Student Publications: “The Hatchet: A Slow Grind to a Sharp Edge”

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The following was written in 1970:

“The Hatchet: A Slow Grind to a Sharp Edge”

“Hew to the Line and Cleve to the Truth” was the motto of the University Hatchet, the George Washington student newspaper during the 1920's. Today the Hatchet carries no such motto, but in the period since that rather stately command was issued, the University newspaper has been doing considerably less hewing to the administration line and more cleaving to what the editors consider the truth. And the chips have been falling like a blizzard where they may.

Those who have fond memories of editorials calling for more college athletic spirit and increased attendance at Greek dances would be as shocked at the rhetoric of the Hatchets of today as they would be if they saw the braless wonders of 21st Street flaunting the ghost of the rigid dress code of the era of President Marvin. When Editor F. S. Hemmick brought out the first Hatchet, a 24-page weekly in a magazine format, on Oct. 5, 1904, he felt that the survival of the University was the foremost issue. The spring before, the University changed its name from Columbian to George Washington, and The Weekly Columbian followed suit. The first Hatchet editorial stated:

“The present time is the critical period in our University's life. We have broken off from the old period of lethargy and are endeavoring to plant ourselves in the front rank of educational institutions. Under a new name and with an awakened vigor, success seems to loom in sight.”

With few exceptions, the editorial voice of the Hatchet was about as controversial during the next 30 years as it was in this initial message. Although it sometimes carried Voltaire's promise to disagree with what was said while defending with its very life the right to say it, few administrators had to worry about that disturbing prospect. For example, the second edition of the Hatchet took the students to task by making one thing perfectly clear: "One thing which has been woefully lacking at our (football) games is the lack of a yell ... The locomotive, which has been used, will hardly do. It has been clumsy and has not the proper swing." And editors stood on that uncompromising position until the administration rudely snatched it from them by banishing the football team in 1967.

It can also be said that the Hatchet has looked out for the welfare of the student. In 1905, an editorial proclaimed: "We wish to insert a word of caution to those interested in showing the freshmen the flowery path of ease. We are in sympathy with all phases of true, legitimate college spirit and the pranks that are the outcome of it, as long as they do not outrage decency and common sense." “Go on with your fun,” the editorial continued, “but in such a manner that sensible people will laugh at you.” In 1906, the first serious and sustained editorial campaign was launched in favor of the recently adopted honor system. One editorial soberly warned that “a student cannot conscientiously live up to the principles upon which this system is based, if he sees dishonesty on an examination and does nothing to stop it.”

But by the following year, it was back to the football editorial. After the ol’ Buff n’ Blue dropped a 30-0 game to powerful Swarthmore, an editor indignantly wrote: “There will doubtless be some students who will seize upon the Swarthmore game as a pretext for pessimistic comment on our football team.” (The undying loyalty shown to college athletics seems puzzling today. Consider this editorial, written in 1920: “The recent baseball scandal has developed a significant feature in that it has proved the honesty and integrity of the college athlete. The horde of gamblers who approached the members of the Chicago team with the proposition to ‘fix’ the world’s series, were careful to avoid contact with ‘Eddie’ Collins, a graduate of George Washington and a star athlete in his college days.”)

This self-assured attitude was enough to cause one editorial writer in 1913, made giddy by nine years of survival, to proclaim that “although the Hatchet is entered as second class mail matter at the Washington post office, everything in it is first class.” The editorial opinions grew stronger during the 20s, but they generally coincided with the administration’s. One issue, which reappeared for years to follow, was that of an activity fee, or tax, as it was then called. “In George Washington University, with an enrollment of more than four thousand students, there should be more than three thousand voluntary signers of the student activity tax,” one editorial stated.

Money, education, and breeding then separated the university student from the outside world, which is not the general case today. In such an isolated atmosphere, it is hardly surprising that one editorial in 1922 admonishes the male students to tip their hats when passing professors on the street. “This not only fosters a higher morale among students,” the editorial read, “but promotes a better understanding between the students and the faculty--especially the faculty.”

The universal issues of censorship and class cutting came up during the 20s, but the Hatchet took mild stands on both. “So long as student opinion stays within the bounds of personal liberty and does not overstep license,” an editorial in 1927 enigmatically stated, “we see no need for censorship.” A new ruling allowing for some class cutting, providing the student was not on academic probation, won the Hatchet’s support in 1929: “This is a liberal ruling and one that will find full student approval. A cut a semester hour allows leeway for unusual circumstances which require an occasional absence.”

The library facilities came under attack from time to time but in such a manner so as to offend no one. More of this or that for the future was the general recommendation. No indignation or storming of offices was sought. One Hatchet did stir up trouble in 1931 when it suggested that “Once again it is only too apparent that the Student Council of George Washington University is settling into lethargy which has almost always characterized its existence.” If all the editorials denouncing apathy were laid end to end, they would stretch from here to (yawn) somewhere and back.

Although the Hatchet editorialized little on World War I and had generally followed a hands-off policy on nonacademic affairs, it reflected somberly and cautiously on the role of the student as the United States entered World War II. A week after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the paper warned “For the present stay calm; do not stop school; don't run to enlist in pell-mell fashion, wait until the military leaders issue their call, until you can ascertain where your enlistment will do the most good.” Although today's student, torn between accepting the draft and emigration to Canada, may snicker at the compliant mood of the editorialist, the stand taken is considerably more thought-out and cautious than was the case on most campuses then. Commenting on the rash of history rewritings and banning of German courses during the previous war, the Hatchet lamented: “That we may avoid completely repetition of these follies seems too much to ask. Already we have witnessed attempts to stop performance of ‘The Mikado.’”

By the end of the war, however, the mood was more hawkish. In the spring of 1945, one writer said, “The recent decision of the Association of American Colleges to oppose peacetime conscription seems to us both shortsighted and unrealistic.” He summed up his position by saying, “We do not intend to be caught with our pants down, again.” It was also during the postwar era that the first shots were fired at the administration, although the caliber was low and the target well isolated. There were complaints about the expenses of getting an Associate of Arts degree when the candidate clearly planned to receive a bachelor's degree two years later. The alumni office also became a target when its director spurned the offer to send Hatchets to all graduates. The refusal constituted “unmitigated gall,” the Hatchet fumed.

In 1947, however, the Hatchet stepped in over its head with an editorial extremely critical of then-President Cloyd Heck Marvin for selling part of his personal library instead of contributing it to the University. Marvin replied that most of the books were duplicates of existing library material, but the fight was on. A committee to investigate the Hatchet was formed, hearings were held complete with verbatim transcripts, and some McCarthyite accusations - hinting that the Hatchet was chummy with un-American principles - were hurled before the furor died. The racial issue came into the fore following the war, and the Hatchet lamely hid when it refused to take a stand on the Lisner Auditorium policy of segregated seating, excusing itself by saying that the student body didn't feel strongly one way or the other. Two competing veterans groups took opposing stands, and the manager of the auditorium said that the policy “is no different from the dual system of the other Washington theatres, or the restaurants, or schools, generally.” Then he stated that “things will change - in time.” In 1950, the Hatchet did argue, in mild tones, that integration might be more workable than separate-but-equal facilities.

The era of the 50s was blander, editorially speaking, than the 40s. Student deferments were defended in 1951 because "a corps of better educated men will be available for future leadership in the country's expanded defense program." The spring of 1959 found students only restless to get away from campus. “Ocean City is just 78 days away,” chirped a March editorial. Whatever truce there was between the Hatchet and the world, or any other campus newspapers and the world, blew up during the 60s. Practically any issue of the paper carries some broadside, some reasonable (from this perspective), some not.

“While zealously guarding the morals of its students with curfews and dress rules, George Washington places comparatively scanty emphasis on the students’ health needs,” a 1965 editorial reads. The tone is accusatory and not questioning. Sometimes faculty policies were hit. “‘Publish or Perish’ is an incomplete yardstick by which to measure a professor's ability," an editorial in the same year said. It was accompanied by a cartooned professor on a cross with the caption stating that he was a good teacher but a tardy writer.

Editorials used to be one thing while reporting was quite another. But the arrival of the “new” or advocacy journalism in the 60s tended to blur the line, not just for the Hatchet but for the press in general. What is, or is not, objective reporting (or writing) has been debated exhaustively. Even the possibility of objective reporting has been seriously called into question. A lengthy editorial in the Hatchet of October 26, 1970, tangles with the problem, citing newspaper omissions, selective quotations, story placement, and other factors to dispute the existence of objectivity.

Current criticism of the Hatchet most often cites allegedly inaccurate, unfairly selective, or plainly biased news reporting, or stories which might be better labeled “analysis” or “commentary” appearing as if they were straight reportage. Some of the criticism has no doubt been justified. But some of the Hatchet's outstanding work has been insufficiently praised. When, members of GW’s Students for Democratic Society and its sympathizers occupied Maury Hall, then the location of the Sino-Soviet Institute, in the spring of 1969, the Hatchet was due to appear the next day. In addition, it was to be the first edition under the new editor, Stephen Phillips. Maury Hall was not finally cleared until after 3 a.m. Yet by late the next afternoon the Hatchet was out with a narrative description of events, an editorial, and full photographic coverage incorporated in its regular edition - in all, a remarkable performance.

The editorial hand now comes forth more often with fist clenched than with palm out, but a few editorials this fall have even heaped praise. One commended the University's policy of freezing promotions and holding the line on salaries; another told students to wake up to the fact that whatever gripes there were to be aired about G W, “. . . GW’s faculty is on a par with just about any in the nation.” Praise can be even more shocking than criticism, and the latter, it seems, is here to stay.

In the Violent Spring of 70, the Hatchet said that “George Washington’s relationship with the Selective Service System is the clearest and most reprehensible case of campus complicity with the military.” Cynicism, a distant cousin of skepticism, is now almost a watchword. “A violent confrontation Saturday will play into the hands of the Nixon administration. John Mitchell and his cronies would like nothing better than rock and bottle throwing; their reactionary constituency would eat it up,” an editorial before the April March on Washington states.

The college press, the Hatchet included, has changed considerably in the past half-century. Whether or not one laments the innocence of old, today's student and today's editor have stripped away the myth that the college years are the golden years when politics and decisions are laid aside while the cocoon of play and study insulates them from all. The butterfly has flown. A few issues ago, the Hatchet printed a new charge for itself, considerably different from the one of 1904. The student, not the University, is everything, the editorial seems to say. The final paragraph of the October 26, 1970, editorial concludes:

“It is the place of a college newspaper like the Hatchet to provide its readers with enough information so that they will appreciate the movement we are a part of, the subculture we share and the problems we face.”

Document Information

Images: 0
Photographic Credit: n/a
Author or Source: GW Magazine, Special Issue, 1970
Document Location: University Archives
Date Added to Encyclopedia: December 21, 2006
Prepared by: Lyle Slovick, Assistant University Archivist

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