Media literacy and civil discourse have been central themes in my work for over two decades. As we navigate the complexities of Generative AI, these skills are not just underdeveloped—they’re increasingly undermined by the very platforms that dominate public conversation. While certain mindsets, dispositions, and strategies offer hope, I’m discouraged by the lack of visible modelling and the scarcity of platforms that truly foster these essential skills.
Recently, I’ve had the privilege of connecting with Andrew McLuhan, grandson of Marshall McLuhan. His insights have deepened my appreciation for his grandfather’s work, which I’ve long admired. Andrew reminded me that while most of us focus on media literacy, Marshall McLuhan was equally invested in media ecology—a concept anchored in his most famous phrase: “The medium is the message.” Media literacy equips us to critically analyze media content, uncovering bias and influence. Media ecology, on the other hand, explores how media themselves—regardless of content—reshape the way we think, feel, and interact. Where media literacy asks what a message means, media ecology asks how the medium changes the message and its effects on society.
If you’ve read McLuhan or Neil Postman, it might seem as if they were deeply skeptical—if not outright critical—of media. It’s worth remembering that both were writing long before the digital age exploded. I asked Andrew if his grandfather was anti-media or saw media as harmful to society. He shared that Marshall McLuhan worked hard to maintain neutrality—to be a true scientist. He believed that allowing bias into his studies would obstruct his ability to truly understand a medium. That doesn’t mean he lacked opinions, but rather that he saw bias as a barrier to comprehension.
Remaining neutral today is no small task. Being neutral is often condemned, “You must choose a side.” This is where my frustration lies. I want to examine the political tension and chaos that dominate our current reality. As a Canadian, I see my own country grappling with the influence of events happening just south of the border. Watching the U.S. navigate its divisions makes it difficult to find media that calmly, logically, and critically interpret the implications of policy and governance. The media ecology itself is fractured. Many of my colleagues in education—those who do share political views—lean heavily in one direction.
As I strive to maintain the mindset of a media ecologist, I see people who are angry, afraid, and disillusioned. I intentionally seek out perspectives that differ from my own to better understand the reasoning behind them. Often, I find those perspectives presented with a sense of certainty, even smugness. On both sides, people seem baffled by the inability of others to “see the truth.” They express frustration and, more troublingly, a belief that understanding and coexistence may no longer be possible.
Even suggesting civil discourse today can feel naïve. Some have written it off entirely. And yet, I remain desperate to find examples of thoughtful, intelligent people engaging across ideological divides—people who wrestle with difficult issues, challenge each other’s thinking, and explore the real-world consequences of policy decisions. If such models exist, they are marginalized, unsupported, or invisible in today’s media landscape.
Years ago, I followed a podcast called “An Atheist and a Christian,” where two friends with fundamentally different worldviews had respectful, curious conversations. It wasn’t about winning arguments; it was about understanding. I found it inspiring—both for what I learned and for the demonstration of what civility could look like.
This week, I searched for a similar platform where Americans with opposing views engage in meaningful discussion. I couldn’t find one. Today’s dominant formats—podcasts and short-form videos—reward speed, certainty, and outrage. The most successful content often caricatures the opposition, portraying them as stupid or evil rather than presenting thoughtful counterarguments. These trends aren’t accidental. They’re engineered to attract followers and engagement. Consumers, in turn, are incentivized to stay in their echo chambers.
The closest I came was a new podcast from Gavin Newsom, where he invites right-wing guests to share their views. I appreciated the attempt, but the episodes I watched lacked the depth and challenge I was hoping for. Still, I learned something new. The podcast, predictably, is criticized from both sides: the left sees it as pandering; the right views it as politically motivated.
Many readers will insist there are not two sides—only one right side and one wrong. But I’m not interested in picking sides. I’m trying to follow McLuhan’s example and understand why this is happening. When you immerse yourself in each information bubble, it genuinely feels like entering a parallel universe. How can people live in the same country—even the same neighbourhood—see the world so differently? It’s both unsettling and fascinating.
From a Canadian perspective, U.S. polarization exerts a heavy influence. While Canada is not immune to division, the stakes seem higher in the U.S., and the ripple effects are real. As an educator committed to diversity, critical thinking, media literacy, and civil discourse, I feel a responsibility to imagine and help build environments where differing viewpoints can be explored—spaces that aren’t governed by algorithms designed to stoke rage and deepen division.
At this moment, it appears we may have to create these spaces ourselves. If examples exist, I’d love to hear about them. If not, perhaps we can begin experimenting together. And if you’ve noticed a growing unwillingness to talk across lines of difference, I’d love to know what you think is driving that. Surely, you know people whose beliefs differ from yours—people you still respect. If not, we may already be losing the battle for civil discourse. There isn’t a lot of civility from anyone these days. And if that disappears, I fear it could be replaced by something far more dangerous.