There was a time when we Americans were pretty sure democracy was invented here and saw it as our duty to share our creation with the rest of the world. Today, we treat democracy the way we treat immigrants. With suspicion. As an intruder. An imposition.
There was a time—before the great seclusion—when citizens gathered in town halls to hash out their differences and campaigning for public office was done door to door or in public squares. Anyone who does door-to-door canvassing nowadays can tell you that few answer when doorbells are rung, even when lights are on and entire families can be plainly seen through windows, waiting for the person at the door to give up and go away.
Where people do gather—shopping centers, sporting events—democracy is unwelcome, even in locations branded as public spaces like Milwaukee’s Public Market. The most public of undertakings, the act of figuring out together how to govern ourselves, is forbidden there. Learned the hard way, was shown the door.
When people don’t want to be bothered by democracy at home and can’t be engaged when they are out and about, there are consequences as unhealthy as they are unintended. Politicians don’t stop stumping. When thwarted at the doorstep or in the plaza, they take to the airwaves and cyberspace to advertise their awesomeness.
Problem is, this kind of electioneering costs a fortune. It commercializes political speech and commodifies public offices. With the blessing of a Supreme Court unable to distinguish money and speech, the richest of the rich spend vast sums to sponsor candidates and underwrite their campaigns, then extract favors from the objects of their affection once the electing’s done and the governing begins.
Elections turned into auctions yielding the best government money can buy is a conspicuous byproduct of our society’s estrangement from the doings and makings of democracy, but it’s hardly the only visible sign or even the most jarring.
In advance of Wisconsin’s April 2 primary election, local election officials got last-minute notice that their usual voting site in the 89th ward on Madison’s west side was no longer being made available as a polling place. They scrambled to find another location. They checked with churches, schools, businesses, nonprofit groups, apartment buildings. Ten different places. All turned them down. None were willing to host the most fundamental exercise in a democracy.
Poll workers were left to establish a makeshift outdoor polling place in a park shelter.
Temperatures that day were frigid, a mix of rain and snow fell. Tarps were draped in hopes of blocking the biting wind. Hand warmers were supplied, space heaters were set up near each table where volunteers registered new voters, checked identities, dispensed ballots. Voting was done all morning, through the afternoon and into the evening until the polls closed. Voter turnout in that precinct was 2% higher than the city average.
In a way, this is inspirational, a demonstration of civic spirit, of hardy Midwesterners making the best of a bad situation. In another way, this is the proverbial canary in a coal mine, a warning that danger lurks, a sign of broad and growing distaste for democracy, a signal that anything to do with politics—even the simple act of voting in an election—is more and more widely regarded as radioactive.
In the end, what matters is whether this serves as a wake-up call or a lullaby.
YES!