The Cost of Speaking the Truth

There is a price to pay

Last September, I launched this blog after growing frustrated with the censorship I experienced on Facebook. I wanted a space where I could express my creativity freely, without the constraints and restrictions that had been limiting my content.  I’ve been in Facebook jail at least a dozen times in the past decade, for my heartfelt posts.  Of course when you get the notice, they never reveal what the offending comment might be.

I had an earlier blog, running from 1997 to 2001, called Bird Lives. Writing under the name The Pariah, I passionately unleashed diatribes that took aim at the injustices of the music industry. It was the first-ever jazz blog, and it certainly ruffled the feathers of quite a few industry professionals. So be it.

I've always had a bit of a rebellious streak when it comes to authority. Back in my senior year of high school, in 1967, the administration tried to censor a film I created for senior class night. The issue? It featured A Day in the Life from Sgt. Pepper, and the vice principal believed the song promoted drug use. “He blew his mind out in a car. What the hell do you think that means,” Mr. Schmidt, the school’s disciplinary vice principal asked me. He told me that if I wanted to show the film, I'd have to cut the music.

Naturally, I refused. On the night of the premiere, I locked myself in the projection room in the schools auditorium. When the song came on, all three vice principals ran up the aisle, pounding on the door, but I wasn’t about to let them in.

The next morning, I was summoned to the principal’s office. I figured if I got suspended, I'd be a free speech hero, a martyr for student expression worldwide—totally worth it.

It wasn’t my first run-in with the principal. A few months earlier, some friends and I had wanted to start an underground literary magazine about student life. The principal warned us that if we went ahead and distributed it on campus, the punishment would be severe: expulsion. Conard High School was hardly a bastion of free speech.

So there I was, strolling into the principal’s office like it was a bad sequel to a movie I'd already seen too many times. He looked up, gave me that classic "You again?" stare, but this time it had a bit more bite. Pissed didn’t even cover it. It was 1967, after all—the year authority figures everywhere were having existential crises. Dylan said it best: "The times, they are a-changin'," but apparently the memo hadn’t reached my high school. I always felt that like I was in an episode of Dobie Gillis, from the 50s. By ‘67, something else was in the air.

He launched into the standard spiel about my disrespect and how my refusal to censor the film would forever be etched into my school record. Ooh, scary stuff. The punishment? A detention—an hour in study hall, sitting at a desk like a glorified hostage, waiting for the late bus to take me home. Truly, a fate worse than death.

But the fun didn’t stop there. When I got home, my mother dropped the bombshell: one of the vice principals had called my dad, at work. Apparently, the powers that be were very worried about me. The vice principal practically had an anxiety attack on the phone. “Bret has a problem with authority and could cause trouble in college, maybe even beyond.” As if I were about to become some anarchist legend. He ended the call with a gem: “We really hope Bret doesn’t become one of those protesters.”

Spoiler alert: a year later, I was getting chased down West 54th Street in Manhattan by a cop on horseback during a Vietnam protest. Rebel with a cause? You bet your ass.

The All Powerful, All Mighty Social Network

Facebook uses algorithms to moderate content, which sometimes leads to what is called shadowbanning, where posts are de-prioritized or hidden from feeds without being explicitly deleted. Users may feel that their content is being censored even if it technically doesn't violate rules.  I’m in that group. They call us, the digital outcasts.

Facebook has been criticized for alleged political bias, with some claiming that certain viewpoints are unfairly censored. While the company denies these accusations, it remains under scrutiny for its decisions on content moderation. Its influence on the last two presidential elections has also raised eyebrows. In reality, there's plenty of political trickery happening on Facebook, often flying under the radar.

I finally got fed up with Mr. Zuckerberg and his nonsense. I write to be heard, not to talk to myself. But on Facebook, it feels like my words are invisible—hardly anyone sees what I post.

I’m not chasing fame, fortune, or recognition. I just enjoy writing. At this stage in my life, it has to be fun—otherwise, what’s the point? For me, writing and filmmaking are a blast. When I’m creating, I hit that zone, and there’s nothing quite like it.

When I started writing this blog, I envisioned it as a platform for my thoughts on being an American immigrant in Mexico, an outlet for my fiction, my memories and stories from seventy five years on this planet, articles about jazz musicians and the music itself, my interest in technology, most notably AI, and whatever else I wanted to cover.  Only recently have I ventured into this year’s Presidential election.  Rather than keep quiet, I felt it my duty to speak out.

My last post was about the Trump Contagion, and let me tell you, the fallout was like a scene from a B-movie apocalypse. Some of my dear readers were not happy. Ten percent of subscribers slammed the door on their way out, and my inbox filled with "please, no more politics!" It’s like begging a fire not to burn or telling a hurricane to tone it down. This is the world we live in, folks. Social media and TV can’t give us a break, and now people want me to just roll over? Sorry, not happening.

I write what matters. Losing subscribers is just proof I’m rattling cages, making people think. Only five percent pay for this circus anyway. If people are jumping ship, maybe they need to look at their compass.

I can't play pretend. The United States is careening off a cliff, and while some are putting on their blindfolds, I’m grabbing the wheel. The storm isn’t going anywhere, and frankly, I’m mad as hell. In fact, I have a plan—stay tuned for that in my next post.

But here’s the thing: I’m not the first to take flak for speaking the truth. My mentor, Ben Hecht, was in this trench long before me. He was the golden boy of Hollywood, co-writing *Gone with the Wind* in 1939, but by 1949, he couldn’t even put his name on a script. Why? Because he pissed off the British Empire—yeah, that’s right, the same people who controlled a big chunk of the global film market.

During WWII, Hecht didn’t sit on the sidelines. As the Holocaust’s horrors came to light, he didn’t stay quiet like most of Hollywood (not one Hollywood film about the Holocaust during the war). Nope, he hit the front lines, writing fierce newspaper ads, creating the We Will Never Die pageant, and joining the Bergson Group to push for Jewish rescue efforts. His full-page ad, “For Sale to Humanity: 70,000 Jews, Guaranteed Human Beings at $50 a Piece,” was a punch in the gut to anyone still ignoring the genocide. It shocked the hell out of America and Hollywood wasn’t thrilled. But Hecht wasn’t done.

Post-war, he threw his weight behind Jewish independence in Palestine, joining forces with the Irgun—a group that wasn’t afraid to use violence to fight British control. Hollywood, always mindful of that British box office, didn’t like his radical stance one bit. Hecht’s support of the Irgun, especially after the bombing of the King David Hotel, made him a pariah in Tinseltown. His once-glittering career hit the skids because he wouldn’t toe the line.

Hecht’s ads, plays, and unrelenting criticism of the British government didn’t sit well with the movie moguls. Supporting a militant Zionist cause didn’t fit Hollywood’s sanitized image, and suddenly, the highest-paid writer in Hollywood was a ghost. Hecht kept writing, of course, but he was locked out of the same industry that once worshipped him.

He didn’t care, though. Hecht was all about using his voice to fight indifference, even if it cost him everything. Hollywood might’ve shut its doors, but his legacy? That’s bulletproof.

The story of a man who fearlessly spoke the truth, regardless of the consequences, has captivated me ever since I read his classic autobiography, *Child of the Century*. I was so inspired that I wrote a play about Ben Hecht, which was produced Off-Broadway—*way* Off-Broadway—in ‘95. I also had the privilege of interviewing his comrades from the Irgun while they were still alive. Peter Bergson, Samuel Merlin, and Yitzhak Ben-Ami were three of the most remarkable people I’ve ever encountered. Hecht passed away in 1964, before my time.

I produced a documentary feature about Anti-Semitism in America a few years ago entitled They Will Not Replace Us.  Ben Hecht and his activities are prominently featured.  Here’s an excerpt from the film, the Ben Hecht chapter: