Politics after September 11 : Domestic and foreign affairs at odds.

Before September 11, the Bush administration was in the doldrums and sliding a bit in the polls. Its chief achievement--Bush's massive tax cut--was a policy the public didn't much like, and one based on forecasts seen even then as so falsely optimistic as to require major amendment or repeal. Its greatest asset was Bush's version of charm and a disposition to avoid giving offense, as in the president's politically adroit handling of the stem-cell dilemma, which left both sides irked but not infuriated. In fact, the president demonstrated an almost Clintonesque talent for the tactical retreat, moderating his early opposition to energy price controls in California, for example, and relegating school vouchers to the political land of the living dead. Bush's tendency to defer to his party's right-wing leaders in Congress had cost Republicans control of the Senate, but if the economy looked increasingly grim, it was too early for Bush to be assigned much of the blame. Domestically, the big story was Gary Condit. In foreign affairs, the administration looked relatively sure-handed, and while most Americans were skeptical about the president's plans for an antimissile system, not many noticed, on September 9, when Senator Joe Biden (D-Del.) argued on national television that terrorism was a greater potential enemy. Approaching nine months in office, the administration probably rated a C--not much wrong, not much right--and the president wasn't greatly missed when he headed off for the ranch.

After September 11, of course, the president's job approval ratings went through the roof, and Republican candidates hoped to shelter under his wing. What they discovered, of course, was that the president's ratings were largely confined to foreign affairs, where patriotism seems to command us to rally behind the commander-in-chief. (Even in foreign policy, Bush's ratings are strikingly vulnerable to disappointment: In Vietnam, Lyndon Johnson could draw on confidence based on what government had done in the past, but that capital has largely been expended; Bush relies on hope for what government may do, a fragile commitment, as speculative and unstable as the tech-stock boom.)

In postcatastrophe domestic politics the administration continues to follow its ideological stars--a faith in the magic of the market and a distrust of government--in a way that suggests conviction, but also a failure to adapt to the new temper of the times. The president's "economic stimulus" package (the promise of help in reconstruction aside) consists largely of yet more tax cuts, skewed to benefit corporations and the well-to-do. It is not apt to make much difference in economic life, except in the very long term. And the president initially chose to throw himself into the fight in the House to keep airline security in private hands. The "lapses" and lies of those security companies indicate that on the margin, profit will always trump safety, which is why we do not privatize the uniformed services. The majority of Americans recognize this clearly enough, and in the Senate, even conservatives got out of the way, voting 100-0 to make airport security a public responsibility. Subsequently, the House Republicans capitulated and Bush signed the bill turning the supervision of airline security over to the federal government. But the

Republicans will pay a price for their ideological stance. Take your pick: the president first stood on principle or he gave in to the right-wingers who lead the House. In either case, as Marge Roukema (R-N.J.) predicted, the Democrats "will beat us up," and she is almost certainly right.

The Bush administration, following family precedent, doesn't get it in domestic life. After the attacks, the public mood is more concerned with security and less concerned with cost. That Americans worry about terrorism, after all, only makes them more worried about the jobs and schools and small decencies that terrorism threatens. Bush's very popularity derives from the perception of the president, in foreign affairs, as a forceful champion, determined to pay the price of safety, and the GOP's domestic paladin, Rudy Giuliani, is notable for his aggressive, even eager, use of government power for whatever he takes to be the common good. It's not clear how long our patriotic enthusiasm will last, but it evidently reflects a greater sense of community, a recognition of how much we depend on one another.

Along with that stirring goes a new appreciation of government, no less baffling and overwhelming, but clearly necessary and, in a crucial sense, ours. We have been reminded, forcefully, of the day-to-day heroism of firefighters and police, EMTs and paramedics and postal workers, in a way that burnishes the nobility of public service. (There are signs, too, of a longer-term and broader reevaluation of public careers: television features successful shows celebrating teachers--"Boston Public"--and social workers--"Judging Amy.") And no one, despite the problems of the Centers for Disease Control, wants the anthrax crisis handled by one's HMO. Sixty-four percent of Americans say they trust government to do what's right most of the time, the polls tell us--about twice as many as last spring and the highest figure since 1966, in the early days of Vietnam.

Of course, the public mood had its eddies. Given the economic pinch, taxes--and especially, property taxes--are even less popular than usual. Still, in Virginia, Democrat Mark Warner, a self-styled "Virginia conservative," held out against a no-new-tax pledge and was elected governor anyway on November 6. In New Jersey, on the other hand, Jim McGreevey--having resisted such a pledge for much of the campaign, mindful of the state's looming deficit--eventually gave ground, announcing that he had "ruled out" any tax increase.

For McGreevey, it amounted to a failure of nerve, even for a candidate who prefers playing it safe and building coalitions. He was always a sure winner: His opponent, Bret Schundler, was far too conservative for New Jersey, pointedly shunned by many of the state's moderate Republicans, including the acting governor, Donald DeFrancesco (Mark Warner also benefited from a divided GOP in Virginia). But New Jersey Democrats, with their shuddering memories of the decade-long setback that followed Governor Jim Florio's tax increase in 1990, wanted a McGreevey margin big enough to pull in a Democratic legislature, and that they got, winning control in the Assembly and a tie in the State Senate.

Yet despite that familiar pact with the devil, McGreevey ran as an unapologetic advocate for public schools against his opponent's version of vouchers, and his advertisements trumpeted the endorsement of McGreevey's candidacy by police and firefighters. Schundler seemed a strong leader to a good many voters, and he tried hard to identify himself with Bush and Giuliani, but his program suggested he would devote his strength to the dismantling of government, and it was surely the wrong year for Schundler's willingness, in theory, to sign a law permitting concealed weapons. In his soft way, McGreevey ran as the champion of government devoted to the "working- and middle-class" New Jerseyans for whom public services rank as personal necessities, especially in the aftermath of September 11.

The Republican victory in the New York mayoralty spoke in the same accents. That Mike Bloomberg won was due in part to his personal fortune, and in part to luck (the Democrats were caught in a delayed, divisive primary and eventually nominated a candidate, Mark Green, with a reputation for arrogance and a very long list of enemies). Yet at least as much, Bloomberg's triumph turned on his association with Giuliani and his presumed ability to manage the economy. The nominal Republican, Bloomberg, seemed to promise stronger leadership for stronger government, and for much of embattled America--that was the winning message this year.

Yet neither the candidates nor the president seems to understand in more than a fragmentary way that the American wave of patriotism is also a desire to share in public service, to make one's appropriate contribution to the republic. President Bush, more Harding than Pericles, asked us only to "get on with your lives, hug your kids, and go to the mall," reflecting an image of the citizen as consumer, and his recent half-baked call for community service volunteers isn't much better. Across the centuries, Aristotle offers better insight into the American soul. A democracy, he taught, is in important ways like an army, because the democratic idea of justice--that a free life, freely given, is the greatest contribution to public life--is most persuasive in war. And in any case, democracy cherishes the ability of all to share, as equally as may be, in the burdens of rule as well as the rights of subjects. What Americans have sensed, in this moment of crisis, is the possibility that they may matter. The fact that the Bush administration isn't asking us for more, I suspect, is that they are uneasy with this teaching: at bottom, the leading figures around the president are oligarchs, people who believe or suspect that unequal wealth, not equal life, is the defining principle of justice (as in the argument that the rich deserve larger tax cuts because they pay more taxes).

By contrast, John McCain (R-Ariz.) has been arguing (in association with Senator Evan Bayh [D-Ind.]) that the current crisis is the right occasion to institute National Service, a policy which would allow Americans to make an honorable down payment on the debt they owe their country. We should hope that such voices get a hearing. The memories and monuments of America's tragedy offer possibilities, not to be missed, for the revitalization of democracy.

Wilson Carey McWilliams, a regular Commonweal contributor, teaches political philosophy at Rutgers University.