The past is a foreign country, more foreign than we know. Its inhabitants seem to speak our language. They seem to go through the same daily round. They also seem to have been much better citizens than we are today–and we kick ourselves for not being as good.
And we think Americans showed what good citizens they were when in the late 1800s some 80 percent of eligible voters cast ballots in presidential elections (compared to just over half today). In fact, voting then was a social act, a proclamation of allegiance like rooting for the Cubs or White Sox. You voted by parading to the polls with compatriots, where you made a point of being seen choosing a conspicuous “ticket” preprinted by your party. The process involved little or no discussion of important public issues–unless you count picking fights with opposing groups along the way.
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In his new book, The Good Citizen: A History of American Civic Life, sociologist Michael Schudson aims to show just how foreign the past really is. He asks that you imagine yourself on election day in colonial Virginia some 250 years ago–one of the cradles of American democracy, the environment in which Washington, Jefferson, and Madison grew up and learned about politics. “You are, first of all, a white male owning at least a modest amount of property. Your journey to vote may take several hours since there is probably only one polling place in the county. As you approach the courthouse, you see the sheriff supervising the outdoors election. Although elections are uncontested more often than not, in this case two candidates for the House of Burgesses stand before you, both of them members of prominent local families. You watch the most prominent members of the community, the leading landowner and clergyman, cast their votes, and you know whom they have supported because they announce their selections in loud, clear voices. You do the same, and then step over to the candidate you have voted for, and he treats you to a glass of rum punch. Your act of voting, though you did indeed have a choice of candidates, has been an act of restating and reaffirming the social hierarchy of the community in which no one but a local notable would think of standing for office.”
Colonial Virginia was a democracy in the sense that political power ultimately resided in some of the people, as it does today. And yet that system is almost unrecognizable, if not abhorrent, to us today–even though we think of ourselves as political heirs of Washington, Jefferson, and Madison. “Democracy” refers to a political system, but that political system can be interpreted in many different ways, inhabited by many different political cultures.
And of course the reformers’ cerebral, individualistic version of politics was less fun. Today’s solemn broadcast debates reflect their attitude when audiences are cautioned against applauding, let alone making comments from the floor. (Catcalls and comments were routine when Lincoln and Douglas sparred.) No wonder political involvement and voter turnout began to drop. And while the political culture has grown sedate, if not puritanical, in style, it now must compete for people’s attention with decidedly unpuritanical forms of entertainment, from the Empress Casino to Internet porn.
Today, providing more or less impartial information to more or less uncommitted voters is an essential part of the informed-citizen culture. In theory the journalist serves as a kind of better-informed citizen who helps to inform other citizens. Whether Dan Rather and company actually do so is another question, but it’s what they pretend to be doing–it’s what they’re paid for.
At least my nephew has an excuse. He will, I trust, grow up to know better. It’s time that journalists–and their siblings, today’s political reformers–did the same. We need to learn to recognize a foreign country when we see one, and stop judging ourselves by the imagined standards of a past that never was.
