Demystifying the US Electoral System: part I

As those of you not living under a rock are surely aware, it’s election season in the USA: a time when millions of people attempt to come to terms with the most mysterious, convoluted electoral process the world has ever seen. One voter = one vote? Not by a long shot! What do you think this is, a democracy?

My tussle with the rules governing US presidential elections first began when I left the Motherland for France and found myself incapable of explaining the intricacies of the Electoral College to my bemused French colleagues. Alas, how we Americans elect our presidents really isn’t something that can just be Wikipediaed; it’s far too labyrinthine, which is perhaps why no one understands it. Seriously, no one—just ask presidential candidate (*wince*) Donald Trump:

“What the hell is [a] caucus? Nobody even knows what it means.”

In years past, I’d duck any election-related questions more nuanced than “Who are you voting for?” (Hillary) but this is 2016 and enough is enough—it’s time I understood my own damn electoral system. And it’s time you did, too, because face it: you’re just as bewildered as the rest of us. How could you not be? It makes no effin’ sense!

Or does it?


THE US ELECTORAL SYSTEM 
IN A 3-PART NUTSHELL 
 (Help! I’m in a 3-part nutshell!)

Part I: the Electoral College

A bit of history

First of all, if our system is overly complex, we can start by blaming the Framers of the Constitution. Many of us (especially the more right-wing types) like to pretend that these guys were virtual demigods in wigs, but in reality they were just mortal men in wigs. And mortal men make mistakes, even when all they have to do is found a country. To their credit, the Framers were facing a whole mess of difficulties we don’t have to bother about today: namely, how to elect a president prior to the existence of political parties, when the very act of running for office was considered “ungentlemanly.”

Among the crazy ideas tossed around in 1787 by the Committee of Eleven—which had nothing to do with the Rat Pack—was that of direct popular vote,* but it got nixed since the Framers figured the “uninformed” (read: dim-witted) public would just go and choose some fool from their own state, who would in turn never secure an indisputable national majority and thus never enjoy a nice clear mandate. You know, like the one George W. Bush received in 2000.

Ultimately, the Framers found inspiration in the Roman Republic, settling on a system of indirect election by a select group (college) of well-informed individuals (electors) who would represent (replace) the common folk. Members of this Electoral College would be chosen from each state, by each state, according to that state’s number of representatives in Congress (based primarily on population**), and would meet every four years to elect the president and vice president of the United States. Each elector was to exercise independent judgment and cast two votes for president, one of which had to be for a candidate outside of his home state (state rivalry clearly being not funny at the time). The candidate with the most votes would become president; first runner-up would be VP. Well-intentioned yes, but clearly none too effective: the system only stuck it out for four elections, which is way worse than the Romans.

By then, political parties had emerged—oh good!—including one called the Democratic-Republicans, whose legacy lives on in the uninspired names of our two leading modern parties. In light of this development, the Framers (who must have been pretty old by then) went back and made a few strategic tweaks, which took the form of the 12th Amendment. From then on, electors could only cast one vote for president and one vote for VP, thus hopefully avoiding the awkward situation of electing a prez and a veep from two different parties. And to avoid the even more awkward situation of a presidential tie (such as that of 1800, when Aaron Burr came this close to becoming our third president instead of just “the guy who shot Alexander Hamilton”), it was decided that the House of Representatives would make the ultimate decision in case of a stalemate.

The Electoral College in 2016

Fast-forward to the present and the Electoral College of two centuries ago is pretty much still in effect: each state has as many electors as it does Senators and Representatives in the US Congress, who convene in their own state capitol every four years to cast their votes for president and vice president. What has changed, however, is that the Electoral College is no longer a deliberative body with a will of its own; rather, the electoral vote is supposed to reflect the popular vote (yet does not always do so, as we shall later see).

Today, the Electoral College has 538 members (hence the name of election whiz Nate Silver’s famous blog, FiveThirtyEight). It is their job to vote in your place, because remember: the US presidential election is in-dir-ect. So when you go to the polls on Election Day, naively thinking that you’re voting for president and vice president, you’re straight up wrong. In reality, you’re voting for the slate of electors who have been nominated by your state’s various political parties.

Let’s look at an example, because this is some complicated sh*t:
My home state of California has 55 juicy electoral votes. But it has a whopping 330 electoral nominees (each of California’s six qualified parties gets to nominate its own slate of 55 electors). If, say, the Democratic presidential candidate wins the state’s popular vote on Election Day, only the 55 Democratic electors will be tapped to meet in Sacramento to cast their votes, while the other parties’ electors will probably just Netflix and chill.

So there you go. But wait—what actually happens on Election Day? How can a candidate win the popular vote yet lose the electoral vote? And what the hell is a caucus? Ah, but you’ll have to wait for the next installments (while I go try to figure it out myself).

Quirky facts 

• There is no physical Electoral College; electors from each state convene at their own state capitol to vote, but at no time do all 538 members party together. A shame, really.

• Electors vote long after the presidential election has been called: on the Monday after the second Wednesday in December to be exact. The results are then read before a joint session of Congress on January 6—by which point the public is no longer paying any attention whatsoever.

• Not all electors are legally obligated to respect the popular vote when casting their ballots. Electors who ignore the popular vote and choose according to personal preference are referred to as “faithless electors,” which for some reason makes me feel sad. Have faith, guys. It’ll all be OK.

*Popular vote: votes cast by “the people,” meaning property owning white male people until 1870 and 1920, respectively.
**Population: all free persons + 3/5 of all slaves (each slave equaling three fifths of a non-slave for taxation and representation purposes—when you hear about systemic racism in the United States today, it might have something to do with this).

Hot town

I know I shouldn’t start off by complaining, but I just have to. Why is it so friggin’ hot around here? Because it’s July? No. July can be perfectly pleasant. I’ll tell you why: because France, despite its many charms and areas of strength and superiority, does not GET climate control. Look, I spent the better part of my youth in seriously hot places: Ramona, California, for example (go Dawgs!), followed by Dallas, Texas (go Mustangs!). And I can barely even remember sweating for any serious amount of time. Why? Because AIR. Because CONDITIONING. What is so complicated? You buy a unit, install it, and then, you don’t spend the whole summer fantasizing about running naked through a snow storm. But no, no—the French seem to totally distrust air conditioning; even those who have it are reticent to turn it on too high because they don’t want to catch a chill. Every summer I hear the same lament: “I caught a cold from the air conditioning.” We Americans don’t know what this is; the right to crank the A/C up to “subarctic” is clearly written somewhere in the Constitution. I would never call the French wusses. Except when it comes to this. I mean come on. A cold? Really?

“I told you to set it on low!”

I had to take a suburban train the other day, along with little g. (notice his promotion from baby g.), a stroller and a bunch of luggage, in 107°F heat. Do you suppose there was any climatisation installed on this PUBLIC SERVICE transportation? Hell no. Within 15 minutes I was so sopping wet radiant that a fellow passenger reached out in a touching display of empathy (or perhaps just plain pity) and handed me a kleenex. It was sort of like trying to absorb a swimming pool using one paper towel, but I appreciated the gesture. What is France WAITING FOR to jump on the air conditioning bandwagon? Were 15,000 heat-related deaths in 2003 not enough? Are they trying to add mine to the list? Here we are in 2015, with the technology to avoid such catastrophes, and yet, do you know what “action” the French government is taking this year to protect its citizens from the patently lethal heat? Encouraging them to buy fans and drink water. That’s it. They’ve even come out with an official poster. I’ve lived here for a lot of summers, and not once has drinking water or sticking my face in front of a fan done anything to render the heat any less insupportable. One might posit environmental or budgetary concerns behind it all, but I would counter with “laziness” and “apathy.”

Insufficient.

No, the only way to escape the heat without heading to Brittany is to head to the bathtub. I stuck little g. in there the other day because his sweet baby cheeks were getting all flushed, and one can only empty so many cans of pricey thermal spring water mist on one’s inappreciative toddler, right? So I gave him a good old-fashioned spray bottle and left him to go at it while I attempted to get some work done. At one point, the giggling gave way to a full minute of silence, which as any parent of a two-year-old knows, is a surefire sign of high mischief and/or imminent death. So I popped my head into the bathroom to check on him, only to find that he had gotten into my (expensive) “feminine wash,” and was happily shampooing his hair with it. I should have been angry, but I was actually kind of proud. Only two years of experience with the world and he already knows how to shampoo his own hair! How adorable is that? I think the heat is getting to me.

Bonne année 2013!

After a long absence (I have no excuse), I am back at the keyboard, ready to turn my discerning gaze upon unsuspecting new subject matter. And subject matter there will be this year, for I am simultaneously embarking on two new Franco-American adventures: becoming my own Boss(!) and becoming a first-time Parent(!!!). So yes, 2013 will be no small year for me, and thus, no small year for Le Mot Juste!

In mental preparation for such formidable life changes, my first managerial decision was to give my star employee (myself) a nice long break to relax and gather her resources Stateside. Besides, one cannot seriously critique life as a pseudo expat without going home from time to time to re-immerse oneself in one’s own culture. So here I am, re-immersed. 

Fellow patriots.

There is a certain “honeymoon” period every time I return to the US, during which I marvel, newly-arrived-immigrant style, at what now seems so exotic about American life after 10+ years abroad. Eight-lane freeways, for example, or unlimited refills, or just about anything from Costco. Sometimes I just wander through Target, amazed at the availability of so much stuff, at such low prices. Good mascara for 5 bucks—oh! In France, I shell out so much more than that for the same damn thing.

Yesterday we stepped out (i.e. got in the car and drove for an hour “to the city”) to see the new Matt Damon flick, Promised Land. To my surprise, the theater offered IMAX, 3D and vibrating seats! When did this start? Anyway, the movie I liked. I also liked the big empty theater, which was a nice change from France, where I have long become maniacal about showing up early for fear of being left with a front-row seat, or worse, no seat at all.

Hurry up and wait.

Regardless of a few flops, I remain a big fan of Matt Damon, whom I prefer any day to both Leonardo, who for some reason bugs me, and especially to Brad, whom I flat-out cannot stand. Why the entire world seems to judge him a great actor is beyond me. I’m tempted to go to Google and type “Brad Pitt is a mediocre actor,” just to see if it will guess what I’m typing before I’m done typing it (thereby proving this has been typed many times before and I am not alone in my distaste), but I’m sure the second I type “Brad Pitt is...” Google will instead suggest one of its perennial favorites: “gay” or “dead.” A lot of people must be searching for these things if Google is spontaneously guessing them. It’s an interesting insight into our national hang-ups I suppose. Compare with Google France, which judging by its most frequent suggestions seems to suspect that everyone is Jewish (or gay or dead). So whereas American Internet surfers appear to be obsessed with sexual orientation, French ones appear to (still) be obsessed with who exactly has Hebrew ancestry. I shudder to imagine the consequences had Google existed during the Occupation.

The movie was quite good. Early reviews don’t seem to agree with me, but I like seeing an American film that dares to question the practice of fracking, however half-heartedly. The subject has been a big fat deal in France for some time, much as have GMOs, while both seem to be relatively new buzzwords on this side of the world. I was delighted to see a California measure on the ballot this November proposing the compulsory labeling of all GMO-containing foods, yet my “health conscious” home state voted it down! I see this as perfectly bizarre given the success of all those “they’re out to get us” diet books topping best seller lists and striking fear into the hearts of those who would dare consume sugar/carbs/meat/milk/soy/corn and now, wheat. That’s right, wheat is now what’s making America fat

The new face of evil.

I wonder whether the paranoia we seem to have in this country about what our food may be doing to us is at all related to the paranoia of those who harbor an obsessive fear of our government. I remember a day in my 12th grade AP Civics class, during which the teacher took out a long strip of paper and wrote the entire political spectrum on it, beginning with the extreme left (anarchy) and ending with the extreme right (fascism). When she was done, she joined the two ends together, forming one continuous circle. The point of course was that in the end, both forms of extremism stand shoulder to shoulder. I won’t go so far as suggesting that right-wing militia who arm themselves to the teeth with automatic weapons on the off chance that federal agents one day show up on their lawns in an attempt to seize their “freedom” are in the end not so different from left-wing activists who are convinced that the Department of Agriculture is purposefully trying to poison us all with genetically modified organisms, but it does give one pause for thought. “I love my country but fear my government” seems to have universal appeal in states both blue and red.

And there you have it.

This notion of fearing one’s democratically-elected government is among the most difficult to explain to the French, for whom the government has long lost its fear factor and could more aptly be likened to a doting mother nursing her hungry child. Fear the government? Whatever for? The government means health care, education, justice, jobs, transportation, vacation, retirement, and much more. As Adam Gopnik has observed in his own book of reflections on life in France, Paris to the Moon, “The American populist belief is that there is a secret multinational agency ready to swoop down from the skies and make everybody work for the government; the French populist belief is that there is a secret government agency that may yet swoop down from the skies and give everybody a larger pension.”

This government love fest of course comes at the price of exorbitant taxes on everything from how much you eat to how many televisions you own, yet doesn’t seem to bother anyone all that much. Consider current French President François Hollande’s attempt to hike income taxes on France’s wealthiest to a whopping 75% (that’ll teach THEM to be rich!), which very nearly became reality. Such a proposal in the US would not only be met with categorical refusal, while surely spelling the political demise of whoever was foolish enough to suggest it, but would doubtless be considered by many as irrefutable proof that government is evil.  

Just another reason why sharing my life between both shores provides so much to ponder. But that’s all the pondering I can muster for today. Thanks for hanging in there, and stay tuned for future rants and reflections at Le Mot Juste.

Le jour de gloire est arrivé

Update: strike everything that follows—I have no fingerprints. That’s right, no fingerprints. The FBI says so, which means no dual citizenship for me until further notice. On the other hand (which has no prints either), this could ultimately be a good thing. After all, do I really want to be beholden to TWO governments—regardless of where I live—forever? Not so much. Maybe I’ll just stick with residency, which has almost all the perks of citizenship, and then take to a life of international crime cuz hey—no fingerprints (*cackle*).

Big news: I have decided to request French nationality (!!!). It promises to be a lengthy and complex process, which will take roughly 18 months and involve all manner of new and ever-so-slightly daunting paperwork, but I feel that the time has come. I have lived in this fine country for over 8 years now, have fought very hard to continue to do so, and it is time to take my relationship with France to the next level. As I recently discovered (otherwise I probably would have done this sooner), dual citizenship is allowed by both the United States and France, and as my heart belongs to both countries, it is only natural that I have two passports, is it not? Then at last I will be able to vote in French national elections and can quit bellyaching about taxation without representation (as you may recall, we Americans have long-standing issues with such things).

However, regardless of my extensive experience in wading through bureaucratic mires, jumping through administrative hoops and slashing through red tape, I admit to being just a TAD nervous about this request for citizenship. I mean, the government could very well say non—although I don’t see why it would—plus it is definitely going to require a lot of paper-lassoing, including a hand-written request for a background check by the FBI and various birth certificates decorated with scary-sounding additional stamps and seals (which I will then have to have translated at horrendous prices—note to self: become a certified legal translator and retire early). But my mind is made up: I’m going for it. My love for France began at the tender age of 14 with that first high school French class, when I took the play name of Brigitte (much to my mother’s dismay) and learned to conjugate my first -er verbs. Now, 16 years—16 years!—later, I find it poetic and perfectly fitting to become a bona fide French citizen, and in so doing create a very far-reaching branch of the Holt family tree that no one saw coming. I love that.

Stay tuned. The day that, God willing, I receive dual citizenship, there will definitely be a champagne-filled celebration to remember.