Rage-giving, innovation and cuts: How public media has survived without federal funds

David Folkenflik Lori Walsh was laid off and her public affairs show canceled following the loss of federal funding. She's now back at South Dakota Public Broadcasting as a podcaster, thanks to an outpouring of financial support from listeners. Aaron C. Packard for NPR hide caption A year ago, President Trump drove a conservative backlash against NPR and PBS straight to Capitol Hill, where Congress stripped public radio and television stations of nearly all federal funding. When his signature turned that bill into law, Trump ended nearly six decades of bipartisan support for funding public media. Since then, more than 500 public media staffers have been laid off, according to a tally by SemiPublic. And yet station officials across the country have reacted with a sense of urgency, hope and anxiety. Urgency because change is being forced upon them. Hope because listeners, viewers and philanthropists stepped up. "All of this exists because of viewers like you," PBS CEO Paula Kerger said at an event at the Chautauqua Institution this summer. "We have said this on the air for many, many years. And I think, until this year, people didn't quite fully realize what that means." Anxiety because station executives do not know how long that support will last. While NPR was the main target of conservatives' wrath, it had received less than 2% of its annual revenue directly from the federal government. It was a different story elsewhere. Federal funding made up, on average, 8 to 10% of public radio stations' budgets; for PBS and public television stations, the share was even higher. Rural stations, with the fewest donors, depended the most on government support. South Dakota Public Broadcasting was among the stations that paid the price immediately after Trump signed the law withdrawing federal funds. For years, host Lori Walsh of the weekly public affairs show In the Moment had set the agenda for the people of South Dakota by interviewing authors, storekeepers, politicians and other state residents in what she called "kitchen table conversations." South Dakota Public Broadcasting canceled the show. It laid off seven of its 11 journalists, including Walsh and her two-person production staff. "We went through a real grieving period of saying goodbye to beloved staff members and really qualified journalists and professionals," Walsh recalls now. Ryan Howlett is the chief executive of the private foundation that supports South Dakota Public Broadcasting. Aaron C. Packard for NPR hide caption Many stations did the same. PBS laid off 15% of its workforce. NPR this year reduced the staff that produces news, podcasts and music by about 4%, mostly through buyouts of its journalists. The Corporation for Public Broadcasting, which had been set up in 1967 expressly to funnel federal money to local stations, went out of business. In order to keep funding from her state's government, South Dakota Public Broadcasting Executive Director Julie Overgaard had promised to continue devoting gavel-to-gavel, C-SPAN-like coverage to the state legislature, and to continue broadcasting all high-school varsity games and performing arts competitions. That left little choice but to cut the newsroom. But in that dark moment, a funny thing was playing out: something Ryan Howlett calls "white-hot rage-giving." Howlett, the chief executive of the private foundation that supports South Dakota Public Broadcasting, says angry listeners and viewers opened their wallets, starting even before Congress passed the bill. "We found just a bunch of first-time givers in the four- and five-figure range that we had never had before," he says. That rage- giving led to a record $8 million haul. The station hired Walsh back. She no longer has a broadcast show or producers, but Walsh has stayed true to the spirit of In the Moment through a daily podcast and a extended daily segment on Morning Edition bearing the same name. Walsh conducts an interview with musician Matt Fockler, as he plays an acoustic guitar. Aaron C. Packard for NPR hide caption She's covered the race for governor, a street piano for anyone to play in the city of Vermillion and a recent archeological find. "I do think people miss the full 'kitchen table' experience of In The Moment," Walsh says.