How a colorful Iowa newspaperman is taking on big interests
| Storm Lake, Iowa
Chicago newspaperman Wilbur F. Storey once reviewed a local performer with unvarnished bluntness: She was a 鈥渓arge-limbed, beefy specimen,鈥� he wrote in 1870. The offended woman tracked him down on Wabash Avenue and horsewhipped him.
Art Cullen is not afraid of horsewhipping, but he allows that some folks really don鈥檛 like what he writes in his newspaper.
Mr. Cullen, too, has a penchant for telling it like he sees it. In the small town of Storm Lake, Iowa, where agriculture and slaughterhouses rule, he has taken on powerful interests.
He forced the mighty Agribusiness Association of Iowa to back down, and embarrassed the local county superintendents. He has berated the area鈥檚 popular congressmen (鈥渕orally reprehensible鈥�), jabbed the legislature (鈥渁bysmal鈥�), and run roughly on his longtime friend, former Gov. Terry Branstad. He dismissed a chunk of his own farmer readers (20 percent 鈥渃ould beat the devil at his game鈥�). Deep in Trump Country, he has defended the tide of immigrants who have rushed into this conservative northwest corner of Iowa.
For that, he won the Pulitzer Prize this year. His editorials foiled a secret arrangement by local authorities to allow big-farm interests to fight a lawsuit seeking improved water quality in the town鈥檚 namesake lake. The Pulitzer board said his commentary was 鈥渇ueled by tenacious reporting, impressive expertise and engaging writing.鈥�
The Pulitzer Prize for such a small paper warmed the hearts of those who see the loss of tough journalism in local reporting. As small-town papers have lost advertising, cut staff, and been bought by corporate chains, too often they have lost the sharp teeth of their traditional watchdog role. Not Cullen鈥檚 Storm Lake Times.
鈥淎rt Cullen speaks his mind. And he is articulate,鈥� says Jon Kruse, Storm Lake鈥檚 long-time mayor. He chooses his words as though tiptoeing through a minefield.
Cullen relishes the effect. He is tall, with a shock of white hair and a horseshoe mustache. He looks startlingly like Mark Twain, and writes like Samuel Clemens, too: sometimes folksy, sometimes eloquent, frequently mocking, and customarily outraged.
鈥淚t鈥檚 important for somebody to say, 鈥楬ey, we are going too far.鈥� That鈥檚 our basic function as a free press in a small rural place,鈥� Cullen says simply.
It鈥檚 not puffery. The editor of The Storm Lake Times is cut from the newsprint of journalistic tradition. He is passionate about it. His small newspaper 鈥� circulation 3,000 鈥� is a family affair. His brother John started it in 1990 and is publisher; his son Tom is the chief reporter. His wife, Dolores, writes features and takes pictures.
The paper publishes twice a week. It serves a community that on the surface looks typical, Midwestern, idyllic: neat homes on elm-lined streets, set on the shore of a sparkling lake. A closer look, though, shows its peculiarities. Whites are almost a minority here, with Hispanics, Laotians, Vietnamese, Sudanese, Micronesians, and Hmong making up nearly half of the population. Much of the chatter on the street is in foreign tongues. Downtown is not abandoned, as it is in many rural towns. Storm Lake is gaining population while most small towns are hemorrhaging.
There are two newspapers in town, also unusual. Cullen dismisses the competition as the product of out-of-town owners. 鈥淚 never read it. If I need to read the Pilot Tribune to find out about the news, then I ought to go sell shoes.鈥�
He chats at his newspaper office on Railroad Avenue; it is a small warehouse, thoroughly cluttered. It is adorned by memorabilia, including a signed photo of JFK and an ancient Apple computer that sits beside his old typewriter. Rough boards separate a few offices for the 10-person staff. The only inside door barges open, and furry Mabel the news hound regally inspects 鈥� and dismisses 鈥� a visitor.
Cullen will jump up in mid-conversation to jot down a reminder, and cut short his high dudgeon over some issue with a laugh 鈥� 鈥淭hat will be my next column.鈥�
His son Tom endures the heat of the sparks his father fans. Tom is rainspout-tall like his father, bespectacled, and full of nervous energy. As the 鈥渃hief鈥� 鈥� about the only 鈥� general assignment reporter, Tom hustles about town chasing the news. Spend a day or two in Storm Lake and one will cross his path often. Tom Cullen鈥檚 news reports are straight; most town officials concede he is accurate and fair.
But when his father rails on the editorial page, the afflicted officials often see Tom鈥檚 face next. He admits he has walked into a hostile public meeting 鈥渇eeling like a lamb going to slaughter.鈥� The room lights have been turned out on him, and 鈥淚鈥檝e gotten the death stare鈥� from angry officials.
Tom is 25, but he has an old-time reporter鈥檚 thrill for the chase. He recounts running in dress clothes to the 14th hole at a golf tournament to try to catch officials who had been dodging him. 鈥淭he looks they gave me were golden.鈥� And he admits to the journalist鈥檚 secret pleasure: 鈥淲hen you see your name in a byline, it鈥檚 awesome. I love it.鈥�
His father said he nudged Tom to forgo law school to be a reporter because it is more fun. Tom tells a slightly different story: 鈥淚 bombed the LSATs. I was terrible at taking tests.鈥� But he relishes his occupation. 鈥淚 think we have made a difference. People always have to answer to us. That鈥檚 built on 20 years of scrupulous reporting. Sometimes they refuse to talk to us, but eventually they come around. Even Republican lawmakers who probably hate our guts.鈥�
But Art Cullen鈥檚 editorials are equal-opportunity offenders, as likely to take on environmentalists as the bumbling city manager who tried to close a city council session but accidentally left the public-address system on, broadcasting the secret meeting to Tom Cullen sitting on a bench in City Hall.
Writing on President Trump: 鈥淗e is a fool. He is ignorant. People who prop up an ignoramus should question themselves, unless they don鈥檛 have the wits to recognize it.鈥�
On Iowa鈥檚 revered presidential caucus: 鈥淚t鈥檚 ugly. It鈥檚 dishonest.鈥�
On the Buena Vista County Board of Supervisors: 鈥淭hey are doing everything they can to hide from the public鈥� the chutzpah of it.鈥�
On complaints that immigrants have undercut labor by taking slaughterhouse jobs at $15 an hour: 鈥淭he wages aren鈥檛 Manhattan, but they鈥檙e enough to get by in Storm Lake. It is the best a proud person illiterate in English from El Salvador could hope for. It offers the freedom that is yet a dream in Myanmar. It offers peace from the civil war in Sudan, and a place for the long-wandering migrant to plant some roots.鈥�
He saves his strongest acid for US Rep. Steve King, the Republican who has won seven elections in the northwest Iowa district (though he did not carry Storm Lake in the last one). Representative King is an arch-conservative on abortion rights, gun rights, and his comments on immigrants are, in the eyes of critics, thinly covered racism. Mexicans 鈥渉ave calves the size of cantaloupes because they鈥檙e hauling 75 pounds of marijuana across the desert,鈥� King has said. America 鈥渃an't restore our civilization with somebody else's babies,鈥� he has said.
鈥淗e feeds off what we say,鈥� Cullen acknowledges. 鈥淚 can be his foil.鈥�
Do you ever pull punches?
鈥淣o.鈥� A pause. 鈥淲ell, yes, yes I do. But not with morally reprehensible people.鈥�
With whom?
鈥淏ankers!鈥� Cullen laughs explosively. 鈥淲hen you are $500,000 in debt on revenues of $700,000, you are careful.鈥�
