than rely on filtered summaries.
It means creating verification tools: timelines, fact sheets, and myth-vs-fact explainers that make visible where distortion departs from documentation.
And it means preserving refusals themselves, so future residents and historians understand not only what was said but how often the record was blocked. These moments of obstruction are themselves part of the civic record.
Holding the Line
Holding the line is not abstract work. It begins with the realization that a record, once produced, is not guaranteed to survive in public view. It can be ignored, miscast, or erased. The task, then, is to keep that record visible — not once, but over and over — until it becomes part of the shared civic memory.
