Our present plan. Considering all the elements that govern elections today, this plan favors large states, cities, small voting blocs if they unite to control a city or a state, and any aggressive minority like Puerto Ricans or bankers which can goad its members to an unusual attendance at the polls. As President Kennedy cleverly detected, it probably favors Democrats slightly, except that if an election is thrown into the House, Republicans are slightly favored, as we have seen, and the smaller states enormously so.
Now we can consider the four proposed plans.
The automatic plan. Insofar as opportunity for leverage is concerned, this plan is identical with the present one. As I have shown, abolishing the Electoral College does not affect any balances of power. However, if the recent improvements to this plan are adopted, and they should be, whereby inconclusive elections would no longer be thrown into the House but decided by a run-off election, then the considerable advantages which accrue to small states in House elections would be lost.
The district plan. As the Banzhaf studies show, this is the most equitable plan if the electoral system is retained. It does nevertheless reverse the slight Democratic advantage of the present system into an equally slight advantage for the Republicans, but in my opinion neither of these advantages is of a magnitude that would justify apprehension, and decisions must not be reached with them as a prime consideration. It also reverses the relative advantages of rural and urban areas, augmenting the former and diminishing the latter. This plan would diminish the power of large states and convey that advantage to the small. If it had been in operation in the 1960 election it would have produced an outright victory for Nixon of 278–245 instead of the Kennedy victory of 303–219, but that was an unusual election and other proposed reforms would, had they been operating, also have produced a Nixon victory. In the past, this plan would have elected Andrew Jackson in 1824 instead of John Quincy Adams; and Grover Cleveland in 1888 instead of Benjamin Harrison. The results cannot be accurately ascertained at this time, but the plan would probably have resulted in a victory for Stephen Douglas over Abraham Lincoln in 1860; and for Charles E. Hughes over Woodrow Wilson in 1916.
The proportional plan. Because it is linked to the electoral system, this plan would transfer considerable power to our smaller states, at the expense of our larger. Had this plan been operating in the 1960 election, it would have produced a Nixon victory by one-half vote: Nixon 266.075, Kennedy 265.623, others 5.302. (A later study reported by the Library of Congress Legislative Reference Service shows Nixon 266.136, Kennedy 263.662, others 7.202. Differences between the two results stem from the manner in which the contested votes from Alabama are applied.) But there seems to be no permanent advantage to either party, unless the leverage of the cities were so sharply curtailed as to damage the Democrats. Historically, this plan would have elected the Democrat Winfield S. Hancock in 1880 instead of James A. Garfield, even though the latter had won the popular vote; and in 1896 it would have made the Democrat William Jennings Bryan President instead of William McKinley.
Direct popular vote. As we have seen, this would equalize state advantages, but it would still enable cities, by virtue of their concentrations of population, to exercise their old leverage. It would abolish the present power of minority groups to influence large blocs of electoral votes, but any minority or group which could muster an exceptional turnout at the polls would have an advantage. Because electioneering would have to be done largely by television, this plan might seem to favor the Republicans, who could buy more television time, but it is the person who might vote Democratic who could more easily be swayed to vote by a dazzling performance of a Democratic candidate. Also, since there would be an extra incentive to vote, the larger turnouts that might result could favor the Democrats.
What all this speculation adds up to is the fact that the process of electing a President is a very tricky operation, whatever process is used. The present system has evolved over many years and has achieved a balance which works; any modification will hurt some and help others, but the correction of obvious weaknesses will help us all.
In the forthcoming debate over what corrections to make, I think those concerned should state where they stand. I am obviously in favor of abolishing the Electoral College immediately. It must not be allowed to meet even one more time. The process leading to a constitutional amendment which would eliminate at least this error must be started immediately, even though the resulting amendment might have to be superseded later when more fundamental changes became possible. All plans which have been advanced for keeping the College, but with restraints and protections, seem inherently dangerous to me and I could accept none; as long as the College existed, clever ways would be found to manipulate it. It should be given no extension of life. It should be abolished now.
I also believe that throwing inconclusive elections into the House must be stopped, and I would hope that this could be accomplished in the amendment ending the Electoral College. Substituting election by the joint House and Senate is an improvement, but even this is so open to manipulation, pressure, and fraud that I would find it difficult to sponsor such a plan. I much prefer the run-off election as being quick, efficient, and decisive. It is also the best method for insuring a visible legitimacy.
As to the four alternative plans, I must choose in obedience to what I have learned in politics. I have already spoken of my philosophical apprenticeship to John C. Calhoun; my practical training came at the hands of an unknown Irishman on Espiritu Santo, the savage island south of Guadalcanal.
In the early autumn of 1944 the Navy commander of Espiritu Santo received a directive from President Roosevelt’s office in Washington ordering him, and all other island commanders, to ensure that a proper election was held in their areas. There were to be no slip-ups or errors. The commander looked down his roster of officers and saw that I had taught history, so he summoned me and growled, “You are the election officer of this island, and there are to be no slip-ups or errors. If there are, it’s your neck.”
I proceeded to organize the snappiest Presidential election the island of Espiritu Santo had ever seen. I enlisted the aid of some men who had been commercial artists in private life and we plastered the island with reminders that “Your Vote Is Your Freedom. Use It.” “Pick the Best Man and Back Him. Vote.” We also had one for which I was directly responsible: “Don’t Be Dumb. Vote.”
I next set up a system whereby every man, as he entered and left chow line, was reminded that by going to the proper building he could vote. We sent speakers who delivered one-minute addresses before the movies started, and if there was anyone on the island, including the natives, who remained ignorant of the Roosevelt-Dewey election under way back home, it wasn’t my fault.
The island commander and I were not disturbed when we received notice that a personal representative of the President would visit the island to check on our preparations for the election. Special inspection was to be made to be sure that Governor Dewey was getting a fair shake, and on this point I had been meticulous. I doubted if any other island in the Pacific could show a better election than the one we were running.
When the courier plane landed and the ramp came down, we saw a red-faced Irishman in a sweaty blue civilian suit descend. The first thing he saw was a huge sign which said, “Vote. That’s What We’re Fighting For.” When he looked beyond that he saw other signs, and when he came face to face with me he saw that I wore a large handmade button which said, “Vote!”
The red in his face turned to purple. He studied the various signs and exploded, “What in hell is going on here?”
The island commander, a notoriously nervous type, began to sweat and asked what was wrong, and the visitor bellowed, “Wrong! Everything’s wrong!”
The commander grabbed for me and shoved me forward. “This officer is in charge.”
The Irishman looked at me compassionately and asked in a voice dripping with frustration, “Son, what in hell do you think you’re
doing?”
“I’m getting out the vote,” I said.
“We want everyone to have the right to vote,” he explained slowly. “We don’t want them to vote.”
He surveyed the airport and said, “Somebody has done a lot of work here. I can see that. But it’s all been wrong. So you get your crew together and take down every damned sign on this island. By nightfall I don’t want to see a single election sign … not anywhere! And when you’ve given that order, I want to see you in the commander’s office.”
I assembled my crew and told them the news. “Everything down.” I began by ripping down a sign that one of my men had carefully painted.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me, I’m totally confused.”
When the wrecking crews were on their way I reported to the Irishman, who now had a glass of whiskey and a fresh shirt. He was an amiable man, a wonderful politician of the Boston school, and in later years I tried to find his name, because I supposed that he was operating as a member of John F. Kennedy’s Irish mafia. He had a most practical sense of politics, and the four or five hours I spent with him formed an unforgettable part of my education.
“The Navy has one objective only,” he explained, “and keep it always in mind. We would be happy if every sailor on this island and every sailor on every ship around this island failed to vote. But we must have a careful written record proving that the Navy gave him the privilege of voting … had he so desired.
“Let me put it another way. Our sole objective is to prevent senators from getting letters like this one … six months after the election.” He showed me a letter to a New England senator in which an enlisted man had complained about the 1942 election: “I would of voted for you, Senator, but the damned Navy wouldn’t let me.”
“We tracked that case down, and of course the Navy had allowed the kid to vote, and thank God we had a signed paper to prove it. The kid had never bothered to write for a ballot. And we had a paper to prove that, too. Michener, we want to have a paper proving that every lousy human being on this island had a right to vote. But we sure as hell don’t want them to exercise it.”
In expansive detail he explained his theories, happy to have as an audience someone who could understand what he was talking about. “You do not further democracy,” he argued, “by encouraging a whole lot of people to vote. This country is kept alive by a small nucleus of devoted Republicans and Democrats who think enough of it to work their damned shoes to the pavement and their suits to a frazzle doing the job that others wouldn’t touch. They keep the parties together. They run the Congress and the states and the cities. They work at registration, at the polls, at the primaries, at God knows what else. They should do the voting and not someone who wakes up to politics one day every four years.
“I would be quite happy if about ten per cent of those eligible to vote did so. We’d have better government because they’d know what they were voting about. You see many stories about the low voting percentage in Mississippi. There’s nothing wrong with that. It isn’t the low percentage that’s wrong, of itself, but the manner in which the percentage is kept low. They won’t let Negroes vote and they should. But if they did, only a few would vote. They’d be the good ones, and their opinion would be valuable. As for the others, they’re no better than the Irish in Boston.
“You take this Boston congressman that I helped send to Washington. Very smart fellow. I was in his office one day when a deputation of nineteen workingmen from his district came down to raise hell about the way he’d voted on a labor bill. They swore they’d run him out of office at the next election. He was very contemptuous of them and practically told them to get out of his office. When they were gone I told him if he kept up like that he’d lose for sure next time, and he told me, ‘They said they’d vote me out of office. How many of those lunkers do you think are registered? When I heard they were coming down I looked it up.’ He buzzed for his girl and she gave him the figures. Of the nineteen who took the trouble to come to Washington, four were registered. He said, ‘This afternoon I’ll write each of those four a real swell letter … embossed letterhead … everything … and I’ll keep them in line. The other fifteen? You know where they’ll be on election day? Home drinking beer.’ ”
He was intensely interested in politics and seemed to me to be saying that the old Greek attitude toward democracy was the only one that made sense. I asked him if he held the general public in contempt. “Not at all! We have the best public in the world and they deserve good government. But the vote should be kept difficult. Let every man in the nation who really wants to vote do so, but don’t make it easy for him. Make it very tough and you’ll weed out the automatic voters who never know what it’s all about and merely mark the ballot.
“One thing we’ve got to change. This absentee ballot business. Stop all absentee ballots. The only man entitled to vote is someone who has followed the course of the entire election so he knows what’s going on. And to do this he has to be on the scene. One radio speech can disclose a candidate’s weakness or strike a spark of humanity. You have to be on the scene to catch this, and if you don’t react to it you’re not entitled to vote.
“Besides,” he said sardonically, “about eighty per cent of absentee ballots vote for your man anyway”—in those days I was Republican—“and it’s not fair to give Dewey all those ready-made votes.”
He talked on and on, sharing secrets of Boston politics, and finally I asked, “Would you restrict the ballot?”
“Never!” he shouted. “I’d make it as liberal as possible. Every Negro should have the right to vote, every working-man. I’d even drop the voting age to eighteen. I want the help of every good man in the nation. But I’d make it very difficult to vote. I’d want a man to have to take conscious effort to register, to vote in the primaries and to vote in the general.” In some disgust he took from his briefcase a sample ballot for the state of Massachusetts and spread it on the table between us. Contemptuously he went from one contest to another, excoriating now Republicans, now Democrats. “How can a man on this island possibly know what the values are in this election back home? Take these two clowns. How can he decide which is worse than the other? Under no circumstances should a man on this island be permitted to vote in this election. And I don’t want them voting … unless they come to you with their tongues hanging out begging for a ballot. And then they ought to vote for only the top spot … Roosevelt or Dewey … because about the rest they can understand nothing.”
He concluded with a statement I have never forgotten. “I believe totally in democracy but I want to see great crowds at the polls in only one condition. When they are filled with blind fury at the mismanagement of the country and are determined to throw the bastards out. From time to time votes like that are necessary to keep the system clean. For the rest of the time I think you leave politics to those of us who really care.”
Then, to prove that he was a politician, he asked quietly, “Would it help you with the commanding officer if I told him that … except for the signs … you had done a splendid job on this island?” I said it would.
As election officer for Espiritu Santo, I posted no more exhortations, made no more speeches, but on our election day, which came in mid-October, I think that every man on the island who really wanted to vote for either Roosevelt or Dewey did so. We made it difficult for them to find the voting booths, but they found them.
With this background I have reached certain conclusions about what we should do after we have abolished the Electoral College and House elections. I am not in favor of a direct popular vote for President. I fear that such a vote would be vulnerable to demagoguery, to wild fluctuations of public reaction, to hysteria generated by television, and to the tearing down of the old safeguards which have protected the various regions of our nation. A direct vote would hand too much leverage to the cities, and in spite of claims that it would be easy to administer, I judge that it would be rather difficu
lt because of absentee ballots, the temptation to trickery, and the tremendous pressures that would be placed upon certifying officials. Today, if the officials of State X run a crooked election, it affects the electoral vote of that state but can be otherwise quarantined. If State X’s corrupt votes were tossed into the general balloting, they might corrupt the entire procedure and bring our whole election system into discredit. Far from enhancing the legitimacy of the outcome, this would cast shadows upon it.
I am opposed to direct voting for another reason. I think there is much good in the electoral system. I prefer voting by states and allowing regions to exercise advantages which mere numbers would not give them. I hold this to be a part of the American genius, an invention which has helped hold us together when others have flown apart in sectionalism. The fact that direct voting would abolish this old tradition lessens the attractiveness of the new plan for me. Nor would it be as efficient as some claim. Senator Mundt is exaggerating, but not much, when he claims, “If the direct popular vote had been in operation in the 1968 election, we would not have known until late November who was going to be our next President, because of absentee ballots and the slowness of counting. The trading and pulling and uncertainty might have been with us until mid-December.”
Having made these objections, I must now confess that even though direct popular voting is not my first choice, I see much merit in the plan; and since it seems to be the choice of the vast majority of the American public, if the polls are to be believed, and since its sponsors are among the finest political minds of this nation, I am conceding no principle when I say that if I cannot get the plan I want, I will want the one I can get. And certainly, if we had the option of either keeping our present plan with all its defects or adopting the new plan of direct voting, I would not hesitate a moment to opt for the latter. The technical imperfections of direct popular voting could be cleared up in time, I suppose, and as for the philosophical objection that the people might run wild at moments of hysteria, I would rather risk that inevitable concomitant of democracy than to surrender democracy itself.