Sarat is a professor of jurisprudence and political science at Amherst College.
Covid-19 has put federalism in the headlines and scrambled the usual alignment of forces favoring either federal or state governments as the dominant power.
Whether it is the different decisions by governors about when to ease coronavirus restrictions, or Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell's assertion that states going bankrupt is preferable to a congressional "blue state bailout," arguments about the proper balancing of federal and state powers and responsibilities have become a regular part of our pandemic politics.
Democrats and liberals, and those who champion equality and inclusion, have generally opposed states' rights at least since the New Deal. They have looked to the national government to promote policies that support disadvantaged people and minority groups. But, as the coronavirus crisis has progressed, and the national government's response to it has become more vigorous, the left has started singing a different tune.
States' rights sentiment is now enthusiastically embraced by Democrats such as Gov. Gavin Newsom of California, who last month referred to his home as a "nation-state" that might "export" needed medical supplies to other states.
This enthusiasm was displayed in reactions to Attorney General William Barr's threat to sue any states that keep people under what he termed "house arrest," and in the dustup over President Trump's declaration that he has the "ultimate authority" to decide when and how to reopen states. He told reporters assembled for one press briefing last month that "when somebody is the president of the United States, the authority is total and that's the way it's got to be. ... It's total. The governors know that."
Trump's assertion of executive authority represented an astonishing change of course. Both before and after he boasted about his power, the president had argued that management of the crisis was the governors' problem.
Resistance came swiftly to Trump's claim of embodying total federal control. The third-ranking member of the House Republcian leadership, Liz Cheney of Wyoming, rallied to the defense of federalism, bluntly tweeting back that the federal government "does not have absolute power."
Gov. Andrew Curomo of New York said, "I don't know what the president is talking about, frankly … we don't have a king." The Democrat warned of a "constitutional crisis" if the president ordered state officials to reopen their economies. Cuomo said he would openly "oppose" such an order.
The president initially compared Cuomo's defiance to a "mutiny" before tempering his remarks and changing his position as criticism mounted.
The mutiny to which Trump refers has roots in the early 19th century, when southerners waved the banner of states' rights to protect slavery.
One of the most important early proponents was John C. Calhoun, who as vice president under Andrew Jackson argued that states had the right to "nullify" and disregard whatever federal laws they regarded as unconstitutional. That view later fueled the secessions across the South.
States' rights, and the bold assertion of state prerogative against the federal government, were tainted by the legacy of slavery and the Civil War — a legacy that helps account for continued liberal resistance to those ideas.
That resistance was cemented in the aftermath of the Supreme Court's Brown v. Board of Education decision of 1954. Two years later, the "Southern Manifesto" called on states to mount a campaign of "massive resistance" to desegregation of schools.
Gov. Orval Faubus of Arkansas and Gov. George Wallace of Alabama literally stood in schoolhouse doors to do more than just prevent black students from attending previously all-white schools. They wanted to make clear their opposition to what they saw as the heavy-handedness of the federal government's effort to promote civil rights.
More recently, state sovereignty has been associated with opposition to gay marriage. While some states led the way in promoting marriage equality, leaders across the South claimed the Supreme Court's 2015 decision that same-sex couples have a constitutional right to marry violated the Constitution's protection of religious liberty — so state and local officials were not bound by that ruling.
There is, however, a lesser known history of states asserting themselves to promote democracy and equality. For example, Massachusetts abolished slavery in 1783. And in 1889, three decades before the adoption of the 19th Amendment, Wyoming became the first state to put women's suffrage into its state constitution.
The early 20th century saw states lead the way in protecting workers from the ravages of unfettered capitalism, sometimes in spite of or in opposition to national policies. Reflecting on these initiatives in 1932, Justice Louis Brandeis called states "laboratories of democracy."
And in 1977, in the twilight of two decades of liberal activism on the high court, Justice William J. Brennan Jr. penned a Harvard Law Review article calling on state supreme courts to ignore those U.S. Supreme Court decisions they found unconvincing and strike out on their own to protect civil liberties and civil rights.
Liberals also embraced states' rights when Republican presidents including Richard Nixon and George W. Bush occupied the White House. And, with the election of Donald Trump, they again warmed to that idea. Some even suggested that states should secede, what they call "bluexit."
And, when not dreaming of secession, liberals praised states for going their own way on environmental issues and asserting their prerogative to create sanctuaries for people illegally in the country.
During the current national public health emergency, they are looking again to states for leadership. Fueled in part by liberal support, the country has entered a new era for federalism in which the exercise of state prerogative will not wither when life returns to normal.
But as they continue to lead the nation's coronavirus response, governors and their liberal allies should make clear they are not advocating a wholesale return to states' rights. They should instead reiterate their commitment to a democratic and inclusive society — and to a government committed to rationality, the rule of law and respect for human dignity at the local, state and federal level.




















image of U.S. President Donald Trump is displayed on a digital billboard in Times Square in New York on April 8, 2026.
Trump is stuck between two realities. Neither serves the American people
Normally, I worry that events may overtake a column. But not so with the Iran war.
I don’t worry about running afoul of a headline or Truth Social post from the president because what is said about the situation is no longer very relevant to the reality.
On April 8, Nick Catoggio, my Dispatch colleague, dubbed an earlier stoppage with Iran “Schrödinger’s ceasefire.” This was a reference to the famous thought experiment by the physicist Erwin Schrödinger, who was trying to explain the weirdness of “superpositionality” in quantum physics. A cat in a box is both dead and alive at the same time until you open the box. Schrödinger meant to illustrate the absurdity of the idea that particles aren’t any one thing, but a “cloud of probabilities.”
The Trump administration is stuck in a word cloud of probabilities of his own making. The war is over. The war is on. The war isn’t a war. We have a deal, but we don’t have a deal, but we’re about to have a deal. We destroyed Iran’s military. No, we left it intact. We want regime change. No we don’t. We already accomplished it. We “obliterated” Iran’s nuclear program a year ago. We had to go to war in February to prevent nuclear war. The Strait of Hormuz is open, closed, or something in-between. No deal without “unconditional surrender.” Let’s make a deal!
This everything-all-at-once vibe can be disorienting, particularly since most Americans didn’t have a war with Iran on their bingo cards until the shooting had already started. President Trump didn’t prepare the country or consult with Congress beforehand because he thought it would all be a smashing success in a matter of weeks.
The miscalculation that started it all: killing Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, and much of Iran’s senior leadership, on the first day of the war. To “the great proud people of Iran, I say tonight that the hour of your freedom is at hand,” Trump announced on Feb. 28. “When we are finished, take over your government. It will be yours to take. This will be probably your only chance for generations.”
I support regime change in Iran and shed no tears for Khamenei or his goons. But when you start a war by killing the regime’s top leaders, it’s not unreasonable for the remaining ones to conclude that you really intend regime change.
Khamenei was a murderous fanatic, but he was a fairly cautious one. He liked to threaten closing the Strait of Hormuz or attacking our regional allies, but he was reluctant to actually do it, fearing it would invite a regime change war. The mullahs and IRGC goons believed, not unreasonably, that if they lost their grip on power, they’d be lynched by the Iranian people they’ve brutalized for decades.
By starting with a regime change war, Trump removed any reason for the regime not to go for broke. When you have nothing to lose — particularly when you are a millenarian religious fanatic — a Persian Alamo strategy makes a lot of sense.
So Iran closed the Strait of Hormuz and attacked its neighbors.
But it turns out this wasn’t the Alamo. In the contest of wills, Trump blinked. The Iranian regime’s tolerance for punishment proved — so far — to be greater than Trump’s and that of our gulf allies. Militarily we could finish the job, but that would require ground troops and much greater economic turmoil. In a conflict Trump launched unilaterally without the prior support of Congress, NATO or the American people, Trump doesn’t have the political capital for that.
But that’s only half the problem. Trump wants the war over, but he doesn’t want to pay — militarily, economically, politically — what that would cost. So he wants to make a deal that ends it. But there is no deal available that wouldn’t come at an equally undesirable cost. Any deal that looks like what President Obama struck with the Iranians would be too embarrassing to bear. But the Iranians are convinced that they can get just such a deal, and they’re willing to drag things out as long as it takes.
The result: Trump’s in a box of his own making. He thinks he can talk his way out by simply asserting a reality that doesn’t exist. When the financial markets get nervous, he announces a breakthrough that is, at best, a possibility. When the Iranians agree to a deal that looks similar to one Obama might negotiate, Trump goes back to his threats.
It can’t go on forever. But I’m sure it’ll last until long after this column is forgotten.
Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.