The twilight of American democracy

If it dies, who will have killed it?

These days, it is difficult to direct one’s attention toward a reputable publication without landing on a piece about the failing health of American democracy. The outlook is indeed grim. January 6th was a shock to the system, what we’ve learned about efforts to overturn the last election since that time suggests that matters were substantially worse than we knew, and yet over the past year those campaigning to make it easier to overturn a future election have on the whole been far more successful than those campaigning to strengthen our democratic institutions. At this point, the best reason to think that the voters’ choice in 2024 will be respected is that Democrats are likely to lose. But in that case 2024 might well be the last legitimate election in America for a while. It is of course possible that things could change; American democracy is not dead yet. Barring some radical development, it may have only a few years left to live.

If America does suffer from a terminal illness, what exactly is it? It is worth noting that democracy has been in retreat across much of the globe. That doesn’t necessarily mean that there isn’t a uniquely American pathology at work—America is a big and influential place whose ailments are often contagious—but it does suggest that what has gone wrong in America is at least somewhat related to forces which are globally relevant. 

A few possibilities spring to mind. China’s rise certainly seems notable, as a phenomenon which has validated the potential of an authoritarian government to generate material benefits for its people (those of the right ethnicity, at any rate). Globalization too may deserve some blame. Dani Rodrik once argued that countries faced a globalization trilemma, in which they could have at most two of deep economic integration, national sovereignty and democracy—the idea being that the harmonization of policies required to eliminate barriers to trade across economies would necessarily mean ignoring some domestic political interests. When he first described the trilemma, Rodrik optimistically suggested that it would be national sovereignty which would be discarded, as the world moved toward global democracy. Pessimists grumbled that it was more likely that economic integration would be rolled back. In the end, it seems that neither camp was quite gloomy enough.

The other great global suspect is of course the internet. Though we ought really to have expected it, the yawning chasm between the hopes idealists had for the internet and the mess we’ve ended up with is among the most disillusioning of the past generation’s developments. Our digital world is one in which nefarious actors roam freely, preying on the trust society painstakingly built over long years, constructing labyrinths of disinformation in which people become hopelessly lost, turning the social instincts which help structure a functional community against us. Or perhaps it’s done something else, and rather allowed us to become our truer selves, unbound by the norms we couldn’t help but respect when looking others in the eyes. 

Whatever the precise nature of the poison, the upshot is a world in which it is very nearly impossible for a polity to establish common truths and hash them out in relatively good faith. Perhaps that doesn’t go far enough; maybe it is a world in which the very idea of a polity—of a body of individuals whose geographical extent, political institutions and shared civic identity are roughly coterminous—is an anachronism. Maybe in a time with different sorts of pressures than we’ve experienced, a better internet and a better politics might have been possible. At any rate: here we are.

Still, identifying the challenges posed by these forces does not tell us how they, or anything else for that matter, actually did for American democracy. The economist in me is tempted to couch the problem in terms of costs and benefits: it could simply be the case that, for many people, the perceived benefits to having a democracy no longer justify the costs of supporting one. Democracy is hard work, and if it isn’t paying off for people then we might forgive them for turning their back on it. The federal government has looked a wreck for the past two decades, after all. Over that period, if you were well off, you stayed well off, which meant that it didn’t much matter to you what happened in Washington, and if you weren’t well off you mostly stayed that way, which meant that throwing out the bums and replacing them with other bums was hardly worth the trouble.

But in the end, I don’t think that’s right. A lot of people tuned out politics in the 1990s, when the economy was good and the electoral stakes seemed small, but political engagement has increased quite a lot since then. Turnout is up across both parties. People aren’t disengaging from political activism because it doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

Much of the country would like to believe that America’s political crisis doesn’t reflect a broad erosion of support for democracy, but is rather a matter of one party taking a very wrong turn and barreling off a cliff. And truly, there is no mistaking the massive asymmetry in the parties’ respect for democratic norms and institutions, or that in the malevolence of the parties’ respective supporting institutions and media ecosystems. And with a system of government like ours— riddled with veto points and entirely dependent upon some shared respect for the project and shared interest in its survival—one party gone rogue is likely enough to doom the whole enterprise. 

One has to admit, though, that Democrats have not governed as if the republic is at stake. Not since January of this year; not during the Obama years. At no point have they gone whole hog for what is annoyingly termed “popularism”, but neither have they attempted to enact a boldly left-wing agenda. They have not attempted to strategically strengthen institutions which have traditionally made up a formidable part of left-wing political coalitions: like labor unions, for instance. The party’s swing legislators often seem to care more about the limelight than democracy, while its stars often appear to be more interested in cashing in than in fighting the good fight. It won’t be Barack Obama’s fault if American democracy crumbles, but there is something dispiriting and telling about a young, popular, charismatic ex-president of great integrity making Netflix docs and recording podcasts with Springsteen while the republic nears its end.

It is letting Democratic voters off too easily, though, to say that they have been failed, rather than failing themselves. There have of course been people who have worked tirelessly to organize and support good candidates and help build momentum for reform, of voting rights and in other policy areas. There are people who have tried very hard to avert what seems increasingly inevitable. There have also been people—far too many people—who appear to prefer a sense of self-righteousness to a democracy, comfort to solidarity, money to justice. That’s not to say that you can reason with people who have fallen down the Q hole, or that you should accept the views of political opponents who don’t believe black Americans deserve the same political rights as white Americans. But it is not just Republicans’ fault that in this country it takes a fancy college degree and quite a lot of money to be considered worthy of respect and dignity.

Yet having said all that, the problem does in some way feel bigger. It feels like a problem quite a long time in the making: a problem of eroding civic ethics and disdain for community life and inattention to questions of class and power and values. It seems—and the twenty year old college-going Ryan in me absolutely groans to admit it—as though some and perhaps quite a lot of the annoying social criticism of the past 75 years might have been right. Maybe it is a problem that American society is so focused on material riches and fleeting pleasures. Maybe we should worry if communities wither and the various cultural institutions that help bind us together disappear. Maybe greed isn’t good and the notion that the most talented among us have no obligation to society apart from getting rich is actually kind of stupid. Maybe we are all responsible in some important way for the welfare of those around us and the health of our society.

Maybe not. But an enduring democracy isn’t just a routine competition among factions at the ballot box. It is an expression of something more: a profound, mutual respect among citizens, such that each is willing to place his fate in the others’ hands—even happy to do so—knowing that we all of us have our worth and our wisdom. It is an expression of the conviction that it is right that we should collectively govern ourselves, because we are free people, and because no one else will do it better.

No one else will do it better. But they may yet get their turn.