In a world where civic education is increasingly marginalized and political discourse seems dominated by soundbites and social media posts, the loss of comic strips like Doonesbury represents more than just the death of a medium. It's the loss of a particular form of civic engagement, one that combined entertainment with education, irreverence with insight, and daily habit with long-term perspective.
"Good news, kiddies! Time for another exclusive WBBY 'Watergate Profile!' Today's obituary—John Mitchell! John Mitchell, the former U.S. Attorney General, has in recent weeks been repeatedly linked with both the Watergate caper and its cover-up. It would be a disservice to Mr. Mitchell and his character to prejudge the man, but everything known to date could lead one to conclude he's guilty! That's guilty! Guilty, guilty, guilty!!"
— Mark Slackmeyer, Doonesbury, May 29, 1973
One year ago today, our democracy faced its most serious test since the Civil War. As I watched the events of January 6, 2021 unfold—the breach of the Capitol, the Confederate flag carried through the halls of Congress, the threats against elected officials—I found myself thinking about a comic strip from nearly fifty years earlier, and how it first taught me that paying attention to politics isn't optional for citizens in a democracy.
I discovered Doonesbury the way most teenagers discover the things that shape them: accidentally, and at exactly the right moment.
It was fall of my junior year of high school, and I was taking an American Foreign Policy class—one of those electives that seemed sophisticated and important, the kind that made you feel like you were finally learning about the "real world." Our teacher, Dr. Alan Sheffer, was the sort of educator who believed current events should be current, not relegated to dusty textbooks. He'd bring in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and political cartoons to supplement our discussions about détente, the Cold War, and America's role in the world. He taught us via simulation and was the first adult I knew who played board wargames.
One day, I read a comic strip I'd never seen before. Four panels of a character named Mark Slackmeyer doing a radio show, gleefully declaring former Attorney General John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty" of Watergate crimes. It was dated May 29, 1973—I was old enough to remember Watergate and Nixon's resignation—but Dr. Sheffer relayed how this single strip had caused such controversy that more than a dozen newspapers, including The Washington Post and The Boston Globe, refused to run it, concerned that such a statement of Mitchell's guilt would compromise their journalistic integrity even on the funny pages.
That strip was my introduction to Doonesbury, and through it, to the radical idea that comic strips could be more than just entertainment—they could be journalism, commentary, and history all wrapped up in four panels. More importantly, they could teach civic responsibility through irreverence, showing me that democracy works best when citizens think critically about power, hold leaders accountable, and aren't afraid to call out wrongdoing—even when it's uncomfortable.
I was hooked.
The Daily Ritual
Throughout the rest of high school and into college, I developed what became a lifelong habit: checking the comics section first. Not just Doonesbury, but a carefully curated selection that formed my daily media diet alongside the news and sports pages. Peanuts for its philosophical depth disguised as childhood simplicity. Calvin and Hobbes for its perfect marriage of intellectual curiosity and pure imagination. Bloom County for its satirical edge and cultural commentary. Shoe, that wonderfully cynical bird-filled newsroom satire that felt like a master class in both journalism and gallows humor. And later on post college early-career, Dilbert for its dead-on corporate satire (this was the early 1990s, when Scott Adams was still just a brilliant observer of office life rather than... well, whatever he has become).
Each strip served a different function in what I now realize was my civic education. Peanuts taught me about resilience and the quiet dignity of persistent failure—essential qualities for any democratic citizen. Calvin and Hobbes showed me how imagination could transform the mundane into the magical, but also modeled the importance of questioning authority and thinking independently. But Doonesbury did something unique: it made current events feel immediate and urgent, and taught me that citizenship requires paying attention, especially when the news makes us uncomfortable.
As cartoonist Garry Trudeau noted, because electronic media bring the harshest realities into every home, there was no need to avoid a satirical, humorous approach to these same topics in the comics. What he created was something unprecedented: a comic strip that refused to stay safely in the realm of make-believe, one that engaged directly with the messy realities of politics, war, and social change.
Learning History Through Satire
In college, I began reading Doonesbury differently. What had started as entertainment became a form of historical education. I'd haunt the campus bookstore, drawn to the collected Doonesbury volumes like "The Doonesbury Chronicles" and "Dare to Be Great, Ms. Caucus." I should have been reading assigned chapters about détente and Cold War diplomacy, but instead I'd find myself absorbed in Trudeau's take on the same events, learning about Nixon's presidency through Uncle Duke's gonzo antics and Vietnam through B.D.'s tour of duty.
Just this week, Browse through a bookstore bargain bin, I stumbled across "Dbury@50: The Complete Digital Doonesbury"—a massive compilation celebrating the strip's 50th anniversary. Reading the back cover brought back vivid memories of those college afternoons when I'd choose Trudeau over my political science textbooks, often learning just as much (sometimes more) from his irreverent commentary as from whatever academic analysis I was supposed to be absorbing.
The infamous "Guilty, guilty, guilty" strip wasn't just a joke—it was a snapshot of a moment when American journalism was grappling with how to cover an unprecedented political scandal. The character of Mark Slackmeyer became a kind of tour guide through five decades of American political culture, from Watergate to Iran-Contra to the War on Terror to Trump.
I began to understand something that traditional news coverage often missed: that political events aren't just about policy and process, but about human behavior, ego, and the often absurd theater of power. When Trudeau lampooned the "bloodlust" surrounding Watergate with Mark's gleeful pronouncement of Mitchell's guilt, he wasn't commenting on Mitchell's innocence or guilt—he was satirizing those who were obsessed with seeing justice done. It was a level of meta-commentary that went over my teenage head initially, but gradually taught me to look beyond the surface of political coverage and think critically about how we process democratic discourse.
This kind of media literacy feels more crucial than ever. In an era when misinformation can fuel actual violence against democratic institutions—as we witnessed one year ago—the ability to think critically about what we read and hear isn't just useful; it's essential for the survival of our republic.
The Disappearing Daily Ritual
But here's the thing about discovering your civic worldview through newspaper comic strips: you're depending on an ecosystem that was already beginning to crumble. And when that ecosystem collapses, we lose more than entertainment—we lose a shared foundation for democratic discourse.
The golden age of newspaper comics—when strips like Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes could command massive audiences and cultural influence—was built on the foundation of daily newspaper readership. In 1931, George Gallup's first poll had the comic section as the most important part of the newspaper. Comics sections were often arranged at the front of Sunday editions, and comic strips were created by editors and publishers for a very good business reason: to attract and hold readership and, by extension, create an informed citizenry.
That shared civic foundation has largely vanished. Newspaper chains like Lee Enterprises have cut back comics pages across nearly 80 newspapers, with many transitioning to "uniform sets of offerings" rather than the diverse, locally-curated selections that once defined different papers. In Australia, major chains like News Corp have eliminated comic strips entirely from over 100 newspapers, citing "changing readership habits" and focusing instead on puzzles and games.
The economics are brutal and undeniable. While small-town newspapers still get sufficient revenue from local advertising, large metropolitan papers have lost both national advertising (which moved to television) and classified advertising (which moved online). As newspapers shrink, comics sections are often among the first casualties—seen as expendable entertainment rather than essential content.
What We've Lost
The decline of the daily comics page represents more than just the loss of a few laughs with morning coffee. It's the erosion of a shared cultural experience that once connected generations of readers—and more importantly, generations of citizens. As cartoonist Patrick McDonnell, creator of "Mutts," observes: "Over time, the characters are like family. Newspapers should consider this bond before they decide to make drastic changes."
But the deeper loss is one of civic cohesion. When we all read the same comics section each morning, we shared not just entertainment but a common reference point—a set of cultural touchstones that helped us navigate the complex realities of democratic life. In an era when we increasingly retreat into information silos and echo chambers, that shared foundation feels more precious than ever.
Perhaps no moment captured this better than the final Peanuts strip, published on February 13, 2000—the day after Charles Schulz died peacefully in his sleep. That last Sunday strip featured Snoopy at his typewriter atop his doghouse, with panels showing remembered scenes from nearly 50 years of the strip, and Schulz's own farewell message: "Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, Lucy... how can I ever forget them..."
What made that final strip so poignant wasn't just Schulz's death—it was his insistence that the strip die with him. "There's a clause in my contract that says if I retire or die, the strip ends," he had said just months before. In an era when comic strip properties are often handed off to other artists to continue indefinitely (think Garfield or Wizard of Id), Schulz understood that authentic artistic voice can't be corporately maintained. His family honored his wishes: no new Peanuts strips would ever be created, only reruns of the nearly 18,000 strips he had drawn over five decades.
The contrast with today's comics landscape is stark. For someone like me, whose understanding of current events was shaped by the interplay between news reporting and comic strip commentary, the loss feels particularly acute. Doonesbury still exists, still comments on current events, still maintains its edge after more than 50 years. But it no longer reaches the broad, diverse audience it once did through daily newspapers. Instead, it exists primarily online, reaching people who already know to look for it rather than discovering new readers through the serendipity of flipping through a newspaper.
The same is true for all those strips that once formed my daily media diet. Peanuts ended with Charles Schulz's death in 2000. Calvin and Hobbes concluded in 1995 when Bill Watterson chose to end it rather than let it overstay its welcome. Bloom County has had various revivals but never recaptured its original cultural impact. Only Doonesbury soldiers on, still sharp, still relevant, but increasingly invisible to all but the faithful.
The Enduring Power of Satirical Truth
What strikes me now, looking back on that high school classroom where I first encountered Mark Slackmeyer's gleeful proclamation of John Mitchell's guilt, is how prescient that moment was. Mitchell was indeed found guilty of conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and perjury in 1975, and served 19 months in prison. The "Guilty, guilty, guilty" line became such an iconic piece of political satire that Trudeau recycled it decades later during the Trump administration, demonstrating his ability to connect past and present political scandals.
The lesson wasn't just that satirists can sometimes see truth more clearly than straight journalists—though that's certainly part of it. The deeper lesson was about the power of sustained, honest observation. Trudeau has been watching American politics for more than five decades now, developing the kind of institutional memory that allows him to spot patterns, call out hypocrisy, and provide context that 24-hour news cycles often miss.
That's what we lose when newspapers abandon their comics sections: not just entertainment, but a particular form of cultural memory, a way of processing current events through the lens of humor, irreverence, and long-term perspective. The comics page once served as a kind of national conversation, where different strips offered different viewpoints and approaches to making sense of the world. When we lose that shared conversation, we lose part of what holds a diverse democracy together.
Digital Displacement
The strips I grew up with have found various forms of digital afterlife. Doonesbury maintains a strong online presence. Classic Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes strips circulate endlessly on social media. New webcomics have emerged that tackle political and social issues with the same fearlessness that once characterized the best newspaper strips.
But something profound has been lost in translation. The daily ritual of sitting down with a physical newspaper, the shared experience of readers across a community encountering the same strips on the same day, the serendipitous discovery of new perspectives while flipping through the paper—these created a kind of cultural cohesion that fragmented digital consumption struggles to replicate. When everyone reads different things at different times in different ways, we lose the common ground that healthy democratic discourse requires.
Moreover, the economic model that supported comic strip creation has largely collapsed. Modern newspaper comics often prioritize licensing and merchandising over actual storytelling, leading to what one critic describes as "inane, artless garbage" that bears little resemblance to the medium's greatest achievements. We've traded civic engagement for corporate branding, sharp social commentary for safe platitudes. The result is a comics landscape that entertains but doesn't challenge, that comforts but doesn't educate.
The Classroom Connection
I've pondered Dr. Sheffer's decision to bring that Doonesbury strip into his classroom. He understood something that many educators miss: that learning about civic life requires more than just studying institutions and policies. It requires understanding how citizens actually process and discuss political events, how humor and satire shape public opinion, and how comic strips can sometimes capture truths that straight journalism misses.
That single strip opened up a way of thinking about politics that has stayed with me through decades of elections, scandals, wars, and social changes. It taught me to look for the human drama behind political theater, to appreciate the power of persistent observation, and to understand that sometimes the most serious insights come wrapped in humor.
The Legacy of Looking
The comics section taught me how to read—not just literally, but how to read between the lines, how to spot patterns, how to find humor in darkness and hope in absurdity. Doonesbury showed me that politics is fundamentally human drama, full of the same petty motivations, grand aspirations, and comic failures that characterize all human endeavors. But more than that, it taught me that paying attention is a civic duty.
As newspapers continue to struggle and comic sections continue to shrink, I find myself grateful for that accidental education I received through the funny pages. It was an education in media literacy before that term existed, a lesson in critical thinking disguised as entertainment, and an introduction to the idea that democracy works best when its citizens are informed, engaged, and just a little bit skeptical of those who claim to lead them.
Forty-four years after Mark Slackmeyer first declared John Mitchell "guilty, guilty, guilty," Trudeau recycled the gag for Donald Trump, demonstrating how certain patterns in American politics seem to repeat themselves. The medium may be dying, but the need for that kind of sustained, satirical observation remains as urgent as ever—perhaps more so after what we witnessed one year ago today.
Maybe that's the real lesson of Doonesbury: that paying attention is a civic duty, that humor can be a form of resistance, and that sometimes the most important truths are hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone brave enough—or foolish enough—to point them out in four panels or less. In an era when lies can incite violence against the very foundations of our republic, we need voices willing to stand up and say, clearly and without apology: "This is wrong."
So thank you, Garry Trudeau, for fifty years of fearless truth-telling. Thank you, Dr. Sheffer, for showing a sixteen-year-old that citizenship begins with paying attention. And thank you, Doonesbury, for proving that sometimes the most important lessons come disguised as entertainment, hidden in plain sight on the funny pages where we least expect to find them.
