America’s Democracy Was Never That Healthy

Much like the modern-day phrase “sorry but not sorry,” which is used sarcastically to indicate a lack of remorse, the brief ceremony at Virginia’s Appomattox Court House in April 1865, which brought the armed fighting to an end, was a surrender but not a surrender. White supremacists in the states of the old Confederacy wanted still to reign supreme. Little over a decade later, following the collapse of Reconstruction—an attempt to make good for African Americans the promise of emancipation—enslavement was replaced by segregation. Across the American South, Jim Crow was in the chair.

Now, though, I would amend my advice. I would urge young reporters to reach back even further into history. The roots of modern-day polarization, and even the origins of former President Donald Trump, can be located in the country’s troubled birth. Division has always been the default setting. Victory over the British Redcoats at the Battle of Yorktown paved the way for independence but did not mean U.S. nationhood was a given.

Between the end of the Revolutionary War in 1783 and the start of the Philadelphia Constitutional Convention in 1787, it seemed as if the states might enter into two or three confederations rather than a singular nation as the former British colonies struggled to overcome their antagonisms. “No morn ever dawned more favourable than ours did,” a melancholic George Washington wrote to James Madison in November 1786, “and no day was ever more clouded than the present!”

The Constitution that Washington pushed for, and which was eventually hammered out in Philadelphia, was in many ways an agreement to keep on disagreeing. Compromises that prolonged and protected the institution of slavery—a Faustian bargain that became the price of national unity—created a fault line that was always likely to rupture and explode. It rumbles to this day. Even a Black presidency could not repair the breach.

So many contemporary problems can be traced back to those founding days. U.S. democracy has become so diseased because for most of the country’s history, it has not been that healthy. “We the People,” the rousing words that opened the preamble to the Constitution, was not conceived of as an inclusive statement or catchall for mass democracy. Rather, this ill-defined term referred to what in modern terminology might be called the body politic. Much of the deliberations in Philadelphia focused on how that body politic should be restrained in an intricately designed straitjacket, hence the creation of countermajoritarian mechanisms such as the Electoral College and Senate.

To describe the outcome as an experiment in “democracy” is misleading: The Founding Fathers did not care for the word, which is nowhere to be found either in the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution. When the country’s second president, John Adams, used the term “democratical,” it was intended as a slur. The fear of what some of the founders called an “excess of democracy” explains the thinking behind a quote from Adams that has resurfaced during the Trump years: “Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There never was a democracy yet that did not commit suicide.” Adams’s fear was not of unchecked presidential power, the meaning projected onto the quote in relation to Trump. More worrying for him was unchecked people power.

The right to vote was never specifically enshrined in the Constitution, an omission that continues to astound many Americans. To this day, there is no positive affirmation of the right to vote. It is framed negatively—it should not be denied, rather than it should be granted. With good reason, voting is often called the missing right.

Not until the mid-1960s, with the passage of the 1965 Voting Rights Act, did the United States finally achieve what could truly be described as universal suffrage. In the South, Black people could finally cast ballots without being subjected to humiliating “literacy tests,” where they would be asked unanswerable questions such as how to interpret arcane clauses of state constitutions.

No sooner had this landmark legislation become law, however, than efforts to reverse it cranked into gear. So began what has turned out to be a decades-long campaign of de-democratization. It was spearheaded by the Republican Party, which needed to restrict minority voting rights because the demographic trend lines, and the transition toward a minority-majority nation, were thought to favor the Democrats.

These efforts were aided to a disconcerting degree by the conservative-dominated Supreme Court, with rulings that drastically weakened the provisions of the Voting Rights Act. For example, in 2013, Shelby County v. Holder gutted the act’s all-important Section 5, which forced jurisdictions with a history of racial discrimination to “preclear” with the Justice Department any proposed voting changes. In a 5-4 judgment, the conservative justices decided that preclearance was now obsolete because voter registration had shown such dramatic improvements. Yet as the liberal justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg pointed out in an unusually strong dissenting opinion, ending preclearance was akin to “throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm because you are not getting wet.”

The insurrection on Jan. 6, 2021, then, should not be seen in isolation. It was the culmination of a prolonged assault on democracy that predated the rise of Trump. The attack continued, moreover, after the insurrectionists had been dispersed and the floors of Congress scrubbed clean of excrement. That night, 147 Republicans returned to the chambers to cast votes to challenge or overturn Joe Biden’s presidential victory.

Political violence is a core part of the U.S. story, although much of this history has often been buried and concealed. At the end of the 1960s, a commission appointed by President Lyndon B. Johnson to investigate why the United States was so prone to political assassination concluded that the country suffered from “a kind of historical amnesia or selective recollection that masks unpleasant traumas of the past.” It also noted that “the revolutionary doctrine that our Declaration of Independence proudly proclaims is mistakenly cited as a model for legitimate violence.”

Indeed, the Jan. 6 insurrection showed how political violence is still seen as legitimate and even rendered glorious. Many of the insurrectionists chanted “1776” as they stormed the Capitol. “We’re walking down the same exact path as the Founding Fathers,” claimed Stewart Rhodes, a former Army paratrooper with a Yale University law degree. (Rhodes helped establish the Oath Keepers, a militia group launched on April 19, 2009, the anniversary of when rebels and Redcoats first exchanged fire.) The day before the insurrection, Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene described it as “our 1776 moment.”

Many far-right extremists are inspired by words from Thomas Jefferson that, unlike the poetry of his Declaration of Independence, never made it into high school textbooks or onto the teleprompters of modern-day presidents. “I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical,” Jefferson wrote in 1787, a quote that has now become a far-right meme. “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots” is another of Jefferson’s sayings that has been co-opted by modern-day militias.

Often I recall the day of Biden’s inauguration, which took place on a platform that only two weeks earlier had been used as a staging post for the insurrection. It was festooned with red, white, and blue bunting, but it still felt like a crime scene that should have been sequestered with yellow tape. As I made my way to my camera position on the press stand, I noticed that technicians were testing the giant teleprompter in front of the presidential podium. And I recognized the words on the screen: “Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.”

The teleprompter had been loaded with the 272 words of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in November 1863. Maybe it was some kind of sick joke. A rogue technician, perhaps, with a dark sense of humor. But these passages from the country’s most celebrated sermon could hardly be described as out of place. The question at the heart of the speech, and which had also been posed at the country’s founding, was being asked anew: Can this nation long endure?

My sense—my ardent hope—is that the conditions do not yet exist for all-out armed conflict, a second civil war, partly because the United States has accumulated so much muscle memory in coping with its perpetual state of division. But nor do the conditions exist for reconciliation and rapprochement. Nowhere near. So the United States occupies a strange betwixt and between: close to abyss, but a step or two back from the edge. Going to hell, as the wit Andy Rooney once observed, without ever getting there.

The U.S. historian Richard Hofstadter, famed for identifying what he called the “paranoid style in American politics,” put it well: “The nation seems to slouch onward into its uncertain future like some huge inarticulate beast, too much attainted by wounds and ailments to be robust, but too strong and resourceful to succumb.” The fact that Hofstadter published those words at the start of the 1970s speaks to how the United States remains stuck in a rut—revisiting the same arguments, going over the same ground. Americans remain tethered to their contested past. The news cycle is the historical cycle in microcosm. As Lincoln put it in his message to Congress in December 1862: “We cannot escape history.”

So even if the United States does not descend into civil war, it is hard to envision it ever reaching a state of civil peace. The forever war will continue: America’s unending conflict with itself.