Lang is a co-director of the voting rights program of the Campaign Legal Center, an advocacy and litigation nonprofit that works to reduce the influence of money in politics and to support unrestricted access to the ballot.
More Americans voted last year — both as a share of the eligible population and in raw numbers — than in any presidential election since 1900, when the "eligible population" looked quite different. Despite the pandemic and stubborn voting restrictions imposed by cynical politicians, nearly 160 million Americans registered their voices in a historic showing of the value we place in our democracy.
But in at least one way, the "eligible population" still looked far too much like it did at the start of the last century: Approximately 5 million Americans were locked out of the process due to criminal convictions.
Indeed, the early 1900s saw the dramatic expansion of criminal disenfranchisement laws as part of the post-Reconstruction project to disenfranchise Black Americans. Too many of these Jim Crow laws remain on the books today — and given the disparities in our modern criminal justice system, achieve the same goal.
But just as the voters of 2020 demonstrated their commitment to our democracy by showing up at the ballot box, in 2021 they are continuing to fight for the right to participate.
And in a season that has already produced plenty of bad news for voting rights in the statehouses, restoration of rights for people with convictions is a notable bright spot. Indeed, this year we are likely to come closer than ever to universal suffrage for American citizens.
In the past two decades, the formerly incarcerated and their allies have pursued a tireless fight for recognition as full citizens. And while it's not easy to demand policy change without the lever of the franchise at your disposal, they have achieved remarkable progress through grit, persistence and the benefit of the moral high ground.
The Sentencing Project says 23 states expanded their right to vote between 1997 and 2018, enfranchising approximately 1.4 million. Then the movement had a watershed moment. Led by the intrepid Desmond Meade, Floridians in 2018 overturned the country's harshest felony disenfranchisement law by approving Amendment 4, which promised to re-enfranchise nearly as many Americans as the prior two decades of advocacy combined. The march continued the past two years. Nevada, New Jersey, California and Colorado have the vote for all but those in prison. Arizona eliminated some financial barriers to the franchise. Governors in New York, Iowa and Kentucky took executive action to expand such rights. And the District of Columbia started moving to eliminate felony disenfranchisement altogether.
There has also been a bruising defeat. The Florida Legislature stripped the power from Amendment 4 by requiring would-be voters to first pay every fine, fee and surcharge imposed at sentencing. Given that our society often buries indigent criminal defendants in debt they cannot possibly pay, this law is estimated to lock out between 775,000 and 900,000 Floridians from their polling places simply because they cannot afford to pay.
Advocates sued, and at trial persuaded a federal judge the law was nothing more than a modern-day poll tax. But that victory was taken away in September, when the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals upheld the financial barriers in a 6-5 decision along partisan lines. This leaves the litigation landscape looking bleak, particularly for challenging similar laws in other states.
So why the rosy outlook for this year? Because while the courts may not have not gotten the memo — that our democracy works best when everyone can participate — Americans have.
The appeals court ruling led to an outpouring of outrage and accompanying donations, helping the Florida Rights Restoration Coalition pay off the debts of many potential voters before November. And in 2021, the legislative docket is chock full of good news for the voting rights of people with felony convictions.
Democrats now in control of Congress have prioritized their sweeping democracy reform bill, dubbed HR 1 in the House and S 1 in the Senate. It would re-enfranchise all Americans with convictions after their incarceration. But regardless of that measure's fate, more than 90 rights restoration bills have been introduced this year in 20 state legislatures. Only three bills have been proposed to take felony disenfranchisement in the opposite direction, and none is likely to pass.
In Oregon, lawmakers have made moves to end disenfranchisement altogether. In five other states, prospects are good for legislation restoring the right to vote immediately after incarceration. In New York and Virginia, the bills would replace discretionary and often confusing executive powers. In Connecticut and Washington, the bills would eliminate explicit requirements for paying fines and fees. But all the legislation (new Mexico is the fifth state) would eliminate the de facto poll tax created by requirements for completion of parole and probation, given the common link between supervision and payment of fines and fees.
The progress is particularly inspiring in Virginia. For decades it permanently disenfranchised all people with convictions, unless they could obtain a pardon. In 2016 Gov. Terry McAuliffe used his executive power to restore rights to all who completed their sentences, a policy maintained by his successor, fellow Democrat Ralph Northam. While a big step forward, that still disenfranchised all on parole or probation. Now the General Assembly is debating whether to restore the franchise upon release from prison — completing a potential sea change in fewer than five years
While all the states named so far are "blue," don't be surprised to see red and purple ones act as well.
While most voting rights issues remain sharply polarized on partisan lines, that's not necessarily true for this cause — which has brought together such unlikely bedfellows as the Cato Institute, the ACLU, the American Probation and Parole Association and a consortium of evangelical groups. With bills pending in Alabama, Arizona, Florida, Georgia, Iowa, Kentucky, Missouri, Nebraska, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Tennessee and Texas, a few "red state" improvements seem likely.
So by the time voters cast their ballots in 2022, we could be a whole lot closer to the reality of universal suffrage we often take for granted.




















A golden tray sits on the Resolute Desk as President Donald Trump speaks during an announcement on American nuclear innovation in the Oval Office at the White House on July 24, 2026, in Washington, D.C. Trump is signing multiple executive orders targeting the nuclear energy sector and easing rules for new reactors and nuclear fuel supply chains.
Trump’s hubris rivals the fallen heroes of ancient Greek mythology
In January, the New York Times asked President Donald Trump if there were any limits on his global powers.
“Yeah,” the president responded, “there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”
That was eight months ago, but fortunately Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster adaptation of “The Odyssey” has made ancient Greek literature newly relevant. Before that window closes, I’d like to talk about hubris.
Today, the term mostly means excessive pride or arrogance. That’s part of what the Greeks meant by it too, but the meaning was a bit richer and more specific. Hubris was an insolent or outrageous act that offended the gods, often because the transgressor was claiming abilities or authorities that solely belonged to supreme beings.
Nolan renamed and slightly modified the concept of xenia for the film, calling it “Zeus’ law.” In the director’s telling, mortals should follow the rules laid out by the gods, specifically the requirement to treat strangers with respect lest they be gods in disguise.
In a sense, hubris is the opposite, or at least the rejection, of xenia. The hubris of the suitors, and at times Odysseus himself, invites punishment by the gods and their mortal instruments.
Which brings me back to Donald Trump. His claim that there are no constraints on his personal power to dictate events on the global stage was one of the greatest expressions of hubris ever uttered by a political leader.
Trump’s claim was obviously false when he made it.
He vowed that he could end the Russia-Ukraine war in 24 hours. He’s proved powerless to make that happen. If he had divine powers to work his will, why would he have balked at implementing his tariffs so often that Wall Street adopted the “TACO trade” term for his deals? “TACO” stands for “Trump always chickens out.”
And why would Trump have made so many embarrassing concessions to China — from rescinding tariffs on Chinese goods to allowing them to buy crucial and incredibly valuable computer chips?
But Trump saw his success at capturing Venezuelan strongman Nicolas Maduro as proof of his ability to launch missiles to the same effect as Zeus’ lightning bolts. Trump believed he was the most powerful man who ever lived.
This is no exaggeration. In March, when the Iran invasion seemed successful, Trump gave a document penned by“Presidential Historian David King” to New York Times reporters Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan purporting to prove that Trump was “the most powerful person to have EVER walked this planet.” King was, in fact, a businessman and occasional caddy for legendary golfer Gary Player.
King compared Trump favorably to many of history’s most powerful, and often heinous, figures: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mao Tse Tung, Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Many of these men thought they were the most powerful person in the world, too. And many were defeated precisely because they believed it.
At least Napoleon and Hitler had a string of truly impressive victories before they learned the folly of hubris. The limits on Trump’s power have been exposed by far less august forces than the combined might of the allies in World War II or the fearsome Russian winter.
Iran is a comparatively middling power. But the regime’s ability to absorb punishment while imposing its will on the Strait of Hormuz has proved to be a greater constraint on Trump’s power than his morality or mind. We should note that, at least rhetorically, his morality has not proved much of a constraint. He has repeatedly promised to destroy Iranian “civilization” if the regime refuses to capitulate.
But they haven’t — and won’t anytime soon — because the regime’s tolerance for pain far outstrips Trump’s. The combined fear of skyrocketing oil prices, outrage of Gulf state potentates, diminishing weapon supplies and domestic unpopularity is doing the work that international law, congressional oversight and the collective opinion of foreign policy experts can’t or won’t do.
If I considered Trump more heroic than reason and facts could allow, I would say his Sisyphean predicament has the whiff of Greek tragedy to it. Trump is vexed by the fact that the Iranians won’t honor deals or ratify his countless premature claims of victory — giving new meaning to his vow that his presidency would make people tired of winning. It’s almost like they’re out-Trumping Trump.
Things might have gone better if he’d heeded that great Greek tragedian Sophocles: “For Zeus utterly abhors the boasts of a proud tongue.”
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Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.