Sunday, February 28, 2021
The making of Madison Cawthorn: How falsehoods helped propel the career of a new pro-Trump star of the far right
Saturday, February 27, 2021
No, the Tuskegee Study Is Not the Top Reason Some Black Americans Question the COVID-19 Vaccine
No, the Tuskegee Study Is Not the Top Reason Some Black Americans Question the COVID-19 Vaccine
A group of men who were part of the infamous 'Tuskegee Study of Untreated Syphilis in the Negro Male,' a government-sponsored study that ran for decades before it was officially shut down in 1972. (National Archives)
KQED
By April Dembosky Feb 25
As more surveys come out showing that Black Americans are more hesitant than white Americans to get the coronavirus vaccine, more journalists, politicians and health officials — from New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo to Dr. Anthony Fauci — are invoking the infamous Tuskegee syphilis study to explain why.
'If you continue to use it as a way of explaining why many African Americans are hesitant, it almost absolves you of having to learn more, do more, involve other people – admit that racism is actually a thing today.’Karen Lincoln, USC social work professor
“It's ‘Oh, Tuskegee, Tuskegee, Tuskegee,’ and it's mentioned every single time,” says Karen Lincoln, a professor of social work at the University of Southern California. “We make these assumptions that it's Tuskegee. We don't ask people.”
When she asks the Black seniors she works with in Los Angeles about the vaccine, Tuskegee rarely comes up. People in the community are more interested in talking about contemporary racism and barriers to health care, she says, while it seems to be mainly academics and officials who are preoccupied with the history of Tuskegee.
“It's a scapegoat,” Lincoln says. “It’s an excuse. If you continue to use it as a way of explaining why many African Americans are hesitant, it almost absolves you of having to learn more, do more, involve other people – admit that racism is actually a thing today.”
It’s the health inequities of today that Maxine Toler, 72, hears about when she talks to her friends and neighbors in LA about the vaccine. Toler is president of her city’s senior advocacy council and her neighborhood block club. She and most of the other Black seniors she talks to want the vaccine, but are having trouble getting it, she says, and that alone is sowing mistrust.
Maxine Toler, 72, lives near Los Angeles, and has been asking her neighbors why they do or do not want the vaccine. (Heidi de Marco/KHN)
Those who don’t want the vaccine have very modern reasons for not wanting it. They tell Toler it’s because of religious beliefs, safety concerns or distrust for the former U.S. president and his relationship to science. Only a handful mention Tuskegee, she says, and when they do, they’re fuzzy on the details of what happened during the 40-year study.
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“If you ask them what was it about and why do you feel like it would impact your receiving the vaccine, they can't even tell you,” she says.
Toler remembers, and says the history is a distraction; it’s not relevant to what’s happening now.
“It's almost the opposite of Tuskegee,” she says. “Because they were being denied treatment. And this is like, we're pushing people forward: Go and get this vaccine. We want everybody to be protected from COVID.”
Questioning the Tuskegee Legacy
The “Tuskegee Study of Untreated Syphilis in the Negro Male” was a government-sponsored, taxpayer-funded study that began in 1932. Some people believe that researchers injected the men with syphilis, but that’s not true. Rather, they recruited 399 Black men from Alabama who already had the disease, though the government doctors never told them they had it.
Instead, researchers told the men they had come to cure “bad blood,” though they never intended to cure anything. Even when a cure for syphilis – penicillin – became widely available in the 1940s, the researchers withheld it and continued the study for decades, determined to track the disease to its end point: autopsy.
By the time the study was exposed and shut down in 1972, 128 of the men involved had died from syphilis or related complications; 40 of their wives and 19 children had also been infected.
A group of Tuskegee study test subjects in 1972. (National Archives)
With a horrific history like this, many scientists assumed that Black people would never want to participate in clinical research again. Over the next three decades, various books, articles and films repeated this assumption until it became gospel.
“That was a false assumption,” says Dr. Rueben Warren, director of the National Center for Bioethics in Research and Health Care at Tuskegee University in Alabama, and former associate director of Minority Health at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, from 1988 to 1997.
Several researchers began to question this assumption at a 1994 bioethics conference, where almost all the speakers seemed to accept it as a given. The doubters asked, what kind of scientific evidence is there to support the notion that Black people would refuse to participate in research because of Tuskegee?
When those researchers did a comprehensive search of the existing literature, they found nothing.
“It was apparently a ‘fact’ known more in the gut than in the head,” wrote lead doubter Ralph Katz, a dentist from New York.
Ralph Katz (left) and Rueben Warren, both dentists, together edited the book 'The Search for the Legacy of the USPHS Syphilis Study at Tuskegee.' (Amos Ezra Katz)
So Katz formed a research team to look for this evidence. They completed a series of studies over the next 14 years, focused mainly on surveying thousands of people across seven cities, from Baltimore to San Antonio to Tuskegee.
The conclusions were definitive: While Black people were twice as “wary” of participating in research, as compared to white people, they were equally willing to actually participate. And, there was no association between knowledge of Tuskegee and willingness to participate.
“The hesitancy is there, but the refusal is not. And that's an important difference,” says Warren, who later joined Katz in editing “The Search for the Legacy of the USPHS Syphilis Study at Tuskegee,” a book about the research. “Hesitant, yes. But not refusal.”
Tuskegee was not the deal breaker everyone thought it was.
These results did not go over well within academic and government research circles, Warren says, as they “indicted and contradicted” the common belief that low minority enrollment in research was the result of Tuskegee.
“That was the excuse that they used,” Warren says. “If I don't want to go to the extra energy, resources to include the population, I can simply say they were not interested. They refused.”
Now, researchers had to confront the real problem. Many of them never invited Black people to participate in their studies in the first place. When they did, they didn’t try very hard. For example, two studies of cardiovascular disease offered enrollment to more than 2,000 white people, compared to no more than 30 people from minority groups.
“We have a tendency to use Tuskegee as a scapegoat, for us, as researchers, not doing what we need to do to ensure that people are well-educated about the benefits of participating in a clinical trial,” says B. Lee Green, vice president of diversity at Moffitt Cancer Center in Florida, who worked on the early research.
“There may be individuals in the community who absolutely remember Tuskegee, and we should not discount that,” he adds. But hesitancy “is more related to individuals’ lived experiences, what people live each and every day.”
‘It’s What Happened to Me Yesterday’
Some of the same presumptions that were made about clinical research are resurfacing today around the coronavirus vaccine. A lot of hesitancy is being confused for refusal, Warren says. And so many of the entrenched structural barriers that are limiting access to the vaccine in Black communities are not being sufficiently addressed.
Tuskegee is once again being used as a scapegoat, says USC professor of social work Karen Lincoln.
“If you say Tuskegee, then you don't have to acknowledge things like pharmacy deserts, things like poverty and unemployment,” she says. “You can just say, ‘That happened then. Things are different now and there’s nothing we can do about it.’ ”
She says the contemporary failures of the health care system are causing more distrust than the events of the past.
“It's what happened to me yesterday,” she says. “Not what happened in the '50s or '60s, when Tuskegee was actually active.”
USC social work professor Karen Lincoln talks with attendees at an event hosted by the group she founded, Advocates for African American Elders. (Jason Duncan/for AAAE)
The seniors she works with, through her group Advocates for African American Elders, complain all the time about doctors dismissing their concerns and talking down to them, or nurses answering the hospital call buttons for their white roommates more often than for them.
'The hesitancy is there, but the refusal is not. And that's an important difference.'Dr. Rueben Warren, Tuskegee University
They point to the recent Facebook Live video of Susan Moore as a prime example of the unequal treatment Black people receive. Moore, a Black doctor from Indiana who got COVID-19, filmed herself from her hospital bed, an oxygen tube in her nose. She said she had to beg her physician to continue her course of Remdesivir, the drug that speeds up recovery from the disease.
“He said, ‘Ah, you don't need it. You're not even short of breath.’ I said ‘Yes, I am,’ ” Moore said into the camera. “I put forward and I maintain, if I was white, I wouldn't have to go through that.”
Moore died two weeks later.
“She knew what kind of treatment she should be getting and she wasn't getting it,” said Maxine Toler, the 72-year-old from LA. “We saw it up close and personal with the president, that he got the best of everything. They cured him in a couple of days, and our people are dying like flies.”
Toler and her neighbors are watching the same inequity play out with the vaccine. The first mass vaccination sites set up in LA – at Dodger Stadium and Disneyland – are difficult to get to from Black neighborhoods without a car, and you practically needed a computer science degree to get an online appointment for the early doses.
White people are snatching up appointments, even at clinics intended for disadvantaged communities, while people of color can’t get through. So far, Black people make up just 2.9% of Californians who have received the vaccination, even though they account for 6.2% of the state’s COVID-19 deaths.
It’s stories like these that stoke mistrust, Lincoln says. “And the word travels fast when people have negative experiences. They share it.”
The key to addressing this mistrust requires a paradigm shift, says Warren of Tuskegee University. If you want Black people to trust doctors and trust the vaccine, don’t blame them for distrusting it, he says. The obligation is on health institutions to first show they are trustworthy: to listen, take responsibility, show accountability and stop making excuses. That, he adds, means providing information about the vaccine without being paternalistic and making it easier to access in Black communities.
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“Prove yourself trustworthy and trust will follow,” he says.
In defense of partisanship — the right kind. By EJ Dionne Jr
In defense of partisanship — the right kind. By EJ Dionne Jr
President Biden speaks prior to signing an executive order, aimed at addressing a global semiconductor chip shortage on Feb. 24.
Opinion by E.J. Dionne Jr.
Feb. 25, 2021 at 7:22 a.m. GMT+9
If we want our democratic system to work well again, we need to put aside lazy intellectual habits that misdiagnose the problems we face. Few mistakes are more destructive to the right ordering of American politics than misunderstandings of “partisanship.”
What we get wrong is casting all forms of partisanship as destructive.
In fact, political parties and a reasoned loyalty to them are essential to the functioning of a democratic system. At their best, parties organize conflict and channel it down constructive paths. In any healthy society, people will disagree about what they value most — think, for starters, about the relative priority of liberty, equality and community. Even when they agree on values, citizens will differ over which policies will best advance them.
As I have occasionally written to readers exercising their right to complain about my views, disagreement is one of the joys of freedom.
In her book “On the Side of the Angels: An Appreciation of Parties and Partisanship,” the political philosopher Nancy L. Rosenblum notes that partisans accept “pluralism and political conflict” as a positive good. Partisans, she writes, “see themselves as firmly on the side of the angels,” but acknowledge their partiality. This encourages them to embrace both “political self-restraint” and “mental and emotional discipline.”
And that gets at our problem now — not partisanship as such, but a flight from those disciplines. And while you are free to accuse me of partisanship, I’d insist that what is happening in the Republican Party is objectively a grave threat to the proper functioning of the party system.
Functional partisanship demands, at the bare minimum, commitments to abide by the results of free elections, to tell the truth about those elections and to offer all citizens equal opportunities to participate in the electoral process.
Large sections of the Republican Party, led by former president Donald Trump, are failing on all three. Trump and a majority of self-identified members of his party have still not accepted President Biden’s election. At least as bad is the refusal by a large number of Republicans still serving in government to say the simple words: Biden won fair and square.
The shameful squirming of Rep. Steve Scalise (R-La.) on ABC’s “This Week” on Sunday was just the latest example of a Trump supporter refusing to repudiate his Big Lie.
The best Scalise could do was to say of Biden that “once the electors are counted, yes, he’s the legitimate president.” Scalise then flipped into a lot of folderol about doubts about the election, including the assertion that “there are people concerned about what the next election is going to look like. Are we going to finally get back to the way the rule of law works?”
Scalise’s “get back to” stuff is double talk to rationalize the efforts of Republicans in Georgia and elsewhere to roll back advances during the pandemic that made it easier for Americans to vote. Some of the GOP moves (such as getting rid of Sunday voting) are designed specifically to disempower Black voters.
Stopping these attacks on participation will require action by Congress through the provisions of the democracy reform bill the House is expected to pass soon, and a renewal of the Voting Rights Act gutted by Supreme Court conservatives.
Voting rights were once a cross-party cause, but no longer. Yet if basic constitutional guarantees can pass only by a “partisan” vote (and by pushing back against the filibuster), are we supposed to abandon them because they fail to meet some “bipartisan” golden mean?
Of course not, and former congressman Tom Perriello (D-Va.) explains why. “The unity America needs is not between two parties but among all of those who are committed to inclusive democracy governed by the Constitution, fair elections, and the rule of law,” he writes in Democracy (a journal with which I have a long association). “Ironically today, these values are considered universal but not bipartisan.”
The best kind of partisanship, based on those universal values, promotes fierce but constructive arguments. It acknowledges that in a good society, most political differences involve not a choice between good versus evil, but among competing goods — efficiency, security, entrepreneurship, fairness, individualism and solidarity, to name a few. Compromise (along with, yes, bipartisanship) is easier when we’re honest about the trade-offs we’re making.
But that brand of small-D democratic partisanship requires agreement on certain fundamentals, not the least being a shared commitment to truth and a willingness to let the voters decide — all the voters, not an electorate rigged through voter suppression.
So our fight should not be against partisanship. It should be in favor of rehabilitating the vibrant and honest partisanship on which democracy depends.
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The missing piece of the minimum wage debate
The missing piece of the minimum wage debate
History shows that boosting the minimum wage leads to consumer spending
By Colleen Doody
Colleen Doody is associate professor of history at DePaul University and a public voices fellow of The OpEd Project.
Feb. 25, 2021 at 8:00 p.m. GMT+9
As part of his massive $1.9 trillion emergency pandemic relief plan, President Biden called on Congress to raise the federal minimum wage to $15 an hour from the current $7.25. Democratic senators are waiting for a ruling from the Senate parliamentarian on whether such a provision can be in the relief bill and debating whether to raise the minimum wage to $15 or some lower amount.
The debate over a minimum-wage increase has been fierce. Supporters claim raising the minimum wage would benefit women and people of color — the very demographics hurt the most by the coronavirus pandemic.
Yet opponents argue it would increase unemployment because higher wages would force small businesses, already under economic duress because of the pandemic, to lay off employees.
This conversation, however, ignores just what increasing the minimum wage does to the larger economy. To understand the intent of the federal minimum wage, it is necessary to look at the original minimum wage legislation — the 1938 Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA), an enduring part of President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal.
As with much New Deal legislation, the aim was to create what New Dealers called purchasing power. The basic idea: Raising wages would increase consumption, thus giving businesses the incentive to hire more workers. It worked, reminding us today that mandating higher wages doesn’t just increase standards of living. It boosts the economy.
Many New Dealers believed the Great Depression was caused by underconsumption. Productivity among American manufacturers doubled during the 1920s while wages lagged. As American manufacturers churned out increasing numbers of consumer durables, particularly automobiles, consumer spending did not keep up. Businesses couldn’t sell their inventories, and so they began cutting costs and laying off workers. The economy spiraled downward.
Advocates of increased purchasing power argued that raising wages would increase consumption, thus giving businesses the incentive to hire workers. Edward Filene, the founder of the Filene’s department store chain and an advocate for boosting consumption, argued that “increased production demands increased buying.” According to Filene, “the greatest total profits can be obtained only if the masses can and do enjoy a higher and ever higher standard of living. Mass production is production for the masses.”
Roosevelt agreed. In his 1938 State of the Union address, he explained that when millions of workers receive “pay so low that they have little buying power” they were unable to “buy their share of manufactured goods.” Raising wages would stimulate the national economy by allowing workers to purchase the goods and services they produced. Because the national economy depended on consumer spending, helping consumers buy would benefit the nation as a whole.
Minimum-wage legislation, Roosevelt argued, was thus “an essential part of economic recovery.” Congress agreed and passed the 1938 Fair Labor Standards Act, which created the first federal minimum wage (25 cents per hour, to increase to between 30 and 40 cents per hour) and restricted the workweek to 44 hours. After Roosevelt signed the bill, he said in one of his fireside chats, “Without question it starts us toward a better standard of living and increases purchasing power to buy the products of farm and factory.”
Along with stabilizing the economy to avoid the recurring economic downturns the nation suffered regularly between the 1870s and 1930s, a nationwide minimum wage would improve the quality of life for the poorest areas of the country. Communities where the average wages were low, Roosevelt pointed out, also had the “poorest educational facilities and the worst conditions of health” because their tax base was inadequate to support a functioning local government.
That was especially true for the South. The per capita income in Mississippi, for example, was $216 in 1940, compared with $676 in Michigan. At the same time, the life expectancy at birth in Mississippi was 60.7 years, while it was 63.4 years for men and 64.4 years for women in Michigan. The per capita income in South Carolina was $301 compared with $648 in Pennsylvania. The number of women in South Carolina who died during childbirth was more than twice the rate in Pennsylvania. The statistics certainly supported Roosevelt’s assertion that low wages and poor health conditions went hand in hand. Not surprisingly, the FLSA had its greatest impact in the South, where 54 percent of the workers earning less than 30 cents per hour in 1939 were located.
Southern Democratic congressmen, whose business constituents embraced the region’s low wages as a way to attract Northern businesses, objected to the law. They recognized that a federally mandated wage threatened legal segregation. Rep. Martin Dies (D-Tex.), for example, complained about the FSLA because “what is prescribed for one race must be prescribed for the others, and you cannot prescribe the same wages for the black man as for the white man.”
To get the bill through Congress, Roosevelt caved to Southern segregationists. The Roosevelt administration modified the legislation to ensure it passed Congress, notably excluding farmworkers and domestic workers, two professions that were heavily African American, from its provisions. As a result of these Jim Crow policies, many Southern African Americans didn’t earn the minimum wage. While Roosevelt sought to raise the living standard in the poorest region of the country, he was unwilling to challenge the system of legal segregation that kept Southern wages so low.
The FSLA applied only to employers involved in interstate commerce and so did not cover service employees, many of whom were women. As with other key New Deal laws like the Social Security Act, many women and minorities were therefore deprived of the legal protections the FLSA provided.
Despite its very real shortcomings, the federal minimum wage along with other New Deal programs helped lead to the doubling of inflation-adjusted income for the bottom 20th percentile of wage workers between the end of World War II and the mid-1970s. That increase went hand-in-hand with relatively widely shared national prosperity during this period.
However, since the 1970s, overall economic growth has decreased while the income gap has widened. Those at the very top have seen their income and wealth increase dramatically while those at the bottom have struggled to stay afloat.
These long-term issues have been exacerbated by the pandemic. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, 10.1 million people are unemployed, up from 5.7 million at the start of the pandemic. The weak job numbers for January appear to show the recovery slowing, even as coronavirus rates have decreased. And the unemployment rate for African Americans (9.2 percent) and Latinos (8.6 percent) remains far higher than for Whites (5.7 percent). Over 2 million women, particularly women in traditionally low-paying service jobs, have left the labor force in the past year. All of these troubling statistics point to the need for action.
In the current debate over the $15 minimum wage, it is important to consider the type of economy that is best for most Americans. Is the intent to increase purchasing power and expand the population of workers who can afford to buy the goods and services they produce, as the New Deal did? Or is the goal to maintain an economy that ensures the lowest-paid Americans can barely afford food and shelter?
The choice seems obvious.
Republicans’ real beef with the Jan. 6 commission. By Jennifer Rubin
Republicans’ real beef with the Jan. 6 commission. By Jennifer Rubin
Opinion by Jennifer Rubin
Feb. 26, 2021 at 9:45 p.m. GMT+9
Sen. Ron Johnson (R-Wis.) is on a mission to pretend the violent insurrection at the Capitol on Jan. 6 had nothing to do with the man whose name appeared on the insurrectionists’ banners. It is not surprising others are following Johnson’s lead.
Even Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) has gotten into the act in fighting over the independent commission to study the insurrection. McConnell supports the “Ron Johnson school” of investigation, as House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) put it on Thursday, which would focus the commission either narrowly on Capitol security failures or on “the full scope of the political violence problem in this country,” as McConnell said on Wednesday. Both approaches would take the spotlight away from the real problem — the rise of white-supremacist extremism. While the media has fixated on the number of commission members each party would appoint (which Pelosi said could be negotiated), the speaker made clear the fight is over the scope of the commission.
On Feb. 13, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) said former president Trump could still be held accountable within the criminal justice system. (The Washington Post)
Imagine if the 9/11 Commission was limited to focus only on the events of the day of the attacks and prevented from reviewing radical Islamist terrorism. Or imagine if it was focused more broadly on all international violence. Neither scope would be appropriate. What McConnell calls “some artificial, politicized halfway point” is precisely what the 9/11 Commission examined.
In the 9/11 Commission’s much-lauded report, the commissioners explained its mandate was to look “at the facts and circumstances relating to the 9/11 terrorist attack . . . including those relating to intelligence agencies; law enforcement agencies; diplomacy; immigration, nonimmigrant visas, and border control; the flow of assets to terrorist organizations; commercial aviation; the role of congressional oversight and resource allocation; and other areas determined relevant by the Commission for its inquiry.” The scope of the new commission should align with that of the 9/11 Commission.
The problem is that the GOP has transformed into a cult of the person who instigated the attack, fed propaganda to radicalize his party and refused to denounce white supremacists. The party is thus terrified of recognizing that the problem of violent white supremacists is intrinsically linked to the disgraced former president and his accomplices.
Two issues arise as to the composition of the commission. First, can any Republican who propagated the Big Lie or objected to counting electoral votes serve on the commission? Certainly not, for that would be a conflict of interest. Second, why does any politician need to sit on the committee? Pelosi and McConnell could each appoint a national security professional who has not participated in partisan politics for a decade. Former CIA directors Michael Hayden and Leon Panetta would be ideal. Let them each pick three or four other commissioners, hire staff and get to work.
Republicans would love nothing better than to “move on,” as they insist. Their frantic effort to turn the page or at least to divert our attention goes to the nub of the political crisis we face: One party is untethered to facts, to democracy and to the American creed that defines our nation (“All men are created equal”), not race or religion.
The notion of a truly apolitical body must scare the dickens out of them, especially if it had subpoena power (with a swift enforcement mechanism that can be appealed to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia) and was responsible to no one but the American people. There will be no theatrics to delay the commission’s work. There will be no stonewalling. No sleazy attorney general to pre-spin the report. And that is precisely why we need a commission with ample scope, funds and power.
Early on Jan. 6, The Post's Kate Woodsome saw signs of violence hours before thousands of former president Donald Trump loyalists besieged the Capitol. (Joy Yi, Kate Woodsome/The Washington Post)
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Sputtering GOP opposition has given Democrats a big opening. Will they take it? By Paul Waldman
Sputtering GOP opposition has given Democrats a big opening. Will they take it? By Paul Waldman
Image without a caption
President Biden speaks about Small Business and the Paycheck Protection Program on Feb 22. (Jabin Botsford/The Washington Post)
Right now, Democrats are tying themselves in knots trying to figure out how to increase the minimum wage, something President Biden ran on, their entire party believes in, and which is overwhelmingly popular with the public. There is some disagreement among them — some want $15 an hour, while others would prefer $11 — but even the former would accept a smaller increase.
Yet the Senate parliamentarian has ruled that a straight minimum wage increase can’t pass via the reconciliation process — the only way to pass a bill with a simple majority vote — the details of which are incomprehensible, or endlessly maddening, or both.
So Democrats have to find some kind of fiscal somersault to try to get the minimum wage increase into the covid relief bill. Maybe they could impose a tax on companies that don’t increase their wages, or do something else to satisfy the parliamentarian by cloaking a non-budgetary provision in budgetary clothing.
This is no way to make laws. And what’s even worse is that it’s happening at a moment when Republicans — who in the past have been nothing if not skilled at undermining, vilifying, and sabotaging Democratic presidents — have seldom looked more feckless.
If I asked you to explain the Republican case against the covid relief bill, what would you say? Well, they think it’s too expensive, and they’d rather not give too much help to states and localities. But their arguments against it seem halfhearted, anemic, almost resigned. In fact, that’s how you could describe much of the Republican opposition to the Biden presidency as a whole.
This presents an extraordinary opportunity for Biden and congressional Democrats if they can see their way clear to take advantage of it.
This ought to be a moment when the GOP is back in its comfort zone. It’s not a party built for governing; Republicans no longer have much of a policy agenda, their leaders have become much more skilled at obstruction than at passing laws, and they have an enormous propaganda machine with a talent for creating fear and outrage. The party’s specialty is opposition.
So with Democrats in charge, Republicans should be in flow, controlling the field and dominating the conversation. Yet that’s not what’s happening at all. In fact, Republicans seem unable to find their opposition mojo.
One of the things they’ve done in the past is cast every new Democratic or liberal move as a harbinger of an impending apocalypse. Obamacare, they said in 2010, would destroy the American health care system. If gay people are allowed to marry, they said in 2004, the result would be the end of families and the breakdown of society. Both predictions proved ludicrously wrong, but at the time, they were highly effective means of motivating opposition.
Today you can still find such rhetoric, but you have to look for it. Social conservatives are getting exorcised about transgender rights — but much of the party seems uninterested in taking up this rallying cry. There’s plenty of apocalyptic rhetoric on Fox News, but it isn’t doing much to affect the rest of the debate (and Fox’s greatest influence comes when it shapes mainstream news coverage).
It’s partly because they just haven’t been able to take the hatred and fear their hardcore base feels for Biden and scale it up and out, which then affects their ability to whip up frenzied opposition to the things he’s trying to do. And the broader context matters, too: When we’re caught in a pandemic and an economic crisis, only so many people will get worked up about whether a transgender girl is allowed to play softball.
That gives Democrats the chance to move forward confidently with their agenda, an agenda that is enormously popular. Yet some in the party are still in the grip of the nonsensical belief that it’s more important to retain a Senate procedure whose purpose is to thwart progress than to pass laws that solve problems.
In every American state legislature and in most every legislature around the world, if there’s majority support for a bill, it passes. In almost all cases supermajorities are only required, if ever, on things like constitutional amendments.
And every argument the filibuster’s defenders make about it — that it produces deliberative debate, that it encourages bipartisanship, that it makes for cooperation and compromise — is simply wrong, as anyone who has been awake for the last couple of decades knows perfectly well.
The proof of all this is the fact that this covid relief bill will pass, because it’s the only thing Democrats can do without a supermajority. It’s a vital, popular bill that could have been done in cooperation with Republicans had they wanted, but instead they’ve decided to oppose it. Which is their right, but it also shows how a simple majority should be the requirement for more legislating — which can only happen if the filibuster is eliminated.
The first weeks of the Biden presidency show the path Democrats can take: Push forward with the popular and consequential parts of your agenda, don’t be distracted by bleating from Republicans, act as though the public is behind you (because it is), and you might find that the Republican opposition machine isn’t as potent as it used to be.
But none of that will be possible unless Democrats can deliver on their promises. If they let themselves be handcuffed by the filibuster, the Biden presidency will fail and Republicans will take control of Congress. In other words, Democrats will have done the job Republicans couldn’t do themselves.
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