Much attention has been paid in academia to the phenomenon of the mass media’s role in the dissemination of information. Theories about the role of the news in not only reporting events, but shaping their essential character have become so widespread – thanks to the efforts of a small army of trendy French poststructuralists – that any further discussion of the subject verges on cliché. This is a risk I am willing to take.

The industry of reporting news, and tragedy in particular, has exploded in the aftermath of September 11. An interesting pattern can be seen in the media’s dissemination of reports on disasters and tragedies. To illustrate this, I will present the hypothetical situation of a bomb attack in a major city.

The actual, physical effects of a bomb effect only a statistically small portion of the American population. There are the victims themselves, as well as residents of the area whose life is altered in somewhat smaller ways through emergency responses. This impact is magnified exponentially when information (often conflicting and confusing – a consequence of the speed of its distribution) is sent through the numerous conveyors of knowledge available to competing news conglomerates.

This is where the news media begins to, in a sense, create news of its own accord. A bomb attack is not merely a tragedy for the people killed in its blast but, when streamed into the homes of millions of Americans, a larger psychological tragedy for all who see it. The significance of the event has been changed. It is no longer so much an issue of an explosion, but of a refutation of expectations created by (guess who?!) the news media itself.

Thanks to the dissemination of images, voices, and stories through our various media apparatuses, Americans have developed very specific expectations of what constitutes America (for a more snooty take on this issue, consult the works of Jean Baudrillard). We are presented with thousands of images of things working as they should: planes fly through the sky, New York City hustles and bustles, trains stay on their tracks. When we are presented with the opposite (planes crash into buildings, New York paralyzed by fear, trains bombed and derailed), confusion sets in.

America today is a land ruled by the media. So many of our ideas, our visions of what is truth and fact are conveyed to us at the speed of light (often only minutes after the occurrence itself) by our media through all its myriad methods. The speed of this conveyance does away with filters, eliminates time to digest information. We are a nation under assault from words, voices and pictures that seldom agree with each other, that often contradict each other outright. Rather than being liberated by this free press, we instead become beholden to its whims. It toys with our emotions, changing truths to lies and back again, sometimes within the space of mere hours. Television and the Internet run the nation (a statement no less true despite its contrived nature). Congress doesn’t have shit on the media. After all, who would know anything about Congress if they didn’t choose to report its doings?

This all seems pretty fucking bleak. But here’s a fun fact. At this very moment, I am on the Internet, writing about the dangers of distributing information through the Internet.

Isn’t irony fun?

Since his death late Tuesday night, tributes to Ted Kennedy have been sprouting up from politicians, bloggers, and NGOs from all corners of The Internet. These tributes all sound heartfelt in their praises of Kennedy, even those of his political opposites. After all, the man was renown for his ability at working between squabbling parties in the Senate. Also, quite simply, America loves its Kennedys.

It is this love of the Kennedys that I find particularly interesting. The family has an exceptionally striking public image; they manage to appear both dignified and glamorous. Even a little fun. They have been a dominant force in American politics for close to half a century, and yet they still seem like good people. Even Republicans say nice things about them from time to time.

And of course, there is Camelot. The violent deaths of John and Robert Kennedy in the 60s hold a tragic potency in the public memory. They are remembered as young, attractive, likable men with lovely families. Unpleasant memories, like the Bay of Pigs debacle are supplanted by images of JFK Jr. (another Kennedy to meet a young death) saluting his father’s passing coffin. We, as a country love the Kennedy’s. We love the glamour, the sad drama of young potential wiped out and of a political dynasty spanning decades of conflict, on both a political and a personal scale.

It is these personal conflicts and stories that made the Kennedys the first family of a new era of American politics. They were our first political superstars. John F. Kennedy came to political prominence at a time when the first elements of what is now a vast media network were beginning to converge. Information about the Kennedys flooded printed news, the radio and, most importantly, television. This last source was the most crucial. The Kennedys were nice people, and appeared to lead a wholesome and loving life. Pictures of John sailing, or of JFK Jr. playing under his father’s desk in the Oval Office had just as much influence on public opinion as more explicitly political events, such as John Kennedy’s debates with Nixon (although the flop sweat and grumpy demeanor of Nixon did do much to highlight the attractive, pleasant appearance of Kennedy).

Thanks to this revolutionary convergence of technology and the press, the personal life of the Kennedy’s was scrutinized more than that of any previous individuals in American politics. This scrutiny backfired from time to time, such as the Chappaquiddick incident that haunted much of Ted Kennedy’s political career. Fueled by the proliferation of information by the news media, and its manipulation by skilled hands, the incident cast enough of a shadow to crush his only attempted run for the Presidency, in 1980.

The way in which Americans examine politics today stems from the Kennedys, and the mythology surrounding their Camelot. Much of this mythology, of course, was rather deliberately encouraged by the Kennedys themselves. One doesn’t get to the White House without being ambitious. The Kennedys posed for the cameras in a way few have been able to match.

I don’t mean for statements such as these to at all belittle the memory of Edward Kennedy. He was a great man who lived a remarkable life, and the praises circulating in his name are all well deserved. His death also holds significance in that he is the last of a group of three brothers whose lives changed the expectations the public holds of its politicians. No longer can a President become stuck in the bathroom without a skewering by the public (sorry, President Taft). Blowjobs and college drug experiences can be just as crucial in winning an election as legislative records and party platforms. Of course, I am not implying that politicians weren’t petty before television and The Internet. Personal jabs have always been a part of politics. However, it was not until the convergence of television and, later, The Internet that personal information on our politicians could be spread so quickly, and so widely. By so capturing the attention of these distributors of information, the Kennedys changed the American political arena irreversibly. The death of Ted Kennedy is both poignant, in the sadness over the passing of a good man, and provocative; it marks the passing of the last of a group of people who forever changed the way politicians and the media relate to each other in America.