I've always believed television should give us more than something to watch while we eat dinner.
Don't get me wrong.
I enjoy a good sitcom.
I appreciate a ridiculous misunderstanding, a funny character, and an episode that makes me laugh without having to think too hard.
Sometimes that's exactly what we need.
But I also believe that when millions of people invite fictional characters into their homes every week, the people creating those characters have an opportunity to accomplish something much more important than entertainment.
They can teach us how to live.
How to treat people.
How to recognize when we're wrong.
How to handle disappointment.
And how to become better human beings.
I particularly appreciate television shows that weren't afraid to make those lessons unmistakable.
Remember Doogie Howser, M.D.?
At the end of most episodes, Doogie sat at his computer and wrote in his electronic journal.
He reflected on what had happened and what he'd learned.
Then there was Home Improvement, where Tim Taylor repeatedly found himself standing at the backyard fence, asking his neighbor Wilson for advice.
And years later, Tim Allen starred in Last Man Standing, where his character Mike Baxter frequently delivered a concluding commentary through his Outdoor Man video blog.
Different shows.
Different characters.
But a similar idea.
The story wasn't necessarily finished when the problem was resolved. It was finished when the characters—and the audience—had something worth thinking about.
And I miss how deliberately some programs approached that responsibility.
Because here's something I think television writers, directors, and producers ought to remember.
Not every child has a Ward Cleaver or an Andy Taylor explaining right from wrong.
Not every teenager has a Mr. Feeny.
Not every adult has a Wilson standing behind the backyard fence, prepared to offer thoughtful advice.
And not everyone has parents, grandparents, teachers, or friends who take the time to explain why certain choices are wise and others are harmful.
Sometimes the only person explaining a difficult life lesson is somebody on television.
I don't think the people making those programs should take that responsibility lightly.
Doogie Howser's Computer Journal Made Sure We Understood the Lesson
When Doogie Howser, M.D. premiered in 1989, its central character was already unusual.
Douglas Howser, played by Neil Patrick Harris, was a teenage doctor.
He was extraordinarily intelligent.
He could diagnose illnesses, work in a hospital, and discuss complicated medical problems with experienced physicians.
But he was still a teenager.
And that meant he had plenty to learn about relationships, friendship, disappointment, maturity, and ordinary human behavior.
I loved that distinction.
Doogie could be academically brilliant and still make a foolish personal decision.
He could understand something about medicine without understanding something about love.
And he could help a patient while struggling to communicate with the people closest to him.
That's what made him interesting.
But what I especially appreciated was the journal.
At the end of most episodes, Doogie would sit at his computer and write a few sentences about what he'd experienced.
Sometimes the observation was funny.
Sometimes it was poignant.
And sometimes it revealed that he'd learned something far more important than whatever medical problem he'd been dealing with.
I thought that was wonderful.
The writers didn't assume that simply watching Doogie experience something meant viewers would automatically understand its significance.
They gave him an opportunity to reflect.
And that reflection invited the audience to do the same.
Think about how valuable that is for a young viewer.
Maybe the child understood the plot.
Maybe she laughed at Doogie's friend Vinnie.
Maybe she followed the relationship problems.
But the journal gave her something more.
A reason to consider why the events mattered.
Doogie wasn't simply telling us what happened. He was helping us understand what the experience meant.
And there's an interesting behind-the-scenes detail.
Series co-creator Steven Bochco explained in a retrospective interview that he personally wrote many of those concluding computer entries.
That tells me the closing reflections weren't simply filler added after the story was finished.
They were an important part of the show's identity.
And I think they deserved to be.
Wilson Was the Neighbor Every Family Needed
Now, let's discuss Home Improvement.
Tim Taylor, played by Tim Allen, was a man who could apparently install an enormous engine in practically anything.
Unfortunately, understanding people was considerably more difficult.
Tim could explain power tools.
He could discuss motors.
He could spend an entire afternoon arguing about horsepower.
But when Jill was upset with him, his sons needed guidance, or someone challenged his opinions about masculinity, Tim frequently found himself completely out of his depth.
Fortunately, he had Wilson.
Wilson Wilson Jr., played by Earl Hindman, lived next door.
And almost whenever Tim needed advice, there was Wilson, conveniently standing behind the fence.
I sometimes wondered whether the man ever went inside.
But thank goodness he was there.
Because Wilson did something important.
He encouraged Tim to consider another person's perspective.
He challenged his assumptions.
He explained that people don't always communicate the way Tim expected them to.
And he frequently introduced a little philosophy, history, or cultural wisdom into what began as an ordinary household disagreement.
Of course, Tim would occasionally misunderstand the advice and repeat it to Jill in a way that made very little sense.
That was part of the comedy.
But the underlying lesson generally survived.
Tim might begin an episode convinced he was completely right.
Then Wilson would help him recognize something he'd overlooked.
And eventually, Tim would have to decide whether he was willing to change his behavior.
I appreciate that structure enormously.
Because the lesson wasn't simply that Jill had been right and Tim had been wrong.
Sometimes Tim had legitimate feelings, too.
Sometimes both people were contributing to the problem.
And sometimes the real lesson involved learning how to listen rather than winning an argument.
Wilson didn't solve Tim's problems for him. He helped Tim develop the judgment to approach those problems differently.
That's what a good mentor does.
And I think there's something particularly meaningful about making Wilson a neighbor rather than a professional counselor or an authority figure.
He was simply someone who cared enough to listen.
Someone with experience.
Someone willing to offer perspective.
Imagine how many children and adults watching Home Improvement wished they had someone like that next door.
A person who wouldn't automatically take their side but would help them think.
And sometimes that fictional neighbor might have offered a perspective they weren't getting anywhere else.
Last Man Standing Let Mike Baxter Tell Us What He Thought
Years later, Tim Allen brought another opinionated television father to the screen.
Mike Baxter on Last Man Standing.
And if Tim Taylor liked talking about tools, Mike Baxter liked talking about practically everything.
Family.
Work.
Marriage.
Politics.
Personal responsibility.
The younger generation.
And whatever else happened to be irritating him that particular week.
Mike worked at Outdoor Man, a sporting goods business, and regularly recorded video blogs for the company's website.
These vlogs became one of the show's signature devices.
They often gave Mike an opportunity to reflect on an issue connected to the episode.
And what I found interesting was that Mike wasn't necessarily presented as someone whose opinions everyone had to share.
He was outspoken.
Sometimes stubborn.
Occasionally insightful.
And certainly not afraid to make a point.
Now, I don't believe having strong opinions makes someone automatically correct.
And I don't expect every viewer to agree with Mike Baxter.
In fact, disagreement can be part of the educational value.
A character makes an argument.
The audience considers it.
Maybe we agree.
Maybe we disagree.
Maybe we recognize something worthwhile in the argument while rejecting another part.
That's thinking.
And I would much rather see television encourage that kind of reflection than assume viewers are incapable of handling disagreement.
There's a fascinating continuity between Tim Taylor and Mike Baxter.
On Home Improvement, Tim frequently received wisdom from Wilson.
On Last Man Standing, Mike often became the person delivering the closing commentary himself.
Two characters played by the same actor.
One frequently sought advice.
The other regularly offered it.
And neither was beyond criticism.
I also appreciate that the Last Man Standing writers treated the Outdoor Man vlog as an important storytelling device.
The series finale ended with a particularly meaningful one.
Showrunner Kevin Abbott later described the vlog as a signature element of the series and discussed how the final message was designed to express gratitude, acknowledge loss, and encourage moving forward.
That's the kind of intention I want to see.
A closing speech doesn't have to settle every argument. But it should give viewers something more meaningful than another joke before the credits roll.
And that's what Mike Baxter's best vlogs accomplished.
Mr. Belvedere Was Writing Life Lessons Before Doogie Had His Computer
Here's another program that belongs in this conversation.
Mr. Belvedere.
The sitcom premiered in 1985 and starred Christopher Hewett as Lynn Belvedere, an English housekeeper working for the Owens family.
Belvedere wasn't simply there to cook meals, clean the house, and maintain a level of dignity that the family occasionally seemed determined to destroy.
He also became a mentor.
Particularly to the children.
He offered guidance about friendship, relationships, responsibility, and growing up.
And at the end of each episode, he wrote in his journal.
Sound familiar?
Before Doogie was typing his reflections into a computer, Mr. Belvedere was putting his observations into a traditional diary.
I love that.
Because the format gave each episode a sense of completion.
The family experienced a problem.
People behaved foolishly.
Someone learned something.
And then Belvedere reflected on what had happened.
Sometimes his observations were affectionate.
Sometimes they were amusing.
And sometimes they made it clear that the adults in the household needed just as much guidance as the children.
Imagine that.
A television program admitting that grown people don't automatically become wise simply because they've reached a certain age.
I certainly appreciate that sentiment.
And I think Belvedere served an especially important purpose.
He wasn't the children's father.
He wasn't their schoolteacher.
He wasn't a relative.
He was another caring adult who had become part of their lives.
Someone who could recognize a problem from a different perspective.
Sometimes children find it easier to accept advice from an adult who isn't their parent.
Not because their parents are bad people.
But because family relationships can be complicated.
A child may be embarrassed.
A parent may be frustrated.
And someone outside that immediate relationship may be able to communicate a lesson more effectively.
Mr. Belvedere reminded viewers that wisdom doesn't have to come from a parent to be valuable.
And I think his journal made sure we didn't overlook it.
The Wonder Years Had Adult Kevin Explain What Young Kevin Couldn't Understand
Not every show needed a journal or a speech delivered to the camera.
The Wonder Years used something different.
An adult Kevin Arnold looking back on his childhood.
Fred Savage played young Kevin.
Daniel Stern provided the narration of Kevin as an adult.
And what made that narration so effective was the difference between what young Kevin understood at the time and what adult Kevin understood years later.
I think that's one of television's most valuable storytelling techniques.
Because children frequently experience things without fully recognizing their significance.
A parent seems unreasonable.
A friend behaves differently.
A brother says something cruel.
A first love becomes complicated.
And at the time, the child may see only his own disappointment.
But years later?
He might understand that his father was frightened.
That his mother was struggling.
That his brother was dealing with problems of his own.
Or that the friend he thought had rejected him was actually experiencing something he never understood.
That's what adult Kevin's narration allowed us to see.
He could reflect on his younger self without pretending he'd always behaved wisely.
Sometimes the lesson was that he'd been selfish.
Sometimes it was that he'd misunderstood someone.
And sometimes it was that childhood includes losses we don't appreciate until we're older.
I recently wrote about a particularly touching example in "When Wayne Gave Wart the Shirt Off His Back: The Wonder Years' Most Touching Lesson in Friendship."
Wayne Arnold wasn't exactly a model of brotherly kindness throughout the series.
But when his friend Wart returned from Vietnam struggling to adjust, Wayne demonstrated a capacity for compassion that revealed something important about his character.
And that is the kind of story that benefits from reflection.
We're reminded that people can surprise us.
That someone's worst behavior doesn't necessarily represent everything about him.
And that small gestures can become enormously meaningful when another person is vulnerable.
The Wonder Years taught us that growing older doesn't simply mean accumulating birthdays. It should also mean developing the ability to reconsider what we thought we understood.
That's a lesson I still appreciate.
The Waltons Used John-Boy's Memories to Give Every Story Meaning
Then there's The Waltons.
A show that may be one of the finest examples of television providing more than entertainment.
The series followed a large family living through the Great Depression and World War II.
They dealt with financial hardship, illness, disappointment, marriage, death, prejudice, and the ordinary disagreements that arise when several generations share a home.
And the stories were framed by the voice of an older John-Boy Walton, reflecting on the family's experiences.
Series creator Earl Hamner Jr. provided that narration.
His opening and closing reflections gave the episodes a sense of memory.
We weren't simply watching something that happened.
We were being invited to consider why it was worth remembering.
Now, here's something I find particularly interesting.
In a 2013 interview with Entertainment Weekly, Hamner explained that he hadn't consciously set out to teach moral lessons.
He was surprised when viewers thanked him for the messages they received from the program.
But eventually he recognized that the characters' values were communicating something important even when he hadn't planned a particular lesson.
I think that's fascinating.
Because it demonstrates that television can teach without delivering a formal lecture.
When characters behave according to recognizable principles, viewers notice.
When they face consequences, viewers notice.
And when they learn to treat someone differently, viewers may carry that example into their own lives.
But I would take Hamner's observation one step further.
Once we recognize that television can influence how people think about human behavior, shouldn't storytellers take that influence seriously?
Not by turning every episode into a sermon.
But by being deliberate about the values their stories communicate.
In "Curt Willard Survived Pearl Harbor. Why Did He Abandon His Son on The Waltons?," I examined a character whose choices raised difficult questions about fatherhood and responsibility.
That's another valuable form of storytelling.
The lesson doesn't have to come from a character behaving admirably.
Sometimes it comes from recognizing how badly someone has failed.
A television show can teach us what to do by showing us what happens when someone refuses to do it.
And sometimes those negative examples are the ones we remember most.
Mr. Feeny Understood That Teaching Children Meant Teaching Them About Life
If we're discussing television mentors, we absolutely have to include Mr. Feeny.
William Daniels played George Feeny on Boy Meets World.
He was Cory Matthews's teacher, principal, neighbor, and eventually college professor.
And I have to admire his endurance.
The man spent years trying to educate Cory, Shawn, Eric, and their friends.
And somehow, despite their astonishing ability to complicate ordinary situations, he remained committed to helping them become responsible adults.
Mr. Feeny understood something that I wish every educator recognized.
Teaching children isn't simply about getting them to remember facts.
It's also about preparing them to live among other people.
That means teaching fairness.
Respect.
Responsibility.
The importance of keeping promises.
The ability to handle disappointment.
And the recognition that other people have needs and feelings just as important as our own.
Feeny frequently turned ordinary situations into lessons about character.
He challenged Cory when Cory was selfish.
He encouraged Shawn when Shawn doubted his future.
And he reminded the students that making decisions also meant accepting their consequences.
But he wasn't simply interested in telling children what to do.
He wanted them to think.
And that's the difference between a good mentor and someone who enjoys exercising authority.
A good mentor wants the student to develop judgment.
Not remain dependent forever.
I think that's why so many viewers remember Mr. Feeny with affection.
He represented a kind of adult presence that not everybody experiences.
Patient.
Consistent.
Principled.
And willing to care about children even when they were difficult.
For a viewer without a dependable mentor in real life, Mr. Feeny could demonstrate what a trustworthy adult was supposed to look like.
Not perfectly.
Not as a substitute for real support.
But as an example worth recognizing.
And that has value.
Rod Serling Didn't Leave the Moral Entirely Up to the Audience
Long before Doogie Howser was typing into his journal, Rod Serling was doing something equally important on The Twilight Zone.
He presented audiences with strange, sometimes frightening situations that revealed uncomfortable truths about ordinary human behavior.
Prejudice.
Greed.
Cruelty.
Conformity.
Fear.
The desire for power.
And our remarkable ability to justify things we know are wrong.
Then, in many episodes, Serling returned with a closing narration.
Sometimes the observation was ironic.
Sometimes it was haunting.
And sometimes it made the moral implications of the story unmistakable.
I think that's particularly important.
Because the people behaving badly in The Twilight Zone weren't always obvious monsters.
Sometimes they looked remarkably ordinary.
Respectable neighbors.
Successful professionals.
People who believed they were entitled to behave as they did.
And that made the stories more disturbing.
Serling understood that the audience might recognize itself in the characters.
He also understood that an unsettling story could leave viewers considering their own conduct.
And his closing remarks often encouraged precisely that reflection.
Now, I don't believe every difficult story requires a narrator to explain exactly what we're supposed to think.
But there are times when the message deserves emphasis.
Especially when the story concerns prejudice, cruelty, or the mistreatment of someone who cannot defend himself.
Showing us something disturbing isn't automatically the same thing as helping us understand why it's disturbing.
Sometimes a good ending provides the moral clarity the story deserves.
And Serling was exceptionally good at doing that.
The Good Place Proved That Teaching Morality Could Still Be Funny
Lest anyone think that only older television programs understood the importance of moral lessons, consider The Good Place.
The series premiered in 2016.
And its entire premise involved questions about what makes someone a good person.
Kristen Bell played Eleanor Shellstrop, a woman who hadn't exactly devoted her life to behaving considerately.
William Jackson Harper played Chidi Anagonye, a professor of moral philosophy who tried to help her become better.
And the program explored questions that philosophers have debated for centuries.
What do we owe other people?
Does intention matter more than outcome?
Can a selfish person genuinely change?
And how do we decide what makes an action morally right?
These aren't particularly simple questions.
They don't always have neat answers.
And yet the series managed to make them entertaining.
Sometimes hilariously entertaining.
Creator Michael Schur even consulted philosophers while developing the show.
And in interviews, he explained that questions about becoming a better person were central to the entire concept.
I find that encouraging.
Because it proves that television doesn't have to choose between intelligence and entertainment.
You can have a ridiculous premise.
You can have funny characters.
You can have complicated relationships.
And you can still ask serious questions about morality.
A show can make us laugh while teaching us how to think. In fact, sometimes the humor makes the lesson easier to remember.
I think that's something television writers should embrace rather than avoid.
Not Every Lesson Needs a Closing Speech, but It Does Need to Be Recognizable
Here's where I want to make an important distinction.
I'm not suggesting that every television episode must end with a character explaining the moral.
That would become exhausting.
Imagine watching a comedy about a family arguing over dinner, only to have someone turn toward the camera and deliver a five-minute lecture about proper table manners.
Every single week.
I think we'd eventually turn off the television.
But there's a difference between being preachy and being purposeful.
A good writer can communicate a lesson through dialogue.
Through consequences.
Through a character changing her mind.
Through someone recognizing that he's hurt another person.
Or through a tragic ending that reveals the cost of ignoring a problem.
And sometimes the lesson is more powerful because the story doesn't offer a happy resolution.
I particularly appreciate television that shows the consequences of adult failures.
A child asks for help and isn't believed.
Someone is mistreated while the people around her remain silent.
A parent allows pride to interfere with judgment.
Or a person makes a terrible choice and discovers that good intentions don't erase the harm caused.
Those stories can be enormously instructive.
But the distinction between depicting misconduct and approving of it matters.
A writer can show a terrible parent without endorsing terrible parenting.
A program can portray prejudice without promoting prejudice.
And a character can behave selfishly without the audience being expected to admire him.
That's why I believe storytelling requires moral clarity even when the characters themselves are morally confused.
The writer doesn't have to provide a simplistic answer to every difficult question.
But the story should offer enough context for viewers to recognize what is at stake.
Sometimes the lesson is what a character does right. Sometimes it's what a character does wrong. And sometimes it's the terrible price another person pays because nobody did the right thing.
Those are all legitimate ways to teach.
And I think good television needs room for each of them.
Some People Have No One Explaining These Lessons to Them
Now we come to the part of this subject that matters most to me.
Not everyone grows up in a household where adults explain right from wrong.
Not every child has a parent who listens.
Not every teenager has a teacher who takes an interest in her life beyond her grades.
And not every adult has a friend who can offer thoughtful advice without simply agreeing with everything.
Some people grow up surrounded by confusion.
They hear arguments.
They witness dishonesty.
They see adults make excuses for behavior they wouldn't tolerate in children.
And they may have very few examples of what responsible conduct is supposed to look like.
Then they turn on the television.
And perhaps they see Ward Cleaver apologizing when he makes a mistake.
Or Mr. Feeny reminding a student that honesty matters.
Or Wilson helping Tim understand why Jill is upset.
Or John-Boy Walton reflecting on something his family learned through hardship.
For some viewers, those moments may provide examples they haven't encountered elsewhere.
I don't believe television can replace a caring parent, a trustworthy teacher, or a real human relationship.
It can't provide individual guidance.
It can't know a viewer's circumstances.
And fictional characters shouldn't be treated as infallible authorities.
But that doesn't make television's educational possibilities insignificant.
Quite the opposite.
If someone has few reliable examples of healthy relationships, a thoughtful television story may give that person a starting point.
A reason to question something she previously accepted as normal.
A reason to recognize that mistreatment isn't inevitable.
Or a reason to believe that people can learn to behave differently.
Television may not be able to raise a child, but it can show a child that the way she's being raised isn't the only way people can live.
I think that's an enormously important responsibility.
And one that deserves more recognition.
Writers, Directors, and Producers Need to Think About What They're Teaching
This is where I believe the people making television have an obligation.
Not an obligation to adopt my personal beliefs.
Not an obligation to turn every show into a religious lesson.
And certainly not an obligation to eliminate morally complicated characters.
I wouldn't want that.
Some of the best television programs feature characters whose behavior I strongly disagree with.
But I do believe writers, directors, and producers should think seriously about what their stories communicate.
Because they're making decisions that influence how audiences understand human behavior.
A writer decides whether an abusive character faces meaningful consequences or is simply treated as amusing.
A director decides whether a cruel moment is presented as frightening, ridiculous, tragic, or deserved.
A producer helps determine which stories are told, how they're developed, and whether difficult subjects receive the attention they deserve.
Those choices matter.
And I think it's reasonable to expect the people making them to ask some basic questions.
What is the audience supposed to understand about this situation?
Are we showing the difference between a good intention and a good decision?
Are we treating a vulnerable character's suffering seriously?
Are we allowing someone to behave terribly without ever acknowledging the harm?
And if the story contains a valuable lesson, have we communicated it clearly enough for viewers to recognize?
I don't expect everyone to agree about the answers.
But I expect the questions to be considered.
There's an enormous difference between a program that thoughtfully portrays difficult behavior and one that uses people's suffering merely to create drama.
And there's an equally important difference between a character who teaches us something and one who simply tells us what to think.
Good television should help viewers develop judgment, not demand that they surrender it.
That's what I believe the responsibility of storytelling ought to be.
Being Entertaining Doesn't Excuse Being Irresponsible
I also want to challenge an argument I occasionally hear.
It's just television.
It's only entertainment.
Why take it so seriously?
Well, because people take stories seriously all the time.
They identify with characters.
They recognize themselves in fictional situations.
They remember scenes from programs they watched decades earlier.
And sometimes those scenes influence how they think about relationships, family, and responsibility.
I don't believe television controls people's behavior.
We're not helpless creatures who automatically imitate everything we watch.
Audiences bring their own experiences, values, and judgment to a story.
And the same episode can affect different viewers in very different ways.
But if we acknowledge that stories can make people laugh, cry, become frightened, and feel emotionally attached to fictional characters, why would we pretend those stories have no potential to teach?
We can't celebrate television's emotional power while denying that the messages it conveys might matter.
And I don't think a writer should be satisfied with saying that the audience can interpret everything however it wants.
Of course viewers can disagree.
But writers still make choices.
They decide what the story emphasizes.
They decide which conduct receives admiration.
They decide whether another person's pain is taken seriously.
And they decide whether a character's choices have consequences.
Those choices shape the meaning of the story.
Entertainment isn't a moral exemption. The fact that something is fictional doesn't mean its message is meaningless.
And I would expect conscientious storytellers to remember that.
What Jewish Wisdom Teaches Me About Learning From Unexpected Teachers
There's a teaching in Pirkei Avot 4:1 that I think belongs at the heart of this discussion.
Ben Zoma asks who is wise.
And his answer is the person who learns from everyone.
I love that idea.
Because it suggests that wisdom isn't confined to one classroom, one profession, or one kind of teacher.
We can learn from people who are older than we are.
People who are younger.
People whose experiences differ from ours.
And people who challenge assumptions we've carried for years.
Now, a fictional television character isn't an actual person offering personal instruction.
But stories can introduce us to experiences and perspectives we might not otherwise encounter.
We can consider the choices characters make.
We can examine their mistakes.
And we can ask ourselves what we would have done differently.
That's an opportunity to learn.
There's another teaching in Pirkei Avot 1:6 about finding a teacher, acquiring a friend, and judging others fairly.
I find all three ideas relevant.
Because the point of education isn't simply absorbing information.
It's developing the wisdom to consider other people's circumstances and recognize our responsibilities toward them.
That's what a good mentor tries to teach.
And I think television can encourage the same kind of reflection.
Not by replacing real teachers.
But by showing viewers what good teaching, genuine friendship, and thoughtful judgment can look like.
I also think of the Jewish tradition of questioning.
The willingness to examine a problem from more than one perspective.
To challenge an assumption.
To distinguish between what someone intended and what actually happened.
And to recognize that a difficult moral question may require more than a convenient slogan.
That's the approach I want from television.
Don't simply show me a character I should admire.
Show me why the character deserves admiration.
Don't merely tell me someone is behaving badly.
Help me understand the consequences.
And don't assume that an entertaining story has fulfilled its purpose simply because the audience enjoyed it.
To me, being a mensch means remaining willing to learn, even when the lesson comes from an unexpected place.
And sometimes that unexpected place is a sitcom.
I Don't Want Television to Preach. I Want It to Have Something Worth Saying.
I think this distinction is essential.
There's a kind of television that treats its audience as though everyone needs to be lectured.
The characters become mouthpieces.
The dialogue stops sounding natural.
And the entire story seems designed to prove one opinion without allowing any serious examination of it.
I don't enjoy that.
And I don't believe it produces good moral education.
Because genuine learning requires thought.
Sometimes disagreement.
And sometimes the willingness to admit that a situation is more complicated than we originally believed.
That's why I appreciate programs such as All in the Family.
Archie Bunker wasn't a model of enlightened judgment.
Mike Stivic wasn't automatically right simply because he considered himself progressive.
And Edith frequently demonstrated that kindness and common sense could be more valuable than winning an argument.
I explored that in "How All in the Family Changed What American Families Talked About."
What made the show valuable wasn't that every character delivered the correct moral position.
It was that viewers were encouraged to consider difficult issues through recognizable human disagreements.
And sometimes the characters themselves had to confront their contradictions.
That's the kind of storytelling I admire.
A lesson doesn't have to be comfortable.
It doesn't have to confirm my existing beliefs.
But it should encourage honest reflection.
And ideally, it should help someone think more carefully about how to treat another human being.
The goal shouldn't be to make viewers agree with a character. It should be to help viewers understand what makes a decision wise, foolish, compassionate, or unfair.
That's a much better educational foundation.
Why This Is the Whole Idea Behind CouchDegree
When I started CouchDegree, I wasn't interested in simply writing about television programs I remembered from childhood.
I enjoy nostalgia.
I love revisiting familiar characters.
And I appreciate discovering that an episode I watched forty years ago still makes me laugh.
But I wanted something more.
I wanted to ask what those shows actually taught us.
And what they might still teach us today.
Sometimes that means praising a television father for handling a difficult situation wisely.
Sometimes it means pointing out that a beloved character was completely wrong.
And sometimes it means recognizing that a controversial or tragic storyline was attempting to teach something important through the consequences of human failure.
I don't believe we have to admire every decision a character makes.
I don't believe we have to agree with every moral position expressed on a television program.
But I do believe we should be willing to examine those decisions and ask what they reveal about real life.
That's why CouchDegree exists.
And it's also why I created Couch Potato U, our collection of informal television-inspired courses.
The idea is simple.
We can use familiar characters and situations to explore responsibility, parenting, marriage, friendship, communication, fairness, and everyday decency.
Not because television offers all the answers.
It doesn't.
But because a familiar story can make a complicated life lesson easier to recognize.
Sometimes the lesson is obvious.
Sometimes we have to dig for it.
And sometimes we discover that the character we thought was right all those years ago actually deserves a little criticism.
I think that's part of growing up, too.
My Verdict: Television Should Leave Us With More Than an Ending
I don't expect every television program to change my life.
Sometimes I just want to laugh.
Sometimes I want to watch a mystery.
And sometimes I want to enjoy an old episode without spending the evening analyzing every character's moral development.
But I still believe television is capable of doing something extraordinary.
It can entertain us.
It can keep us company.
It can introduce us to people and circumstances we've never encountered.
And it can help us understand something about ourselves.
I admire the shows that recognized that opportunity and made deliberate use of it.
Doogie Howser, M.D. gave us a journal.
Home Improvement gave us Wilson.
Last Man Standing gave us Mike Baxter's video blogs.
Mr. Belvedere gave us a diary.
The Wonder Years gave us an older Kevin reflecting on his younger self.
The Waltons gave us John-Boy's memories.
Boy Meets World gave us Mr. Feeny.
And The Twilight Zone gave us Rod Serling, reminding us that the strangest stories sometimes reveal uncomfortable truths about ordinary people.
Different approaches.
Different decades.
But a common recognition that storytelling can be meaningful.
At fifty-one, I've become increasingly convinced that knowing how to live decently isn't something everyone automatically learns simply by growing older.
People need examples.
They need guidance.
They need opportunities to examine their assumptions.
And they need to see what responsibility, compassion, courage, honesty, and good judgment actually look like in practice.
Some people receive those lessons from loving parents.
Others learn them from teachers, grandparents, friends, or mentors.
But not everyone has those opportunities.
And that's why I believe the people making television have a responsibility to think about what their stories leave behind.
Not to indoctrinate.
Not to preach.
And not to pretend that every difficult question has one simple answer.
But to recognize that stories can become part of someone's understanding of the world.
If you're going to spend thirty minutes showing me how people behave, give me something worth understanding about that behavior.
Show me why honesty matters.
Why promises should be kept.
Why good intentions don't excuse cruelty.
Why being right doesn't give someone permission to humiliate another person.
And why having authority doesn't automatically make someone wise.
If a character makes a mistake, let us recognize the mistake.
If someone suffers because others fail to act, help us understand the consequences.
And if someone demonstrates genuine kindness, allow that kindness to mean something.
Because somewhere, someone may be watching who has never seen that kind of consideration in real life.
Someone who has never had a patient teacher.
Someone who's never had a dependable parent.
Someone who's never had a Wilson standing behind the fence, offering a little common sense when everything seems confusing.
And perhaps that person will remember something from the episode long after the credits have finished rolling.
I think that possibility deserves respect.
Television doesn't have to become a classroom to teach us something. But when it has the opportunity to make us wiser, kinder, or more thoughtful, I believe it should take it.
After all, entertainment lasts half an hour.
A good life lesson can last a lifetime.
And that's exactly the kind of television I want to celebrate at CouchDegree.
