By Kevin D. Williamson
Sunday, September 29, 2019
The fear of radicalism runs deep in our national DNA. So
does the love of it. It’s democratic politics as the ultimate
on-again/off-again romance.
The Founders themselves feared that various centrifugal
tendencies — faction, passions, democracy itself — would turn the
country away from its republican virtues and hence from its shared purpose and
ideals, replacing these with various radical enthusiasms. Our progressive
friends who at the moment are in a rage about the limits our Constitution puts
on democratic passions are a very good example of why those limits were put in
place.
Americans have frequently followed a pattern of flirting
with radicalism of one kind or another — usually nationalism, and usually in a
time of war — and then retreating from the edge when the crisis has passed.
Woodrow Wilson’s “war socialism” pulled the United States in a distinctly
national-socialist direction, and Warren G. Harding’s “return to normalcy”
campaign pulled it back. After the trauma of the Great Depression and World War
II, the grasping autocracy of Franklin Roosevelt’s government — his New Deal
was a frankly nationalist enterprise, from its politics to its aesthetics —
limped on during the Truman administration but was dissolved during the
Eisenhower years, a time of broad and deep but not radical conservatism.
The somewhat milder radicalism of the Kennedy-Johnson
programs and the more genuinely radical movement against their war in Vietnam
resuscitated Richard Nixon, who ended the war and, like Eisenhower (whom he had
served as vice president), took a consolidating and cautious approach to the
social-welfare initiatives of the preceding administrations. Nixon had a few
radical tastes of his own, such as wage and price controls, but it was his
venality and abuse of power that provoked a national reaction in the form of
Jimmy Carter, who brought to an end the career of the rather more promising
Gerald Ford. (A liberated Ford presidency is one of the great
what-might-have-beens of modern American politics.) Carter’s failures, which
damaged Americans’ pride, begat Ronald Reagan. The radicalism of the Reagan
administration — which was radical in the sense of being the first (and last)
ideologically and programmatically conservative presidency — was unusual in
that the rejoinder to it came in the form of the “kinder, gentler” politics of
his vice president, George H. W. Bush, rather than the installation of a
president from the opposite party. We think of vice presidents as likely
presidential contenders, but Bush was the first sitting vice president elected
to the presidency since Martin Van Buren in 1836. (And before Van Buren, it was
Thomas Jefferson.) The vote for Vice President Bush was a vote for moderated
continuity — for the same, but less of the same.
George H. W. Bush was the president at the end of
history: The Cold War was over, economic menaces such as runaway inflation
seemed to be a thing of the past, and the great game was won. Jesus Jones went
to No. 2 on the Billboard charts with a catchy song about perestroika.
The millennial party was getting started early, and so the nation decided to
let their guard down, take a break from granddad and his apple-a-day prudence,
and live a little with Bill Clinton, the former milk-and-water student radical
who promised to spend a bit of that peace dividend on such comfort projects as
national health care and the like.
And then something strange happened: Instead of reacting
to radicalism with a push for a new return to normalcy, Americans reacted to
the relatively moderate “New Democrat” and his celebrity pretensions with a
dose of radicalism in the form of Newt Gingrich and the 1994 Republican
“revolution.” George H. W. Bush was held in low esteem as a compromiser, but
his son George W. Bush of Texas soon was riding high. He was a lot like his
father (that is to his credit) and much more like his brother, the governor of
Florida, than is generally admitted. George W. Bush was no right-wing radical,
but he pushed the right cultural buttons (Texan, evangelical, the owner of a
professional sports franchise, and as much of an anti-East Coast elitist as a
product of Phillips, Yale, and Harvard Business School could be expected to be)
and he came to Washington as a conservative reformer oriented toward education
and other domestic concerns. There might have been a return to normalcy, even
after the agony of the Florida recount.
Maybe.
The events of September 11, 2001, put that possibility
forever into the past. The George W. Bush who had been skeptical of
nation-building became the George W. Bush of the democracy project. The peace
dividend evaporated, along with the peace. The nation was at war, and the Long
War, like the two world wars, bred radicalism — radicalism that ran hard in
both directions. But the world wars ended. The Long War does not.
The trauma of 9/11, the divisions of the Iraq War, and
the fearful disorientation of the financial crisis left Americans agitated and
anxious — but not in a way that put them in the mood for another return to
normalcy. The pendulum began to swing madly: The trauma of the Bush years begat
the Obama presidency; the radicalism of the Obama presidency begat Trump; the
radicalism of Trump (which is not, for the most part, a matter of policy) begat
. . . much that is undesirable: Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, “resistance,” and the
mainstreaming of socialism as a basic current of the Democratic party; Bernie
Sanders and Elizabeth Warren in a crazypants radicalism arms race over whether
we should confiscate the accumulated savings of the affluent at a rate of 2
percent a year or at a rate of 8 percent a year; a turn toward a politics of
implacable hatred and demagoguery in both of the major political parties.
It is sobering to realize that there are young Americans
serving in Afghanistan today who had not been born on September 11, 2001, who
have only known post-9/11 politics and a post-9/11 America, with all the angst
and paranoia that goes along with them. This profoundly abnormal period in our
history is their normal, the only world they have ever known. For them, there
is no return to normalcy and no possibility of it. “The past is a foreign
country; they do things differently there.” These young Americans were not
around to hear all those fine speeches about how turning away from our national
ethos of liberty and citizenship, turning toward fear and hatred and turning
against each other, would mean, in the inescapable phrase of the time, that
“the terrorists have won.”
Haven’t they?
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