Founding Fictions

RHETORIC, CULTURE, AND SOCIAL CRITIQUE

SERIES EDITOR

John Louis Lucaites

EDITORIAL BOARD

Richard Bauman

Barbara Biesecker

Carole Blair

Dilip Gaonkar

Robert Hariman

Steven Mailloux

Raymie E. McKerrow

Toby Miller

Austin Sarat

Janet Staiger

Barbie Zelizer

Founding Fictions

JENNIFER R. MERCIECA

THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA PRESS

Tuscaloosa

Copyright © 2010

The University of Alabama Press

Tuscaloosa, Alabama 35487-0380

All rights reserved

Manufactured in the United States of America

Typeface: Bembo

The paper on which this book is printed meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences-Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mercieca, Jennifer R.

Founding fictions / Jennifer R. Mercieca.

p. cm.—(Rhetoric, culture, and social critique)

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-8173-1690-7 (cloth : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8173-8355-8

1. United States—Politics and government—To 1775. 2. United States—Politics and government—1775–1783. 3. United States—Politics and government—1783–1865. 4. Citizenship—United States—History—18th century. 5. Citizenship—United States—History—19th century. 6. Political culture—United States—History—18th century. 7. Political culture—United States—History—19th century. 8. Political stability—United States—History. 9. Political participation—United States—History. 10. Democracy—United States—History. I. Title.

E302.1.M47 2010

973.2—dc22

2009032189

For my mother, whose unfailing love gave me the confidence to try.

!

(Hail to the Victor!)

Malo periculosam libertatem quam quietam servitutem [I prefer the tumult of liberty to the quiet of servitude]

—Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, January 30, 1787

Consistency, is not, I know a trait in democracy! When it suits there [sic] purpose—when unanswerable arguments are opposed to democrats, then our ears are stunned with the people, the sovereign people demand it—the public will is in its favor—& we must bow submissive. But these same men, when they pursue measures to which they conceive the public mind is opposed, then tell us, that the people are uninformed—they are a rabble incapable of judging—& good legislatures will not consult them.

—New Hampshire senator William Plumer, 1803

Your question is: why am I so interested in politics? But if I were to answer you very simply, I would say this: why shouldn't I be interested? That is to say, what blindness, what deafness, what density of ideology would have to weigh me down to prevent me from being interested in what is probably the most crucial subject to our existence, that is to say the society in which we live, the economic relations within which it functions, and the system of power which defines the regular forms and the regular permissions and prohibitions of our conduct…. So instead of asking me, you should ask someone who is not interested in politics and then your question would be well-founded, and you would have the right to say ‘Why, damn it, are you not interested?’

—Michel Foucault, 1971

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1.  Republicanism was an indefinite term: Political Fictions as Critical Tools for Citizenship

2.  The Revolution was in the minds of the people: Citizens as Romantic Heroes, 1764–1776

3.  "The American Constitution is that little article of HOPE, left at the bottom of Pandora's box of evils": Citizens as Tragic Victims, 1783–1789

4.  Who would not have been willing to have died such a death?: Citizens as Reified Patriot Heroes, July 4, 1826

5.  I will not look up to the weather-cock of popularity, to see which way the gale is blowing: Citizens as Ironic Partisans, 1816–1845

Conclusion

Notes

Index

Acknowledgments

In the spring of 1998, I was in a graduate seminar on Political Communication at the University of Illinois taught by the late David Swanson. We had been reading essay after essay chronicling escalating voter apathy, civic disengagement, and citizen withdrawal from American politics, and I recall throwing down the pen with which I had been taking notes in frustration and blurting out, What the hell are we doing here then? Professor Swanson—not used to such indecorous outbursts, even from me—generously gave a thoughtful answer to allay my frustration: we are here because democracy matters; we are here because people do vote (sometimes, especially when there is a war or a bad economy); we are here, examining the research on apathy and disengagement, because as scholars of political communication we need to understand the rhetorical context within which our messages operate. Unsatisfied with any of these answers, I decided I needed to know more about American democracy. I was fortunate that about this time Illinois welcomed two new, extremely talented professors: Cara Finnegan and Stephen Hartnett. Professors Finnegan and Hartnett taught courses about rhetoric, the public sphere, and American history, which helped me to think more carefully about the questions of active citizenship. Professor Finnegan taught me how to find my argument, even though she was forced to write Your argument appears to be in your head and not on the paper on far too many of my seminar papers. Professor Hartnett taught me both how to write and to look to our shared history for answers to today's questions. It was all there, he assured us in our seminars; we just needed to know how to tell good stories about the past to make sense of where we are today. I owe a large debt of gratitude to Professors Swanson, Finnegan, and Hartnett, each of whom acted as a generous mentor, critic, scholar, and teacher. I hope that Cara and Stephen will each see what they taught me reflected back to them: I hope that Cara will find my argument right there on the page where it belongs and that Stephen will find that I've told my stories as vibrantly as I could—even though he and I both know that my prose is no match for his own eloquence. I'm sure that David Swanson would have found that this book says exactly what he had expected that it would.

Fortuna smiled upon me in the summer of 2000 when I was selected to attend the National Communication Association's Doctoral Honors Seminar at Northwestern University, which was ably and thoughtfully led by Celeste Condit, Robert Ivie, and James Arnt Aune. The conversations we had over the course of the seminar reinforced my belief that the questions of active citizenship and democracy needed to be grounded in both political theory and historical analysis. Professor Aune responded to my paper on the emergence of the norm of eunomia (good order) in ancient Greece with thought-provoking questions—to which I made feeble answers—giving the whole exchange the appearance of a debate rather than what it should have been, a brilliant professor giving advice to a (silent!) student. Thankfully, Jim was too generous to hold my (nervous, unintended) petulance against me and he took an interest in my work, reading every draft of every seminar paper, essay, and book chapter I've written for almost a decade. Meeting Jim that summer was a fortunate bit of academic serendipity: his unwavering support is the reason that I did not give up on this project when rejections made success seem impossible. I am constantly amazed at Jim's ability to deal patiently, gently, and generously with people and ideas. Jim is a prince among academics, and I am lucky to call him my friend, colleague, and mentor.

My colleagues in the Department of Communication at Texas A&M University—past and present—have nurtured both me and this project with their thoughtful advice, helpful criticism, and generous kindness. I know how lucky I am to work with unfailingly smart, kind, and reasonable people who care as much for ideas and research as they do for community service and good teaching. This project in particular has benefited from the helpful advice of Jim Aune, Leroy Dorsey, Rick Street, Linda Putnam, Barbara Scharf, Christopher Swift, and Antonio La Pastina, all of whom gave me their time, criticism, and wisdom. Vanessa Beasley, Jim Jasinski, John Murphy, and John Sloop deserve a special thank-you for being the best colleagues-from-a-distance that anyone has ever had. I had no reasonable expectation of your help and kindness, which makes the fact that you each gave me yours so willingly and generously all the more exceptional. Stirling Newberry, Anthony Mora, and Ted George generously took time away from their own writing projects to help me with mine, and this project owes a specific debt of gratitude to each of them. The folks at The University of Alabama Press have been unfailingly patient as I struggled to learn how to write a book. In their hands my project received the kind of generous and thorough criticism that is rare even in academe. The anonymous reviewers' advice helped me to clarify my ideas and strengthen my argument; because of their help, Founding Fictions is much smarter than I could have made it on my own.

The Friday Happy Hours group at Texas A&M, especially Tracy Hammond, Jenny Irish, Miladin Radovic, Courtney Schumacher, and David Kalil, made life in Bryan–College Station significantly more fun. My Illinois grad school peeps—Ted Bailey, Jennifer Jones, Liz Perea, Jack Bratich, Donovan Conley, Trevor Potts, and Jeremy Packer—were some of my best teachers. BFFs Lisa Meid, Courtney Ballard McKay, Vanessa Cazzell, Sandy Dennington, Grace Gualco, and Michele Patton have shared their lives with me and in so doing have made mine much more pleasant. Janet Brehe Johnson was the first to notice that I might have a talent for rhetoric; her encouraging me to join her forensics team changed my life and is the reason why I ended up where I am today. My genius brother Victor Mercieca has constantly imagined that I could do grander things with my life and has always been willing to send his grateful sister much-needed gift certificates to buy books, without which this project might have never come to fruition. My amazing Auntie Carm would give me anything and everything in her power, and I know just how lucky I am to have her love. Finally, my loving thanks are due to my parents, Victor and Diane Mercieca, who gave me more love, more opportunities, and more support than anyone justly deserves. There are no words to express the immeasurable impact that their love and kindness have had on making me who I am today.

Portions of chapter 5 originally appeared in Rhetoric and Public Affairs, vol. 10, no. 1, and vol. 11, no. 3, published by Michigan State University Press, and appear here with their permission. I was fortunate to receive financial support for this project from the University of Illinois's Department of Speech Communication (2001 Summer Research Stipend), the Melbern G. Glasscock Center for Humanities Research (2003 Communication and 2008 American Studies Fellowships), Texas A&M University College of Liberal Arts (2006 Research Fellowship), and Texas A&M University (2007 Scholarly and Creative Activities Fellowship).

Introduction

Aristotle once said that the good citizen must have the knowledge and the ability both to be ruled and to rule. He did not believe a citizen was a mere member of a state, but rather that the state itself was a kind of partnership in which citizens worked together to promote the security of their community and defend the constitution. Citizen-partners acted with absolute justice only when they governed for the common advantage rather than for their personal advantage.¹ To be a citizen, then, was to be an officer of the government who was obligated and empowered to defend the community and the constitution. The defining characteristic of the citizen in Aristotle's view—often labeled republican or communitarian by citizenship scholars—is that citizens have the power to act. Citizens would act by being governed, by governing, by defending the constitution, and by promoting the common good. Aristotle's description of the active citizen-partner has much in common with the view of the republican citizen that emerged among American radicals between 1764 and 1776. However, by 1787 some Americans no longer believed that citizens were capable of acting to defend the Constitution or to promote the common good, and they would design a republican government in which citizens would govern less and be governed more. By 1828, though many still believed that citizens could not be trusted to act with absolute justice, and while there were few changes made to the Constitution, Jacksonians would call America's republican government a democracy. The power of American citizens to act is therefore ambiguous: Are they partners of the state obligated and empowered to act, or not? The history of the political discourse that invented, defined, and delimited the American citizen's ability to act and to govern has not been thoroughly understood; Founding Fictions tells that story.

Scholars across disciplines have carefully studied the important and complex questions of American democratic citizenship.² American citizenship has been studied most notably by Jacksonian-era scholars such as Alexis de Tocqueville, Progressive Era scholars such as John Dewey and Walter Lippmann, post—World War II scholars such as Hannah Arendt, and late-twentieth-century scholars such as Benjamin Barber, Carole Pateman, and Robert Putnam. If we read this scholarship as a narrative of American citizenship, we learn that America once enjoyed a vibrant and active (white, male, landed property owner) citizenry that has steadily declined into apathy and withdrawal from the political process. This decline thesis has been challenged most notably by Michael Schudson and Rogers Smith, both of whom argue that de Tocqueville's original analysis was too optimistic and therefore that we have not really witnessed a decline in participation, even though with an average voter turnout of 48 percent America ranks 114th out of the 140 nations in the world that hold free elections.³ Other scholars, such as Robert Asen and Ernesto Laclau, have rejected the decline thesis by arguing that the traditional markers of citizenship—voting, participating in political parties, and membership in civic organizations, for example—are not the best criteria by which to judge citizenship; these scholars have asked us to view citizenship as discursive action based primarily upon how people act together outside the constitutional order. A group of rhetorical scholars such as Vanessa Beasley, Leroy Dorsey, Alisse Portnoy, and Susan Zaeske has sidestepped the question of decline by examining America's political rhetoric both for how American has been constructed within elite discourses and for how those excluded from traditional citizenship rights have nonetheless found ways to participate in the public sphere. Still other scholars, such as Michael Hardt, Antonio Negri, and Jacques Rancière, have asked scholars to approach the question of citizenship from a global perspective and have sought to change the focus from a scholar's lament that citizens do not consistently participate to a celebration of the carnivalesque, sporadic participations of the multitude.

Founding Fictions neither wholly embraces the Tocquevillian optimism of the rise of Jacksonian democracy nor wholly rejects Putnam's decline thesis; rather, it offers a different story of American citizenship. By retelling the stories that Americans told themselves about citizenship between 1764 and 1845, Founding Fictions describes how our construction of American citizenship is much more conflicted, paradoxical, and complex than either de Tocqueville's Democracy in America or Putnam's Bowling Alone would suggest.⁴ Above all, Founding Fictions highlights an important contradiction in American political theory and practice: national stability and active citizen participation are fundamentally at odds. In making this argument, Founding Fictions separates the question of who counts as a citizen from how citizens are imagined to act within the institutional structures of the American political system—rather than asking who can participate, Founding Fictions asks what actions are possible by whoever the people are thought to be. This orientation allows me to develop the concept of a political fiction, trace the development of America's republican and democratic political fictions, and analyze how these fictions positioned American citizens as romantic heroes, tragic victims, and ironic partisans. From this analysis it becomes clear that Aristotle's active citizenship is only possible when Americans are imagined as romantic heroes and that the view of Americans as tragic victims and ironic partisans all but eclipsed the view of Americans as romantic heroes in America's democratic political fiction. Quite simply, this book is a sustained discussion of how the founders' republican fiction turned into America's democratic fiction and how these fictions portrayed American cit izens.⁵ While much has been written about the possibilities of American citizenship, how Americans have used their republican and democratic fictions to imagine citizen participation is unclear. This is a regrettable lacuna, because the founding generation crafted our republican fiction and the second generation crafted our democratic fiction in response to specific constraints; our failure to understand the relationships between these fictions and these contexts impinges upon our ability to assess democracy today.

A Brief Note on Rhetorical History

We find attempts to influence others through symbols—that is, rhetoric—in places where we are unaccustomed to look for it (in political theory, for example), and we would do well to examine how these instances of rhetoric have informed how we understand American citizenship. Rhetorical scholars will recognize this argument from Kenneth Burke's Rhetoric of Motives, and indeed, Founding Fictions' use of the term rhetoric has much in common with Burke, who viewed it as the use of words by human agents to form attitudes or to induce actions in other human agents.⁶ The crucial aspect of this view of rhetoric is that it is a kind of action—we do things with rhetoric, and rhetoric, in turn, does things to us. Rhetoric helps us to constitute, position, describe, frame, and delimit political communities and the people who inhabit them in particular ways; indeed, this is one of rhetoric's most important functions.⁷ Founding Fictions draws from and synthesizes the work of scholars such as Michel Foucault, Hayden White, and Kenneth Burke, among others, in an approach that can best be described as a meta-rhetorical history. In other words, it examines how the structural elements within texts—the arguments, tropes, and figures—contributed to building the political fictions that permeated and dominated the contexts of which they were a part.⁸ Or, as Kathleen Turner has argued, whereas rhetorical criticism seeks to understand the message in context, rhetorical history seeks to understand the context through messages that reflect and construct that context.⁹ Specifically, Founding Fictions uses this meta-rhetorical historical approach to analyze the construction of American citizenship, and in so doing it takes our obligation to the history of ideas seriously and views criticism as ripe with the potential for political transformation.

Taking our obligations to the history of ideas and to active criticism seriously has led me to a humbly ironic and contextual approach to rhetorical history.¹⁰ Stephen J. Hartnett has described humble irony as an approach to rhetorical history that recognizes that our present is indeed indebted to the past our forebears created and lived and that this past was structured by cultural fictions that, although perhaps strange to us, must surely have been enabling in some way for them.¹¹ In other words, rhetorical discourse must be—in fact, can only be—understood by placing it within the complex web of dominant ideas and events in its immediate historical context. Judging any text outside its immediate context—the prevailing ideas in circulation, the material conditions of its production and dissemination, the situational constraints that motivated its purpose—has two negative consequences: first, ignoring context prevents modern scholars from understanding how, why, and to what effect historical discourses were composed and circulated; second, ignoring context robs those who came before us of their own history and attempts to remake the world in our own image—it is the epitome of academic hubris. Therefore, the recognition of our obligation to the history of ideas requires that rhetorical scholarship pay close attention to context and that it re-create historical contexts with humble irony.

In other words, Founding Fictions' method of rhetorical history is based upon a kind of scholarship as caretaker: scholars are caretakers of ideas past, present, and future, and as such we have an obligation to represent those ideas as accurately as possible and to meet the authors of those ideas on their own ground.¹² Yet, while Founding Fictions recognizes that scholars are caretakers of ideas, we should not accept uncritically the ideas that have come before us. The critical interrogation of political ideas is one of the most important tasks of citizenship, and as such, Founding Fictions hopes to practice criticism as political action.

Writing any book—Hayden White would say especially writing history—is a poetic act. I have made certain choices in the conceptualization, research, and presentation of this study of American citizenship, and I am responsible for those choices.¹³ I began with a study of political theory, American history, and the biographies of the major figures and their friends and colleagues—in this phase of my research I found it illuminating to study the authors that the founders were known to have read and studied—authors as diverse as the ancient Greek democrats, Roman republicans, Renaissance humanists, British Whigs, French physiocrats, and Scottish moral philosophers. Once I had familiarized myself with the secondary literature, I examined the published and unpublished papers of the first two generations in addition to the newspapers, public and private correspondence, literature, and journals of their era. Once I had studied the archival materials I then turned my attention to the political deliberations and the resulting public pronouncements of deliberative bodies. This methodology allowed me to gauge how the first two generations' private reflections and study of political theory and history and the private negotiations and attempts to persuade friends and colleagues recorded in journals and correspondence resulted in the public discourse found in debates, pronouncements, and policies.¹⁴ I have moved back and forth from texts to contexts and back again, from political theory to history and back again; I have always approached my study of our past with a careful eye to detail. My recovery, description, and explanation of how the first two generations of Americans understood their government culminates in an analysis of the narratives that Americans created to support those views and of how those narratives portrayed citizens. In so doing, this analysis stands apart from more traditional conceptual change histories, even as it complements those studies.¹⁵

I have endeavored to treat each character in my story fairly, although I must confess that the difficulties of impartiality are great. There are always favorite people and ideas, and it is nearly impossible to prevent a deep involvement with the partisanship of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, for we are indeed still fighting their fights. My biases—where they are apparent—are toward transparent public argument and active citizen participation, even at the expense of stability. The reader will note that many of the same characters reappear in my story in different contexts—Thomas Jefferson seems to be everywhere at once, for example; this is largely because the founding fathers were leaders in every facet of society and enjoyed extraordinarily long political careers.¹⁶ I also want to point out that the metaphor of movement provides a subtext for this discussion of American citizenship. Sometimes the movement was linear—as with Americans rejecting the monarchical fiction and crafting the republican fiction between 1764 and 1776.¹⁷ At other times the movement was circular—as with Americans returning to our nation's founding as we repeatedly ask ourselves how to prevent tyranny and defend liberty. I think that the metaphor of movement is apropos because the development of American political theory was both linear and circular. Sometimes the discussions of republicanism and democracy led to new ways of thinking about the relationship between the people and the government, and sometimes Americans reverted back to old truisms and did not question received wisdom. The biggest tragedy is that in the end Americans forgot that we invented our political fictions in the first place and we stopped debating their meaning all together. This forgetting, yet another form of movement, is why I believe it is imperative that we revisit our founding fictions.

Outline of the Text

Chapter 1, ‘Republicanism was an indefinite term’: Political Fictions as Critical Tools for Citizenship, may be of particular interest to scholars of American political theory and American political discourse. I lead the reader through an overview of my arguments in the subsequent chapters by answering seven questions: Why does Founding Fictions use an interdisciplinary approach to study American citizenship? Why did the founders fear democracy? How did the founders define republicanism? What were the features of republican constitutions? What are political fictions? What does it mean to say that Americans were cast as romantic heroes, tragic victims, and ironic partisans? And finally, how do we analyze political fictions? Answering these questions at the beginning of the book allows me to bracket the scholarly business of my argument from the historical narratives I tell, which I hope will make the book useful and accessible to both scholars and citizens.

Chapter 2, ‘The Revolution was in the minds of the people’: Citizens as Romantic Heroes, 1764–1776, demonstrates how the rhetorical situation leading up to the American Revolution led to the destruction of the monarchical fiction and the creation of the republican fiction. I focus on the rhetorical moves made in three phases of the conflict between Britain and its North American colonies: the reaffirming phase, in which Americans demanded their rights as British subjects; the challenging phase, in which Americans positioned themselves as patriot subjects; and the destroying phase, in which Americans declared themselves patriot citizens who would act to defend the rights and liberties of all. The culmination of this shift from subjects to citizens was to imagine Americans as romantic heroes who would act for the common good and protect liberty.

Chapter 3, "‘The American Constitution is that little article of HOPE, left at the bottom of Pandora's box of evils’: Citizens as Tragic Victims, 1783–1789," demonstrates how the rhetorical situation leading up to the ratification of the Constitution led to a major shift in the republican fiction and the portrayal of citizens as childlike or as complicit victims of corruption. I ask why the people would willingly consent to a new republican fiction that minimized their power, and find that structural issues such as who was allowed to vote, whether or not state delegates voted consistent with their constituents' wishes, and whether or not there was voter fraud and intimidation raised serious questions about the legitimacy of the 1,648 votes cast in the thirteen state conventions during the ratification process. Furthermore, James Madison's public relations campaign allowed Federalists to rely upon arguments by prestige and authority and to take over their state conventions. Yet, unlike Anti-Federalists, Federalists offered a specific plan to solve the problems of the Republic, which may have made their arguments more appealing. The effect of this change in America's republican fiction was to offer the Americans who found romantic citizenship too idealistic, chaotic, and egalitarian another legitimate interpretation of citizenship and to limit how the citizen was imagined to act within the American government.

Chapter 4, ‘Who would not have been willing to have died such a death?’ Citizens as Reified Patriot Heroes, July 4, 1826, demonstrates how romantic and tragic citizenship could be conflated in the public discourse of the second generation. When Americans learned of the deaths of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson on the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, they found that they were confronted with a hermeneutical choice: did the deaths represent a curse or a blessing? Americans of the second generation would choose to believe that the deaths of the founders were a blessing, and they would reconstitute the founders and themselves as romantic patriot heroes. Contrary to history, when Americans retold themselves the story of Adams's and Jefferson's republicanism they conflated their very different views of government into one and clothed the nation's republican political fiction in the divine-right narrative of the old monarchical fiction. The story of how Americans responded to the deaths of Adams and Jefferson highlights the transition between the founding generation and the second generation, between the republican and democratic fictions, and highlights the conflation of romantic and tragic views of citizenship. The effect of the conflation of romantic and tragic citizenship was to turn Americans into reified romantic heroes—they claimed the appearance of patriotism but not the substance—and to set the stage for the rise of the democratic fiction.

Chapter 5, ‘I will not look up to the weather-cock of popularity, to see which way the gale is blowing’: Citizens as Ironic Partisans, 1816–1845, demonstrates how the shift from republican to democratic representation, the shift from republican to democratic campaigning, and the shift in how Americans talked about political theory characterized the rise of America's new democratic fiction. The increase in the number of eligible voters after the War of 1812, the public's negative response to the Compensation Act of 1816, the corrupt bargain and the House's selection of John Quincy Adams for president in 1824, Andrew Jackson's four-year presidential campaign and triumphant victory in 1828, the people's anti-removal petition campaign of 1830, and the rise in abolitionist petitions after 1835 led to an ambiguously democratic political fiction. The people earnestly used the democratic fiction in their attempts to control the government, and the political elite ironically used the democratic fiction to retain stability and control. The effect of the rise of the democratic fiction was to turn romantic and tragic citizens into ironic partisans: the people could act to control the government, but only through the mechanisms of the party system.

In the conclusion I briefly retell Founding Fictions' narrative, highlighting how America's political fiction and its view of citizenship evolved between 1764 and 1845 and describing how romantic heroes, tragic victims, and ironic partisans would answer the question What does it mean to be a good citizen? I also argue for the benefits of the analysis of political theory as political fiction, and link Founding Fictions' arguments to previous and current research on American citizenship and deliberative democracy.

1

Republicanism was an indefinite term

Political Fictions as Critical Tools for Citizenship

Almost five years after the September 11, 2001, attacks on New York City and Washington, D.C., President George W. Bush discussed the relationship between terrorism and democracy in his weekly radio address: Terrorists and their sponsors recognize that the Middle East is at a pivotal moment in its history. Freedom has brought hope to millions, and it's helped foster the development of young democracies from Baghdad to Beirut. Yet these young democracies are still fragile, and the forces of terror are seeking to stop liberty's advance and steer newly free nations to the path of radicalism. The terrorists fear the rise of democracy because they know what it means for the future of their hateful ideology.¹ Note the narrative explicit in the president's address: when freedom brings hope to millions, liberty will advance and democracy will rise to defeat radicalism and hateful ideology. Note also who or what has the power of action in this narrative: freedom brings hope; liberty advances; democracy rises; and terrorists recognize, seek, steer, fear, know, and hate. Meanwhile, the millions of newly hopeful citizens—those who should, according to President Bush's logic, now be capable of advancing liberty—are merely passive receivers of freedom's hope and incapable of acting to defend their own democracy. Thus rendered inactive victims of terror, the president's democratic citizens must rely upon the benevolence of powerful others or suffer the consequences of radicalism and ideology.²

This passage from President Bush's radio address highlights several important aspects of how we talk about the relationship between democracy and citizenship: note which words are used as god terms—as unquestionably good things—freedom, hope, liberty, and democracy; note also which are used as devil terms—as unquestionably bad things—radicalism, ideology, and terrorism.³ The terms President Bush singles out as positive or negative take on a central role in his narrative; indeed, because they are so important, we should hazard war and death to preserve or prevent them. Once again citizens are left out, are rendered passive and inactive by the president's failure to characterize them in either god or devil terms. Though ignored and underestimated, President Bush's democratic citizens still motivate his avowed purpose: they are the reason why we need to act to protect freedom and liberty and stop terrorism. Crucial, yet negligible; at the center, but on the margins of power; the president's democratic citizens occupy a fragile liminal space somewhere between liberty and radicalism.⁴

I do not mean to suggest that there was something unique about this particular radio address; indeed, President Bush's choice of words was largely unremarkable for his era. His use of words like democracy and liberty seems so ordinary, so commonplace, so much in line with the well-known and currently accepted vocabulary of American political discourse that it is natural and uncontroversial. In fact, the United States has not had a legitimate politician argue against democracy—and for, say, aristocracy or monarchy—for generations. It therefore would have sounded rather odd for the president to have defined and defended his view of democracy at all, for whom would he be arguing with? With any memory of the once vibrant debates over its meaning lost, it simply did not occur to him or, probably, to his audience, that the merits of democracy could be debated. In current political discourse, only terrorists argue against democracy, never Americans.

Such was not always the case. In 1805, Federalist Fisher Ames believed that in democracies the people are the depositories of political power, but that it was impossible they should exercise it themselves. Indeed, said Ames, we know from history…that every democracy, in the very infancy of its vicious and troubled life, is delivered bound hand and foot into the keeping of ambitious demagogues. And, therefore, that "our sages in the great Convention…intended our government should be a republic, which differs more widely from a democracy than a democracy from a despotism."⁵ Democracy and the demagogues who flattered the people into believing they had more power than they actually did were devil terms in Ames's 1805 essay; therefore Ames would have certainly found President Bush's use of democracy in his 2006 radio address puzzling, if not downright treasonous. Yet, despite the manifest differences in how Bush and Ames valued the word democracy itself, there is a fundamental similarity between the two views: neither Bush nor Ames believed that citizens had the power to act to defend their own freedom and liberty, and both argued that benevolent and powerful others must act on citizens' behalf. Therefore, while current political discourse has embraced the term democracy as an unquestionable positive good that should, and must, be fought for, the way that some of America's political elite view the capability of democratic citizens to act within the government has not changed dramatically in the last two hundred years.

Yet it is striking that President Bush portrayed democratic citizens as incapable and passive victims, for what is a democracy if not a political community characterized by citizens who capably and actively defend their own freedom and liberty? Political theorists such as Aristotle, John Dewey, Benjamin Barber, Robert Dahl, and Hannah Arendt have argued that the defining characteristic of democratic citizens is that they are active.⁶ Yet, the liminal space within which President Bush's democratic citizens reside is one in which action is impossible—quite simply, citizens are not empowered to act in this narrative of democracy. The president's radio address therefore highlights a conundrum: What do Americans mean when they call their government a democracy? As Ames argued, the founding generation believed that they had created a republic, not a democracy; does this difference in terminology have any meaning for Americans today? And, if the differences between republicanism and democracy are meaningful, what can the founders' debates over republicanism and democracy teach us about how the average citizen is able to act in the American government today? How do the narratives we tell about citizenship help to define the possibilities of democracy?

By analyzing the rise of America's republican and democratic political fictions, Founding Fictions critically interrogates how, why, and to what effect Americans began to think of their government as a democracy rather than as a republic. I tell the story of how American republicanism and democracy were invented and debated between 1764 and 1845 and how these debates influenced how citizens were imagined to act. This book has three major arguments. First, there are important differences between what Founding Fictions calls republican and democratic political fictions, that is, between political