It
has been hard for me to see the historical outlines of the present-day attack
on American democracy clearly. But this morning,
as I was reading a piece in Vox by foreign affairs specialist Zack Beauchamp,
describing Florida governor Ron DeSantis’s path in Florida as an attempt to
follow in the footsteps of Hungary’s Viktor Orbán, the penny dropped.
Here’s
what I see:
Before
Trump won the presidency in 2016, the modern-day Republican Party was well on
its way to endorsing oligarchy. It had followed the usual U.S. historical
pattern to that point. In the 1850s, 1890s, 1920s, and then again in the modern
era, wealthy people had come around to the idea that society worked best if a
few wealthy men ran everything.
Although
those people had been represented by the Democrats in the 1850s and the
Republicans in the 1890s, 1920s, and 2000s, they had gotten there in the same
way: first a popular movement had demanded that the government protect equality
of opportunity and equal justice before the law for those who had previously
not had either and that popular pressure had significantly expanded
rights.
Then,
in reaction, wealthier Americans began to argue that the expansion of rights
threatened to take away their liberty to run their enterprises as they wished.
To tamp down the expansion of rights, they played on the racism of the poorer
white male voters who controlled the government, telling them that legislation
to protect equal rights was a plan to turn the government over to Black or
Brown Americans, or immigrants from southern Europe or Asia, who would use
their voting power to redistribute wealth.
The
idea that poor men of color voting meant socialism resonated with white voters,
who turned against the government’s protecting equal rights and instead
supported a government that favored men of property. As wealth moved upward,
popular culture championed economic leaders as true heroes, and lawmakers
suppressed voting in order to “redeem” American society from “socialists” who
wanted to redistribute wealth. Capital moved upward until a very few people
controlled most of it, and then, usually after an economic crash made ordinary
Americans turn against the system that favored the wealthy, the cycle began
again.
When
Trump was elected, the U.S. was at the place where wealth had concentrated
among the top 1%, Republican politicians denigrated their opponents as
un-American “takers” and celebrated economic leaders as “makers,” and the
process of skewing the vote through gerrymandering and voter suppression was
well underway. But the Republican Party still valued the rule of law. It’s
impossible to run a successful business without a level playing field, as
businessmen realized after the 1929 Great Crash, when it became clear that
insider trading had meant that winners and losers were determined not by the
market but by cronyism.
Trump’s
election brought a new right-wing ideology onto the political stage to
challenge the rule of law. He was an autocrat, interested not in making money
for a specific class of people, but rather in obtaining wealth and power for
himself, his family, and a few insiders. The established Republican Party was
willing to back him so long as he could deliver the voters that would enable
them to stay in power and continue with tax cuts and deregulation.
But
their initial distancing didn’t last. Trump proved able to forge such a strong
base that it is virtually a cult following, and politicians quickly discovered
that crossing his followers brought down their wrath. Lawmakers’ determination
to hold Trump’s base meant they acquitted him in both impeachment trials.
Meanwhile, Trump packed state Republican machinery with his own loyalists, and
they have helped make the Big Lie that Trump won the 2020 election an article
of faith.
It
is not clear whether Trump can translate his following back into the White
House, both because of mounting legal troubles and because his routine is old
and unlikely to bring the new voters he would need to win. It may be that
another family authoritarian can, but right now that is not obvious.
Still,
his deliberate destabilization of faith in our democratic norms is deadly
dangerous, creating space for two right-wing, antidemocratic ideologies to take
root.
One
is pushed by Texas governor Greg Abbott, who is embracing a traditional
American states’ rights approach to attack the active federal government that
has expanded equality since World War II. The Trump years put the states’ rights
ideology of the Confederacy on steroids, first to justify destroying business
regulation, social welfare legislation, and international diplomacy, and then
to absolve the federal government from responsibility for combating the
coronavirus pandemic. Then, of course, the January 6 insurrection
saw state legislatures refusing to accept the results of a federal election and
rioters carrying the Confederate flag into the United States Capitol.
That
Confederate impulse has been a growing part of the South’s mindset since at
least 1948, when President Harry S. Truman announced the federal government
would desegregate the armed forces, and white southerners who recognized that
desegregation was coming briefly formed their own political party to stop it.
Abbott
and the Texas legislature have tapped into this traditional white southern
ideology in their quest to commandeer the right wing. Texas S.B. 8, which uses
a sly workaround to permit a state to undermine the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision
declaring abortion a constitutional right, has become a model for other
Republican states. In June 2021, along
with Arizona governor Doug Ducey, Abbott asked other state governors to send
state national guard troops or law enforcement officers to the Mexican border
because, he said, “the Biden administration has proven unwilling or unable to
do the job.”
Abbott’s
recent stunt at the border, shutting down trade between Mexico and the U.S.,
was expensive and backfired, but it was also a significant escalation of his
claim of state power: he essentially took the federal government’s power to
conduct foreign affairs directly into his own hands.
The
other new ideology at work is in the hands of Florida governor Ron DeSantis,
who, as Beauchamp pointed out, is trying to recreate Orbánism in the U.S. Prime
Minister Viktor Orbán has eroded Hungary’s democracy since he took power for
the second time, about a decade ago. Orbán has been open about his
determination to overthrow the concept of western democracy, replacing it with
what he has, on different occasions, called “illiberal democracy” or “Christian
democracy.” He wants to replace the equality at the heart of democracy with
religious nationalism.
To
accomplish his vision, Orbán has taken control of Hungary’s media, ensuring
that his party wins all elections; has manipulated election districts in his
own favor; and has consolidated the economy into the hands of his cronies by
threatening opponents with harassing investigations, regulations, and taxes
unless they sell out. Beauchamp calls this system “soft fascism.”
DeSantis
is following this model right down to the fact that observers believe that
Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay” bill was modeled on a similar Hungarian law.
DeSantis’s attack on Disney mirrors Orbán’s use of regulatory laws to punish
political opponents (although the new law was so hasty and flawed it threatens
to do DeSantis more harm than good). DeSantis is not alone in his support for
Orban’s tactics: Fox News Channel personality Tucker Carlson
openly admires Orbán, and next month the Conservative Political Action
Committee will hold its conference in Hungary, with Orbán as a keynote
speaker.
Trump’s
type of family autocracy is hard to replicate right now, and our history has
given us the knowledge and tools to defend democracy in the face of the
ideology of states’ rights. But the rise of “illiberal democracy” or “soft
fascism” is new to us, and the first step toward rolling it back is recognizing
that it is different from Trump’s autocracy or states’ rights, and that its
poison is spreading in the United States.
—Heather Cox Richardson