Author: Clara B.

The election of 2000 was as much about George W. Bush v. Al Gore as it was a test of expediency versus legitimate results. On election night in 2000, as news outlets like CNN called Florida for Bush, Al Gore prepared his concession speech, going so far as to call Bush to concede. But his campaign staff realized all was not as it seemed: Florida was still undecided. Gore retracted his concession to Bush and told his supporters that they still had a shot. Through the night, Florida was flipped for Gore and eventually returned to the too-close-to-call pile, leaving voters in a state of confusion that would stretch far beyond election day.

When it became clear in the days and weeks following November 7th that the electoral votes from Florida were indeed too close to call, the anxiety of not having a winner grew to a fever pitch — stoked by both the media and the candidates themselves. Due to the growing mediatization of American politics, it would be ill-advised to ignore the role that the media played in the outcome of the 2000 election, and how both the Bush and Gore campaigns used local and national media to their advantage. The initial scramble over how to award Florida was just the beginning: issues such as the butterfly ballots, votes from overseas, and perceptions of Gore being a sore loser or Bush ignoring due process were shaped, inflamed, and wielded based on how they were reported.

While it’s only natural for the uncertainty of an election as impactful as the presidency to be anxiety-inducing, the resulting spotlight on election officials in Florida, particularly those in Miami-Dade County, hindered the process of election certification by attempting to speed it up.

To what extent did the Bush and Gore campaigns — and the American people — want a quick result over a legitimate one? Both Bush and Gore believed an expedited process to be the best course because both believed their side had the legitimate claim to the presidency. And for everyone else, they wanted an answer — one way or another.

Between logistical issues of hand-counting ballots and the court-mandated deadline by which to report the results, election officials in Florida faced a Herculean task. The sanctity of their work was further compromised when a demonstration lead by Republican staffers known as the Brooks Brothers Riot forced local officials to shut down the recount prematurely. Public pressure, fostered by appeals from campaigns and portrayals in the media, has the ability to affect the due process of election certification and — in the case of violent demonstrations — threaten to undermine the legitimacy of elections.

In 2000, the Brooks Brothers Riot was an attempt to disrupt the counting of votes, led by Republicans who believed Bush’s win was legitimate. On January 6th, 2021, the attack on the US Capitol was perpetrated by Trump supporters who believed their candidate’s loss couldn’t possibly be legitimate. The question of expediency versus legitimacy became a different one for the Trump campaign: how quickly could they prove the election had been fraudulent?

The answer was never. Every possible avenue for election fraud to have taken place was followed, investigated, and duly reported on — perhaps in an attempt not to repeat the mistakes of narrowing the scope of scrutiny in 2000, but certainly to reinforce the legitimacy of the 2020 election. Notably, Roger Stone, one of most fervent proponents of the false claim that the 2020 election had been stolen by Democrats and a close ally of Donald Trump’s, also claims to have managed the Brooks Brothers Riot in 2000, thus demonstrating how fueling outrage among a candidate’s base can be used to put pressure on the results of an election — and how that can lead to violence.

As in 2000, the use of media, both television and social channels, is a powerful avenue through which to promote narratives of illegitimacy. The fleeting nature of the news cycle has only heightened the public’s need to have certainty in the outcome of a presidential election as soon as possible. But expediency cannot be valued over validity.

As the 2024 election approaches, we know the chances of having an answer on election night are slim. Rather than get swept up in the need to know the results, due process must be allowed to take place — and respected — so that we, the American people, can trust the outcome, whatever it may be.

In the election of 1876, suppression of black voters gained a new prong of attack: ideologies about gender roles. If white men won in former Confederate states like South Carolina, their ideologies of what a man’s role and a woman’s role ought to be would be reinforced as the ideal. Notions of masculinity and femininity for white Democrats were inextricable from white supremacy — and were key to their subsequent victory. If white men were the ultimate aggressors — or as they would call it, protectors — then white women were the ultimate victims. Through political cartoons and depictions of Columbia, of angels, and of America personified, white women dominated notions of purity and goodness.

White femininity, tied to virtue and piety as much as white masculinity was steeped in violence, was also a weapon to beat down black voters with. They were the standard against which black women were derogatorily compared, and their claims that black men had been aggressive against them always resulted in violence from their male protectors. Women of both races turned out in huge numbers in support of their chosen candidates (despite still lacking the right to vote) through clubs, canvassing, and attending rallies. White women acted out melodramatic scenes to play up their perception as a populace who must be protected at all costs.

Black people were therefore maligned as a threat against white men’s ability to protect white women — usually in highly sexualized language to paint black men as uncivilized aggressors and black women as demons of iniquity. Black women were the most passionate political participants despite having the least enfranchisement and least protection because as a particularly vulnerable group they had arguably the most at stake in the election. They were smeared by white voters as the antithesis to white femininity — and thus, the antithesis of good.

The goal of these ideologies of femininity and masculinity — and of these ideals being inseparable from whiteness — was to separate and subjugate, and determine once and for all what the roles of white men v. black men and white women v. black women were. The election of 1876 determined what the roles of women in politics absent the ability to vote were, and furthermore put white male dominance back on the political menu.

Gender ideology is once again at stake in the 2024 election. Hundreds of years of political precedent have established the presidency as a man’s job, and for the first time, a black woman has a good chance of winning it.

Donald Trump has built his campaign on the very same notions of white supremacy and masculinity that hallmarked the 1876 South Carolina gubernatorial race — anti-political correctness, whiteness as a virtue, and violence in the face of defeat. His political persona posits itself as the ideal of white masculinity, and his base feel empowered. Even his slogan — Make America Great Again — draws parallels to cries by white Democrats in 1876 to make politics white again. These parallels aren’t so much eerie as easily foreseeable: of course a culture where whiteness and masculinity are rewarded would see equal rights as a loss of advantage.

The threat that Kamala Harris poses to Trump is not just Democrat versus Republican. A Harris victory would redefine what a woman ‘can’ do — what a black woman can achieve. And rather than celebrate this as indicative of the American ideal that anyone can succeed, Trump’s followers will believe that her win is a threat to the white supremacy they have thrived under. A threat to white people, a threat to men — nevermind the forty-five other presidents and Harris’s own vice presidential nominee that prove white men are far from becoming a minority in politics.

Shirley Chisolm tried in 1972. Barack Obama elicited many of the same fears from white Republicans, all of which came to naught. What Democrats in South Carolina did in 1876 was re-assert white male dominance as the status quo, and thus as immutable — but Kamala Harris’s campaign has proven otherwise. Voter demographics are more important now than ever: college-educated white women are still a determining group, though now with equal enfranchisement to their male counterparts. Thus, race and gender are still practically inseparable in modern politics, and a Harris victory would assert that the place of a black woman in politics is in the White House.

By the election of 1860, political campaigning and organization had begun in earnest, although the candidates themselves rarely traveled like we see today. Abraham Lincoln received visitors at his home and relied on a network of political organizers to host rallies in his name, while Stephen Douglas, his opposition, made the unusual move of canvassing for himself. Republicans held speeches in German to appeal to immigrants and got abolitionists like Owen Lovejoy to embrace a more moderate platform to sway votes away from the Democrats, who retaliated by running racist cartoons and threatening secession if Lincoln won. But perhaps no campaigning efforts were to greater effect than demonstrations by the Wide Awakes.

“Who are these Wide Awakes?” you may be asking, and you wouldn’t be alone.

During one of the earliest marches of the Wide Awakes, a drunk New York politician observing them asked the very same question. The Wide Awakes were bands of young men, donned in military-esque costumes, who would march silently through the streets at midnight, stumping for Abraham Lincoln. Most interestingly about this grassroots organizing movement is that they emerged completely independently from the leadership of the Republican campaign, generating a thunderous yet virtually accidental wave of support for Lincoln.

What was so alluring about the Wide Awakes? They provided a fraternity space for the young men — not yet married or with children — to be active, social, and crucially, to feel their own power. The value of feeling like a part of something cannot be overstated; both the Trump and Harris campaigns have sought to cultivate this feeling, in different ways, in order to attract and retain voters to their base. At first glance, Donald Trump’s base may seem more akin to the Wide Awakes. After all, his supporters thrive on militarism, portrayals of masculine dominance, and feeling like a part of something, and this is to say nothing of the fascist militant groups like the Proud Boys that sprung up in his name. But his base did not emerge independently of his campaign — rather, the opposite is true.

The modern equivalent to the Wide Awakes is not a uniform, organized coalition, and their name was created not by their supporters, but by their opponents: the Woke Mob.

See, the unstoppable popularity of the Wide Awakes frightened the Democrats, who tried (and failed) to make their own alternative. The militarism, the mass organization, and in particular the youth support, signaling the changing views of a coming-of-age generation who could destabilize their traditional ideals, made the Wide Awakes a threat. The Democrats responded by belittling the Wide Awakes, attacking in particular their youth — calling them naive about the way politics works and condemning them as infant politicians, signifying the long-standing interrelation between age and political power that these young upstarts threatened to upend.

Compare this to the label of Woke today, which evokes the same kind of fear to modern Republicans that Wide Awakes did to pro-slavery Democrats. Woke is used primarily (although not exclusively) against young, politically active liberals and leftists who challenge the status quo and the modern Republican platform. A mob implies disorganization and violence, the kind of threats against themselves and their politics that Trump’s supporters fear. By decrying certain demographics of voters as weak, naive, or Woke, the supporters of such groups coalesce tighter together into more effective political machines. These aren’t machines in the traditional sense — there’s no central organizer and they aren’t an official collective — but whether it’s woke or weird, labels spread like wildfire.

It’s important to remember that there is no group of people known simply as the Wokes the way the Wide Awakes were named, but there doesn’t need to be: the term ‘Woke Mob’ is wielded against non-Republicans with the aim of creating a political out-group. Countless organizing groups such as Antifa and Black Lives Matter have sprung up under the umbrella of wokeness, the key difference being that it was a label applied to them, not one they chose like the Wide Awakes. Both Antifa and BLM have been branded militaristic — ironic coming from a party supported by white-supremesist militias. Trump has named his enemy; in doing so, he has made the threat they pose to him clear.

But if there is no group of people organizing as a collective Woke Mob, how can they be as effective as the Wide Awakes campaigning for Lincoln?

Remember that those most commonly accused of being woke are young leftists, who have grown increasingly aware of the power of their political voices. Youth political excitement about the presidential campaign had waned by the time Biden took office in 2020, and continued to wane well into 2024. But with the emergence of Kamala Harris, many voters feel represented, or at least like they have the opportunity to be heard, in a way neither the Trump nor Biden campaigns had offered. The majority of the young men involved in the Wide Awakes had come of age during a time of great political upheaval and unpredictability, and rather than be disillusioned, they pushed for a candidate they thought could steer them through the storm. A similar tactic is at play with young voters today — though none believe that one election will solve everything.

But the strength of young, woke voters coalescing behind the Harris campaign only matters if they’ve got something to advocate for, be it a candidate or a change in her policy, and a means by which to spread their views. For the Wide Awakes, it was the printing press. For the Harris campaign, it’s social media.

Newspapers printed details about Wide Awake marches, about local chapters, about stories from other states, drawing more and more young men into the fold. 20,000 Wide Awake uniforms were tailored by one of its founding members and shipped across the country, all in the name of fitting into an aesthetic of masculinity. Once again, there are parallels to Trump’s base, particularly in the form of his signature red hats and in the spread of alt-right rabbit holes. The kind of widespread sharing of information that the Wide Awakes capitalized on is no longer controlled by traditional newspapers; the Harris campaign is the first to use social media to all its advantages.

A crucial part of the Wide Awakes is how they functioned for a candidate but were not originated by the candidate. This mirrors the way young Democrats and leftists use social media to spread their political beliefs, often through capitalizing on trends, memes, and impersonations. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of accounts have sprung up impersonating Harris’s laugh, doing dance remixes of her speeches, or providing fact-checks against both her and Donald Trump. Even @kamalahq, her campaign’s Instagram account handle, was started by someone from her base, totally independent of her campaign leadership. It wasn’t until @kamalahq had a following that the Harris campaign took it over. These accounts simultaneously mock the candidate and endear their followers to her, gaining supporters by the thousands.

A common thread between the Wide Awakes of 1860 and those that are lambasted as the Woke Mob of today is that the energy, vigor, and political awareness of youth has been and continues to be drastically underestimated. From coming of age in a time of political upheaval, to being attacked as a threat and infantilized as a child, to the mediatization of campaigning  prior to the candidate or party’s knowledge, there are a multitude of parallels between the Wide Awakes and what Trump calls the Woke Mob. Decentralized political canvassing that demonstrates the power of the youth vote is a commanding tool — if it can be harnessed.

For further reading:

“‘Young Men for War’: The Wide Awakes and Lincoln’s 1860 Presidential Campaign” by Jon Grinspan, The Journal of American History, 2009, pg. 357-378, https://www.jstor.org/stable/25622297?seq=12

“‘To Protect the Rights of the White Race’: Illinois Republican Racial Politics in the 1860 Campaign and the Twenty-Second General Assembly” by Sally Heinzel, Journal of the Illinois State Historical Society, 1998, pg. 374-406, https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/jillistathistsoc.108.3-4.0374

Two candidates, two elections, 200 years apart. What can Andrew Jackson’s unsuccessful bid for president in 1824 tell us about Donald Trump’s campaign in 2024?

The election of 1824 was as contested as they come. With five major candidates vying for the White House, this election was rife with allegations of corruption and factioning in the Democratic-Republican party. After John C. Calhoun dropped out to run for vice president, the presidency became a four-man race: John Quincy Adams, Henry Clay, William Crawford, and Andrew Jackson. No single candidate garnered enough electoral votes to be elected president outright, although Jackson had won a solid plurality of the popular vote and 99 electoral votes, shy of the 131 needed to win. In line with the 12th amendment, the election was thrown to the House of Representatives, where only the top three candidates were considered, leaving Henry Clay as the odd man out.

Now it was down to three. Although William Crawford worked deals on the side to get partisan support and Andrew Jackson relied on his widespread popularity, John Quincy Adams was elected president on the very first ballot. Accusations abounded from Jackson and his supporters, accusing Adams and Clay of forming a corrupt bargain, although there is no evidence to suggest any such bargain occurred. Jackson accused Clay, “the Judas of the West,” of throwing his supporters behind Adams. Clay was the Speaker of the House and held a fair amount of sway even when he was out of the presidential race. What would Clay get in return? When Adams appointed Clay as his Secretary of State, Jackson’s fury only grew.

From the moment he lost the 1824 election, Jackson began campaigning for 1828, using the notion that the election had been stolen as his sword, and his status as a nontraditional politician as his shield. Nontraditional is perhaps too mild of a descriptor for Andrew Jackson — he was highly controversial for his repeated violations of the Constitution and laws, including executing British soldiers in Florida (which was not a US territory at the time), and he hated his brief stint as a senator, despising the politicking and time it took to make progress. Although a very wealthy slaveowner, he aligned himself with the newly-enfranchised working-class white men, using his victory at the Battle of New Orleans to style himself as a hero of the people. His supporters held rallies, barbecues, parades, concerts, and more to rustle support among rural voters who might not feel as seen by the traditional political elite, paving the way for him to win in a landslide in 1828. Old Hickory was thus able to paint himself simultaneously as the victim of a stolen election and as a strong, masculine leader in one of the first truly Populist campaigns in American history.

Sound familiar yet?

Two hundred years later, in the 2024 election, Donald Trump has begun drawing parallels between himself and Andrew Jackson. He’s referred to Jackson as the most heavily criticized and attacked president besides himself. He refuses to admit that he lost the 2020 election. And he didn’t wait long to start campaigning for 2024.

Perhaps the most striking parallel between Trump and Jackson — and thus, one of Trump’s motivations for aligning himself with such a controversial figure — is how both styled themselves as victims of a fraudulent election and simultaneously as undefeatable pillars of strength. While no evidence supports Jackson’s allegations of a corrupt bargain, an overwhelming amount of evidence confirms that the 2020 election was legitimate and Trump lost. But by painting himself as a man of the people, despite being a wealthy businessman nowhere near the sphere of working-class people he tries to influence, Trump’s outrage becomes his base’s outrage. His victimization becomes their victimization. His strength becomes their strength.

After Jackson lost the 1824 election, he called on the people to act, saying he “relied wholly on them to guard themselves… [and] correct any outrage” to rectify what he believed to be an injustice against him. But despite the fervor of popular support he enjoyed, none of Jackson’s supporters ever rioted or stormed any political buildings in his name. Jackson would likely have not appreciated the comparison to Trump: after all, Trump lost the popular vote, then won the presidency anyway, which is exactly how John Quincy Adams earned Jackson’s ire.

Trump is far from a lifelong politician. Like Jackson, he has no patience for the nitty-gritty of lawmaking. Like Jackson, he entered politics as an unconventional character, a larger-than-life persona who’s staunchly anti-political correctness. And despite Jackson’s repeated and egregious violations of both the Constitution and laws, his crimes did not impede his election as president, a feat Trump with his 34 counts of falsifying business records hopes to repeat. Trump’s style of leadership is attractive to his voters in the same way Jackson’s image as a successful military general and hardline politician (and racist) was embraced by white, working-class men; the lure of masculinity, of portrayals of strength, of beliefs and attacks that are far from standard, draw on the values of his voters in ways that obscure some of his faults.

It remains to be seen whether Trump will win or lose the 2024 election, but he has already laid the groundwork to claim fraud should he lose. Unlike Jackson, whose 1828 win was overwhelming, Trump has lost the popular vote twice, and his man-of-the-people mask is increasingly at odds with his business and political interests. What we can learn from Jackson’s campaign is the ways in which victimization of a dominant group, be it a party, race, religion, or gender, can be weaponized into political support — and how to accept the results of an election, even when you disagree with the outcome.

For further reading:

“The Corrupt Bargain” from The Age of Jackson and the Art of American Power, 1815-1848 by William Nester, 2013, p. 88-100, https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1ddr80h.11?seq=7