In this episode of Democracy Works from The McCourtney Institute for Democracy, the team discusses democracy’s many doomsayers and how to heed their warnings for the future without falling into despair.
Podcast: On democracy's doomsayers

In this episode of Democracy Works from The McCourtney Institute for Democracy, the team discusses democracy’s many doomsayers and how to heed their warnings for the future without falling into despair.
As the 2026 midterms loom, a simmering debate within Democratic circles has reached a boiling point: Should the party abandon the moral high ground and play political hardball?
In recent years, Democrats have leaned heavily on the ethos of civility and hope—famously embodied by Michelle Obama’s 2016 rallying cry, “When they go low, we go high.” But with the GOP embracing increasingly combative rhetoric and tactics, some strategists argue it’s time for Democrats to recalibrate their messaging—and their muscle.
The former First Lady’s husband agrees. At a July fundraiser, former President Barack Obama didn’t mince words. “It’s going to require a little bit less navel-gazing and a little less whining and being in fetal positions,” he told attendees. “And it’s going to require Democrats to just toughen up.” His remarks drew enthusiastic applause—but also underscored growing impatience with the party’s internal hesitations.
Obama elaborated, challenging disengaged voters and party members alike: “Don’t tell me you’re a Democrat, but you’re kind of disappointed right now, so you’re not doing anything. No, now is exactly the time that you get in there and do something.”
While many voters admire Democrats’ emphasis on integrity, others worry it’s come at a cost. Polling from earlier this year shows a growing perception of the party as “too cautious” or “out of touch” with cultural and economic frustrations. This vulnerability is particularly acute among working-class voters who feel overlooked.
Strategists believe that if Democrats continue to avoid bold confrontation, they risk ceding ground not just politically, but psychologically—where grit and conviction win hearts as well as votes.
According to a recent Wall Street Journal poll, 63% of voters now hold an unfavorable view of the party, marking the lowest approval rating since 1990.
The poll paints a stark picture:
Political strategist Susan Estrich echoed Obama’s sentiment. In a recent column she wrote, “It’s going to require Democrats to just toughen up… I’ve been surprised by how many people seem cowed and intimidated, shrinking away from asserting what they believe.”
In his book, Comeback, M. Steven Fish critiques the left’s approach to political communication arguing liberals and their leaders need to renew their commitment to what he calls “the politics of dominance.”
Voters “want to be on the winning team,” Fish writes. “They favor leaders who project indomitability rather than vulnerability. They admire and trust leaders with stiff spines and strong principles.”
However, Mark Elias, founder of Democracy Docket has an optimistic outlook. He said “Democrats have a real opportunity to retake the House and Senate in 2026.”
In a recent column he writes that “History is on the Democrats’ side. Since Trump entered the political scene, Democrats have outperformed in midterm elections. In 2018, they took control of the House — gaining 40 seats — while sharply limiting losses in the Senate. In 2022, they defied expectations by gaining a Senate seat and minimizing House losses.”
Democrats face a double bind: too tough, and they risk alienating moderates; too soft, and they lose their base’s respect. The challenge in 2026 may be finding a tonal middle ground—forceful but fair, passionate but principled.
As the fight for the soul of American democracy continues, Democrats must decide whether “going high” still resonates—or whether, in an age of escalating political warfare, it’s time to stand tall and swing back.
Hugo Balta is the executive editor of the Fulcrum, and the publisher of the Latino News Network.
SUGGESTION: Poll: Democrats In Crisis Amid Shifting Voter Sentiment
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In an era increasingly defined by transactional politics, the rhetoric of ultimatum has become one of President Donald Trump's favorite tools. When he declared to pharmaceutical giants on August 1st, "We will deploy every tool in our arsenal" should they fail to lower drug prices, it echoed a familiar pattern of the use of "demand" to shift from negotiation to confrontation. Trump's all-too-familiar pattern of prescribing with deadlines, threats of tariffs or sanctions, and appeals to fairness or national pride.
In his letter to 17 major drug manufacturers, Trump demanded that drug manufacturers slash prices to match "most favored nation" levels—the lowest rates offered in other developed countries. He emphasized that Americans are "demanding lower drug prices and they need them today." His language, though cloaked in populist concern, carried a veiled threat:
"If you refuse to step up, we will deploy every tool in our arsenal to protect American families from continued abusive drug pricing practices."
The appeal of ultimatums lies in their appeal to decisiveness. They communicate strength, clarity, and dominance, all qualities celebrated within MAGA circles. Yet beneath this surface, such rhetoric undermines the democratic principles of deliberation, transparency, and shared ownership of public outcomes.
It undermines the essence of Democracy.
While Trump's base sees this posture as long-overdue boldness, his approval ratings tell a different story. As of late July, his overall approval ranges from 40% to 46%, with disapproval between 51% and 57%, yielding a net deficit of -5 to -16 points. Among independents, support has declined sharply, falling to 29% in some polls.
This erosion reflects more than policy disagreement. It's a response to a style of leadership that conflates dissent with disloyalty.
Ultimatums are rarely isolated policy moves but are part of a larger narrative architecture that casts disagreement not as democratic discourse but as betrayal. Trump's language routinely escalates from "I demand" to "They are bad people," forging a moral frame in which you're either with him or against America.
This rhetorical strategy centralizes power and bypasses accountability. Legislative bargaining becomes irrelevant when negotiation is replaced by coercion.
When Trump recasts the opposition not merely as being obstructionists or critics but as "radical left lunatics," "sick people," or worse, this justifies almost any actions needed to rid our nation of this threat.
In his first six months in office, Trump has used the presidency to target perceived enemies that include many government officials, student protesters, and, of course, journalists. This demonization, combined with threats to use domestic military force, is a dangerous precedent in a free society.
A look back at just one week in April gives us a glimpse into the extent of Trump's actions against perceived enemies. In early April, Trump ordered criminal probes into two former Trump administration officials, saying one was "guilty of treason." On the same day, he signed an order targeting a law firm for alleged "election misconduct." The very next day, Trump's former personal attorney announced criminal investigations into the state's Democratic governor and attorney general over immigration policies. And the following day, the administration sent a series of demands to Harvard University, which included an end to diversity programs and audits to ensure the implementation of this policy.
The delegitimizing of opposition isn't just dangerous, it's corrosive. Pluralism is the lifeblood of democratic governance, and the steady labeling of dissenters as enemies that includes real punitive action undermines the rule of law. The abundance of ICE arrests, criminal investigations, and contract bans goes on and on.
These unprecedented and extraordinary measures are justified not by evidence, but by moral absolutism, a worldview in which Trump's perceived truths are universal, incontestable, and self-justifying. In its extreme form, this moral absolutism can rationalize deception if the lie serves "the cause."
These actions aren't the populism that many of his supporters desire. It's a hollowing out of democratic norms beneath the banner of moral clarity.
The language of ultimatums and demands has real consequences.
While ultimatums offer the illusion of courage, this is not the leadership America needs. The real leadership in a vibrant democracy requires an invitation to complexity and the messy work of consensus. When leaders demand submission and frame disagreement as defiance, they fracture civic dialogue and undermine the fabric of what makes America great.
David Nevins is co-publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
Alexander Hamilton famous American politician and US founder. Photo of an original engraving from the "National Portrait Gallery of Eminent Americans" published in 1862.
Last week, my living room transformed into a Broadway stage. With my wife, kids, and I singing along to the Hamilton soundtrack, conversations inevitably spiraled from lyrics about revolution and ambition into discussions about today’s news. My daughter, home from summer camp and sporting a growing curiosity about history, became my sounding board as we talked about government, justice, and the state of American politics. After a family debate about the latest Trump executive order, I asked the kids, “What do you think Hamilton would say if he were alive today?” Their answers were both honest and hopeful, and ultimately inspired this essay.
If Alexander Hamilton were to return and take stock of the United States in 2025, I believe he would recognize a nation that has delivered on some founding hopes but has dangerously betrayed others. The framework he helped construct—designed to check tyranny, balance competing interests, and elevate national unity—is still standing. But the forces he feared most—demagoguery, factionalism, and civic apathy—have gained alarming momentum.
As Ron Chernow’s Pulitzer Prize-winning biography shows, more than any other Founder, Hamilton understood the fragility of republics. In Federalist No. 1, Hamilton warned of men who would “commence demagogues and end tyrants”—those who exploit public trust to seize power. These were not hypothetical fears; they were urgent warnings aimed at a future generation. Today, centuries later, the country is still struggling with leaders who place personal ambition above principle, who stoke division to consolidate power, and who test the limits of law and accountability.
By Hamilton’s standards, Donald Trump is not simply a controversial president or a populist showman, but a stress test for the American republic itself. Trump’s open disdain for the judiciary, flirtation with authoritarian rhetoric, and persistent efforts to delegitimize democratic institutions are, as historian Richard Brookhiser observes, precisely the kind of executive abuse Hamilton worked desperately to prevent.
Yet, as troubling as Trump’s conduct may be, the real challenge—as Chernow and Brookhiser have shown—lies not in any one person but in the deeper erosion of civic trust and constitutional knowledge. Hamilton would not be surprised by the rise of a charismatic demagogue; what would truly shock him is how readily our carefully constructed system has yielded to the pressures of partisanship.
Hamilton believed in a strong executive, yes—but one constrained by law, reason, and duty. He insisted the presidency be subject to oversight, never above the courts, Congress, or the Constitution itself. Power, Hamilton believed, was a force for good only if wielded responsibly and for the public benefit. As Chernow explains, Hamilton’s greatest contribution was the idea that unchecked executive power is a recipe for tyranny.
What might disturb him even more is the dysfunction of Congress and the widespread public cynicism about justice. In Federalist No. 78, Hamilton described the judiciary as the “least dangerous branch,” reliant not on force, but on public confidence and judgment. Today, when judicial rulings are dismissed as partisan and judges are harassed, Hamilton’s warnings feel especially urgent. He would see this not as a vigorous democratic debate, but as the unraveling of the rule of law.
If Hamilton were among us now, I imagine he would write—furiously—and strive to build coalitions of citizens determined to defend the Constitution. As Brookhiser has noted, republics die not only by coup or invasion, but by the slow corrosion of norms and the triumph of tribal loyalty over national unity. Hamilton would challenge leaders to rise to their oaths, not shrink from them. He would implore lawyers, legislators, educators, judges, and regular citizens—including parents and children like us, wrestling with these questions around the kitchen table—to take seriously the responsibilities of self-government.
Chernow argues, and I agree, that the true moral ambition of our founding was not to hoard power, but to distribute it wisely. Hamilton understood that written documents and legal framework cannot preserve a republic without leaders who practice restraint, citizens who value truth, and institutions that prize law over loyalty and principle over popularity. The real test of a constitutional system is not how it handles stability and peace, but in moments when spectacle and bitterness threaten to replace reason and law.
For families like mine, discussing Hamilton’s legacy is more than a history lesson or a Broadway sing-along. It’s about grappling with what it means to be engaged, to ask hard questions, and to demand that our institutions serve the public good. As my daughter observed, the strength of a republic depends on citizens who care, not just about winning, but about doing what is right.
Today, we face the same choice Hamilton understood so well: Will we be ruled by laws or by personalities, by reason or by resentment, by a Constitution or by spectacle? Hamilton’s legacy is a warning and a challenge. History will remember which path we take.
Let it remember that we chose the republic.
Dr. David Lopez-Herrera teaches in San Antonio and writes about criminal justice, law, politics, and civic engagement. He lives on the city’s North Side with his family, who, along with the Hamilton soundtrack, inspired this op-ed."Scott Turner is a brilliant case study for how ambition causes politicians to accept feeble attempts to reason away their beliefs or ethics..." writes Luke Harris.
Scott Turner was a Texas House Representative, now serving in the Trump Administration as the Secretary of U.S. Housing & Urban Development (HUD). In the Texas House, he talked about “being the best we can,” and espoused high standards for himself and his colleagues; however, in his current position, he has voiced no complaints or objections against the administration or the Republican Party. Perhaps for less cynical reasons than power itself, but to pursue his policies on housing and healthcare. Turner is a brilliant case study for how ambition causes politicians to accept feeble attempts to reason away their beliefs or ethics, always for something greater, something they can achieve with one more step. That “one more step” toward completely surrendering their integrity, confounding their ethical clarity, and adopting whatever means meet their ends.
During a keynote address in 2014, he spoke of the duty to break the status quo, Democrat or Republican, he said, “We need servant leaders…. People who live by conviction and principle, not by the waves of the sea of what’s popular today.” He shared his experience growing up in a poor home, and his father working two jobs. At his confirmation, he talked empathetically about the homelessness crisis and how his family took in his uncle, providing him with the services he needed. Trump has made comments expressing disdain for the homeless; he said these people were hurting the “prestige” of major cities, and many homeless people might prefer their situation.
An NBC affiliate network reported that 1 in 4 low-income households eligible for HUD rental assistance receive benefits. Turner is championing time limits, which means taking away benefits from more low-income households still unable to afford the cost of living. Trump has further plans to remove people from homeless encampments and place them in large camps or tent-cities, where they will be mandated to receive mental health or addiction treatment.
Seemingly in conflict with his views on homelessness and background, these policies are consistent with his previous stances representing Texas, for example, restricting welfare, requiring drug testing for unemployment benefits, voting against free-lunch programs in Texas schools, and opposing the Affordable Care Act.
He defined his career as a Texas Representative as an uncompromising advocate for transparency, leading extensive investigations into the conduct of his colleagues, and voting on policies to increase accountability. For example, he voted for HB 1690, which authorized rangers to investigate misconduct of an official or public administration and refer cases to the State Attorney General. He has parted ways with these values, perhaps to advocate for his conservative policies on social programs such as welfare and housing subsidies. However, compromising his fight against improper leadership or self-interested governance—accepting the numerous examples of corruption and secrecy—to achieve an agenda or implement a policy, is not leading on principle or conviction.
The Epstein scandal is a recent example of something that clearly runs against Turner’s previous views on government transparency and accountability. The footage and DOJ reports are inconsistent, and the Administration, DOJ, and FBI have refused to comment. For example, the files obtained by the AP provide a Suicide Timeline; at 6:33 a.m., staff found Epstein unresponsive, and at 6:45 a.m., EMS arrived. DOJ released raw footage from the hallway camera. According to the FBI, anyone entering the cell would have been visible on that camera, but the footage shows no one entering his cell around the provided timeline.
More concerningly, Pam Bondi, Trump’s Attorney General, has directly undermined the investigation into the Epstein files, ordering thousands of FBI agents to redact files. Bondi allegedly pressured the FBI to recruit 1,000 personnel to review 100,000 files relating to Jefferey Epstein and “flag” any that mentioned Donald Trump.
It would not be an exaggeration to compare the redaction of the Epstein files to the shredding of papers or deletion of tapes in the Watergate Scandal. Furthermore, his treatment of the press, on the Epstein Scandal and throughout his two terms, displays a hostility not seen since Nixon’s “Enemy List”: revoking CNN reporter Jim Acosta’s press pass, restricting AP reporters’ access to White House events, ending funding for public broadcast stations, suing 60 Minutes, recently launching a $22 billion suit against The Wall Street Journal, and attacking reporters for “fake news” or calling journalists “nasty.”
Turner accepts the status quo—having to keep silent, among many things he raised his voice against in the past, to maintain his position, to cause change, or to hold power. This is perfectly exhibited in the current situation with Trump’s attempts to suppress the Epstein situation and his general attitude towards the press; Much less, in the past, provoked Turner to denounce his colleagues for a lack of transparency. The Turner case is a more nuanced example of how politics and principle, strategy and idealism, are in constant struggle. Voters need to check the ambitions of politicians, whether they drive improper conduct or complicity through power-seeking or good-faith intentions to pursue their policy goals.
Luke Harris is an op-ed author who writes about the US, UK, and international politics, policy, and culture. He has been published in outlets like the North American Anglican and the Conservative Woman.