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The question of whether to have kids sits at the awkward intersection of intensely personal decisions and important policy issues. That dynamic can lead to societal confusion. Policy makers and researchers debate how economic policies can stop birth rates from declining, while individual people ask themselves how they want to live their life and whether that includes children.

To express overt concern about why women are having fewer children can imply that the good life requires childbearing and rearing. As a result, those left of center—especially those who value pluralism—have largely opted out of debates about the merits of parenthood. After all, a fulfilling and valuable life can include children, but it doesn’t have to.

On today’s episode of Good on Paper, I talk with Anastasia Berg, a philosopher and co-author of the recent book What Are Children For? On Ambivalence and Choice. Berg wants to rid the left of any discomfort it might have with engaging in conversations about, well, what children are for.

“If we look at the kind of things that leftists are committed to, be it climate change or significant social and political reform—if it’s education, if it’s welfare—these are the kind of things that presuppose the possibility of a human future,” Berg argues. “And what we hope to do in part, at least, is to liberate people who identify themselves politically in that way to also just have the courage to embrace the role of children in human life without thinking that … immediately commits them to a conservative, anti-women, anti-progress, anti-equality stance.”

The following is a transcript of the episode:

Jerusalem Demsas: In 2023, nearly half of childless adults under 50 didn’t want kids. That was a 10-point jump from five years earlier, according to Pew Research Center. In that time, the public conversation about having kids has felt dominated by conservative voices—whether it’s Elon Musk, who has at least 12 children with three different partners and called the birth decline “one of the biggest risks to civilization,” or J. D. Vance, who seems to have a particular disdain for the childless.

J. D. Vance: We are effectively run in this country via the Democrats, via our corporate oligarchs by a bunch of childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made, and so they want to make the rest of the country miserable too. And it’s just a basic fact. You look at Kamala Harris, Pete Buttigieg, AOC—the entire future of the Democrats is controlled by people without children.

Demsas: As a result, I’ve seen many on the left begin to disengage from caring about this issue at all.

[Music]

My name’s Jerusalem Demsas. I’m a staff writer at The Atlantic, and this is Good on Paper, a policy show that questions what we really know about popular narratives.

This is a very different conversation than our usual episodes. My guest is Anastasia Berg, philosopher and co-author of the new book What Are Children For? On Ambivalence and Choice. Anastasia isn’t focused on investigating the economic or other structural factors for why people are increasingly opting out of parenthood.

Anastasia rejects the focus on the causes of declining birth rates. She even rejects the idea that she particularly cares what the birth rate is. She instead heads down to the level of the individual. How are individual people understanding, explaining, and avoiding the conversation about child-rearing? And why should the left view itself as part of the project of caring about this at all?

I hope this episode gives you a different way to engage if you’re visiting with any pushy relatives this week.

[Music]

Anastasia, welcome to the show.

Berg: Thank you so much for having me.

Demsas: So your book is kind of provocatively titled What Are Children For? I want to start with why you wrote this book. And who is it for?

Berg: So the book came out of conversations that my co-author and best friend and I, Rachel Wiseman, were having in our late 20s and early 30s, respectively, and we were both dealing with the personal ramifications of this question, wondering what shape our own lives are going to take and also struck by a certain kind of shallowness or dissatisfying qualities of the way we saw the public conversation about the role of children in human life was happening at the time.

And so we started off with a short article called “On Choosing Life” that really focused, in particular, on kind of the satisfactions we had with a discourse around climate change and how climate change is giving us reasons not to have kids. And then we just saw the public response to it, the enthusiasm for a kind of investigation that was both sort of stylish and interesting and provocative and thoughtful, but also one that wasn’t sneering. And that, combined with the sense that we ourselves just started to scratch the surface of the sources of ambivalence and what kind of ethical and philosophical resources we might have to address that ambivalence to help people work through it—that kind of combination seemed like a good ground to write a book.

Demsas: So the focus on birth rates or why people aren’t having more kids has largely been, I think, seen as a concern dominated by right-wing thinkers and spaces—whether it’s sort of, like, rationalist, tech right people, and Elon Musk has been a big part of this conversation, or more of those trad-wife, classic conservative right people. Even kind of registering concern about the decline in fertility codes as right wing. But you see this as a progressive issue, one that left-leaning thinkers should engage seriously with. Why is that?

Berg: Yeah. That’s a great summary of where we stand on the political positioning of this question. So I think there are two things we need to notice. While there are a lot of aspects of the conversation, our children are indeed political.

There are two things that I think transcend politics: The first is that what is at stake really is just the shape of one’s own personal life. And when I say that, I don’t mean that is not, in itself, political and has political aspects. But the idea that we should decide what our personal lives will look like just because of our political allegiances—like, that’s something I think we should be suspicious of. And the second thing is that what is at stake is also a deep philosophical, ethical question, which isn’t just, Should I have children? Is it morally permissible for me? But it’s the question of the value of human life in the present and in the future.

So one thing I like to point out is that despite many differences between people on the left and the right, most of them are still in agreement about the following, and it’s a commitment to just the bare idea of a flourishing, robust, good human future. And I think from that perspective, we can recognize that this question—Should we concern ourselves with the future of humanity? Is human life the kind of thing that we should perpetuate into the future, despite suffering and despite our own failures, ethical and political?—that is a question that I think that people who are liberal or progressive, the answer is a robust yes.

If we look at the kind of things that leftists are committed to, be it climate change or significant social and political reform—if it’s education, if it’s welfare—these are the kind of things that presuppose the possibility of a human future. And what we hope to do, in part, at least, is to liberate people who identify themselves politically in that way to also just have the courage to embrace the role of children in human life without thinking that, as you were saying, immediately commits them to a conservative, anti-women, anti-progress, anti-equality stance.

Demsas: But there’s this view that the declining number of kids actually represents progress—that progress for women, in particular, who aren’t anymore saddled with, like, one vision of the good life, which is to get married, have a family, pop out as many kids as possible, and then find your meaning in that. But then, of course, the secondary aspect: No matter how egalitarian men or workplaces get, there’s just no way to equalize the costs of having kids to a woman’s body for being pregnant and birthing children, particularly, I think, under a regime where we no longer have Roe v. Wade.

And people have often seen this as a narrative of progress, and of course we see these sorts of correlations between highly educated groups and declining birth rates. So why isn’t this just a standard story of progress? Why don’t you see this as just another step in feminism liberating women from having to consign themselves to motherhood?

Berg: Let’s begin with where the book begins every time it picks up a possible explanation or a narrative that is driving ambivalence about having kids. And it starts with the kind of concerns that people themselves are raising. So it was really important for us not to start with the kind of explanations for declining birth rates you might hear that are kind of purely causal explanations. So people say, Women are more educated, or, The sperm counts are declining.

And one of the things we noticed is that no one—when they’re talking about their own ambivalence or their own uncertainty—no one starts by talking either about their own declining sperm counts, or no woman that I’ve spoken to has said, I’ve reflected on my years of education, and hence, I can’t make up my mind, or, This kind of gives me an answer to the question of how many kids I should have.

And so we wanted to start with the things that they really cared about. When we talk about women and men, about the things that would have made it easier for them to navigate the decision, about why they decided as they did, the question of the role of motherhood in a woman’s life—with the possibility of leading a fulfilling life, of determining one’s own future, of being equal to men—that was one concern, but it wasn’t the only one.

And so the first thing that we want to say is that we need to understand that we’re faced here with a lot of women and men who are having difficulty, so much as thinking through this question. That’s really our concern. So our concern is not an objective concern with a declining birth rate. We kind of leave it to others. Economists can explain to you what is the problem with an aging population, and other people can explain to you why a society can sort of overcome those issues.

But what we thought is a problem is that there is a question of incredible significance to human life, both, as I was saying, on this very subjective level and on this grand level—a huge existential question. And people are expressing a real difficulty of navigating it. And we thought, Here’s a place where we can help.

And so on particularly the question of progress, I think that we are many—and we were naming them—there are many arenas of progress in this kind of field. There are also things we wanted to point out that we think more progress can be made, even from a feminist perspective. So one of the things that we point out is that, at least in liberal and progressive circles, there is a growing understanding that men should take equal part in domestic labor, in housework and childcare. But there is a very different understanding of what men’s role is when it comes to the deliberation and decision making around children.

And in particular, we’ve placed almost a taboo—kind of it felt taboo on liberal and progressive men to even consider this question as one that is relevant to their life, let alone raise it in conversation. So we’ve spoken to men who said, you know, When I think about raising the question of kids with a potential partner, I immediately feel creepy and oppressive and controlling. Now, that seems like, on the one hand, a right kind of impulse. On the other hand, we’ve spoken to the women who are partners to those men who are telling them, Whatever you want, honey. And they describe being very frustrated and isolated, alone with that decision.

Demsas: But I think many people on the left, maybe even folks who have not, you know, come across your work yet, are open to the idea that people may just choose not to have children and that they might be ambivalent about having children, and that would be fine. Why are you seeing this as something that people should be concerned about?

Berg: So to be clear, again, the very fact of the declining birth rates is not something that we’re directly concerned about, nor do I, in putting forward the book, hope to help people embrace children in their own lives. I hope to help them navigate the kind of ambivalence that we found many are finding troubling.

So we’ve spoken to hundreds of Millennials and Zoomers and Gen Xers, and they’ve talked about the difficulty and hardship of navigating that question. And that means not knowing how to raise it with themselves, not knowing how to raise it with their partners, not knowing when they meet the kind of standards of readiness that can seem only higher and higher and murkier and murkier in their professional lives, in their personal lives, in their romantic lives, so much so that they never know if it is appropriate for them to raise the question of children. So for those who feel like they are in a happy place vis-à-vis the question of children, it doesn’t matter if that means a confident yes or a confident no. That’s great.

We found that there is a large and, in fact, growing swath of the population that is finding this question harder to navigate. It’s them that we wanted to offer a kind of space, a kind of dialogue to enter into in the same way that we wanted to find it when we ourselves were and still are, in many ways, grappling with the different aspects of this question.

Demsas: You’ve sort of glanced on this answer, but I guess I want to get it directly: Why do you think people aren’t having kids? And I don’t mean that in the sense there have always been reasons why people haven’t had children. But why do you think we see a clear decline in the number of children that people are having in younger generations?

Berg: I think to answer that, I’ll take us a little bit through the things we think about in the book. What we always try to do is start with the kind of reasons that people are finding very salient (i.e., they’re in the forefront of their minds), the things they’re thinking about, the things that give us an answer to the question, Why are you not having kids?

However, we also find ourselves wanting to push a little further than the kind of way that an argument first presents. Let me give an example: One thing that looms very large in the U.S., certainly, and also in places like the U.K. is the economic reasoning. People are worried, ostensibly, about the affordability of children. When you start talking to people more, you find that, at least as often as people are worrying about actual affordability, what they’re more worried about is meeting a standard of readiness. And that standard of readiness is very, very high. So one of the things we like to point out is that there is a cliché kind of stereotype of millennials, in particular, as immature—they’re eternal children. And as part of that narrative, they point to the fact that they’re having fewer kids, and they’re saying they don’t want to have kids. They’re kids themselves.

Against that, we want to point precisely to what I was talking about a second ago, which is the fact that they hold themselves to such high standards of maturity, of success and readiness, suggesting that, in a way, they’re almost too mature, as opposed to immature. And we see that across different aspects of their life.

So we see that in their financial and professional sense of self. We see them in their personal growth, so the idea that, My 20s have to be about self-exploration and self-fulfillment, and only when I’ve accomplished all of that, only when I am myself, only when I am sufficiently psychologically kind of come to my own self can I think about having children.

The same thing happens romantically. People are postponing the milestones of relationship and are holding their relations to very high standards of readiness, of stability and security, before they so much as think about having kids.

I mention all of these because I think one of the phenomena that we’re not thinking about seriously enough is not so much how any one of these explanations drive someone to make a kind of very intentional decision, Okay. I’ve considered my options. I’ve decided not to have kids. That happens. People certainly do that. But for a lot of people, that’s not what happens. What happens is that this self-evidence of a logic of postponement—postponement until we meet those standards—is putting off not just having kids but so much as thinking about having kids.

And so what happens is that people are starting to think about children as something that they should actually kind of concern themselves with quite late—and, in fact, later and later. And as that is happening, we see the decision whether or not to have children—and certainly how many children people are going to end up having—decided for them, not by them.

That’s what I care about. What interests me is the sense that people are having this decision made for them in a way where they are then left frustrated by it, not the case where somebody has weighed their lives and decided, I have a greater calling. I have a different vocation. I’m consciously making the choice early on, resolutely, that I would like my life to take a different shape.

Demsas: This is sort of the thesis of your book, and it’s even the tagline, “on ambivalence and choice,” this idea that ambivalence is really a driving reason for your concern for why people are putting off children. As you’ve said, it’s not that people have decided, I don’t want kids, but that there is this kind of failure to be able to even engage fully with the question. I wanted to ask you how—

Berg: Let’s just qualify that. I do not think that it is never the case that no one makes a conscious, intentional decision. They certainly do, in the same way that we still have people embracing kids, and people are telling us, It was never a question for me. It was so obvious. I lived my life accordingly. What we’re focused on is a growing part of the population for whom this is not the case.

Demsas: And I think that what I wanted to ask you about is where you learned that ambivalence was really driving a lot of people’s decision making here, or lack of decision making. Can you talk to me about the surveys you did or what sorts of research you’re pulling on?

Berg: Sure. Our approach in the book was wide-ranging, which is to say it was very important for us to hear from people. So we invited them to answer, first, written surveys, and then we followed up with a few dozen of them in kind of longer interviews.

This was mostly educated, middle- and upper-middle-class Americans that mostly leaned to the left, so liberals and progressives. In our conversations with them, we found evidence for it, but we also looked at kind of a wide array of both social studies data—so looking at people who have investigated directly the growing ambivalence, the lifting of a parenting mandate in America and globally, the kind of wide-ranging surveys of people’s life priorities—and also some of the stuff that is most rewarding for Rachel and myself, given our own interests, has been looking at things like the motherhood-ambivalence literary genre.

So this was a literary genre that grew over the past couple of decades. It’s associated with figures like Sheila Heti, Rachel Cusk, Rivka Galchen, and others. In the writing, for the first time, they’re taking motherhood, the difficulty of thinking through the choice, and then the difficulty attending the experience of growing up, mothering early infants—young infants, excuse me—and making it the focus of their artistic and intellectual explorations, so much so that the genre got its own title, this kind of genre of domestic or motherhood ambivalence.

We also look, similarly, at a growing, kind of exploding literary genre of what’s called “climate fiction” or “eco lit,” so ecological literature, seeing the kind of evidence for ambivalence, not directly about having kids, although sometimes, but ambivalence about the very value of a human future. So these are works that consistently represent human beings as kind of completely abject, which is to say they’re neither deserving of a future nor are they capable of bringing a better future about. For us, that was also a very interesting touchpoint in this exploration of this growing ambivalence.

And then we also looked at the popular cultural examples. For example, we wanted to figure out not just how pregnancy, let’s say, or motherhood are depicted, but also looking at questions like: What kind of women do we see represented in our popular films and media? And in that context, we point out that, if until recently, women would play the roles of the second fiddle. They would be the mother and the wife and the secretary. We now have them taking center stage. They’re protagonists of their own dramas and action and comedy.

However, it is remarkable how rarely those protagonists are mothers. So whether or not they’re the stoners of Broad City or they’re political operatives, like in Scandal and House of Cards, or they’re spies in Homeland or they’re superheroes, you can be anything you want to be as a woman, if you would just kind of watch the TV for the message, unless you try to be a mother.

And the mothers who are depicted are either highly, highly ambivalent—so Homeland, I think, is an example where she is a mother, but she’s abandoned her child, in effect—or they’re very, very bad ones. Fans of Succession can reflect on how we see the character of Shiv get pregnant at the very end of the show and how hard it is to be happy for her—let’s just put it that way.

So we want to point to the fact that we’re also having this kind of cultural messaging that is signaling that there is a big conflict between the possibility of any kind of self-fulfillment, in particular to women, and the possibilities of motherhood, which we think are incredibly important.

And maybe I’ll add one of my favorite pop-culture examples, and it’s that both Friends and Girls, which are both kind of age-defining shows in their own way for Millennials, they both basically end on the trope of an unexpected pregnancy. In Friends, it’s Rachel almost at the end of the show. In Girls, it’s Hannah having an unexpected pregnancy, and the minute she gives birth, the show ends.

And they suggest two things that I think are representative of a big mood in our culture. And the first is that once you have a child, our interest in you, as an adult, ends in a way that is particularly threatening to women. Your life as an intellectual, creative, socially exciting person that we would have an interest in—that’s over for you. And secondly, I think the fact that it’s an unexpected but embraced pregnancy speaks to the anxiety of choice. I think there is such a fantasy—I don’t think it speaks to some direct wish for everyone to get accidentally pregnant. I don’t want to suggest that. I do think it speaks to a kind of indulged-in fantasy—of, Maybe this could just be decided for me.

[Music]

Demsas: After the break, Anastasia helps us figure out if the choice to have kids can ever be a rational enterprise.

[Break]

Demsas: I think this ambivalence is something. I mean, I do not have children. I do want to have children at some point. And I think this ambivalence is something I’ve noticed in conversations with friends and people in my peer group about when they’re thinking about having kids. And when I read your book, I saw a lot of that reflected, but I tried to go and look and see if there was some data that would help illuminate how ambivalence was playing a role.

And one surprising thing I found—and I wonder how you would react to this—is there’s a Pew poll earlier this year that looked at adults over 50 and adults under 50 who did not have children. And when asked why they never had kids, people 50 or older were most likely to say, It just never happened. But for those under 50, they say pretty clearly that they just don’t want to, or they want to focus on other things, or they list specific concerns about the world, affordability, or the environment.

Doesn’t that sort of indicate, contra to maybe our experience here and what I’m talking about in my experience with my friends, that rather than ambivalence, younger people are actually pretty clear about why they don’t want to have kids?

Berg: Yeah. So I thought that the poll is very interesting. It’s interesting because that’s not how I interpreted that particular data point, although you could.

So what I saw is the possibility of speaking about one’s experience—let’s call it kind of a journey of figuring out what one’s with children—with a way that was, I actually thought, in many ways, less defensive of older people who are able to say It didn’t work out for me.

So one of the things and this just corroborates that data: Until very recently, the second most common reason that people gave in the U.S. and the U.K. for why they didn’t have children—so people who are childless—was, I just didn’t find the willing and suitable partner, after, I didn’t want to have kids. What we see, which I think is consistent with the thesis of ambivalence, is that there is a growing embrace of other kind of, as you’re saying, priorities and projects and other shapes that a life can take, and less of a possibility of embracing the circumstances of life.

And why I think that is significant is that one of the things that we point out in the book is that many times when you talk about why people aren’t having kids, they talk about opportunity costs. Until not very recently, people thought of themselves essentially intergenerationally, and they thought of children as something that belonged to the very framework of human life.

So we can think of, at a moment—maybe it’s a moment that’s eroding, itself—but the way college featured in the lives of many Americans, so it’s the kind of thing that you do no matter what it will take from you. Maybe it’ll be easy. Maybe you’ll have to take on incredible, crippling amounts of debt. But you’re going to go for it. And that’s what children were. It wasn’t the thing that you put this question mark over and you weigh against your other project, you weigh against your other goals. It was something that you participate in because it belonged to the very framework of life.

And in lieu of that, what we see today is the fact that the children question becomes a question like any other question—like a career question, like an education question, like a Where am I going to live? question. The kind of things that we bring this framework, we compare it to other things, and once we start doing that, we’re going to be feeling the cost of making this very difficult and completely life-altering decision.

Demsas: What that raises for me, though, is: Why is that bad? Why is ambivalence about having children bad?

Berg: Put it this way: The very fact that this is a kind of question that’s going to be very hard to navigate—it’s going to bring up a lot of things. A person is going to want to consider many, many things before jumping into it. None of that is bad.

The bit that seems bad is the bit where that ambivalence becomes debilitating—where, because it’s so hard to navigate, on the one hand, and because there’s a kind of celebration of the ambivalence for its own sake, as if that’s the sophisticated position to take if I’m intellectually and professionally and artistically ambitious. If I have those kinds of aspirations, then being unsure about kids is almost how I’m supposed to be responding to this question.

When we combine these things, what we find is a kind of unhappiness, not the unhappiness of the proverbial childless cat lady. That’s not what we’re talking about. What we’re talking about is the unhappiness of feeling, I don’t know how to start thinking about this question. I don’t feel comfortable raising it with my partner.

That is a huge problem. I don’t feel that there are the kind of public resources to navigate this question, because anything that I find when I look for them is conservative and reactionary. So I think that is the problem, which is why, when we thought about the subtitles or how to talk about the book, every time somebody said, Well, do you want to talk about overcoming ambivalence? I said, Well, I don’t want to. You know, ambivalence is worthwhile. We want to take it seriously.

Demsas: You’re ambivalent about overcoming ambivalence.

Berg: I’m ambivalent about the ambivalence. And one of the things I like to remind us of is actually the original meaning of ambivalence. So ambivalence, kind of originally in psychoanalysis, it meant the ability to have opposing feelings about one of the same objects, a positive and negative. I think today when we talk about ambivalence, a lot of times what we really mean and refer to as a kind of negativity. It’s like a courage of negativity. So when we say the eco lit novels or climate fiction are ambivalent, what we really mean is that they’re very, very negative about human beings.

And I think a lot of times when we talk about ambivalence about motherhood, what we talk about is the kind of the courage of negativity, which, in some ways, is long overdue. True ambivalence, the ability to really have and contain and work through both valences—the fears that attend a decision to have children, the things it can raise for us personally in terms of our ambitions, in terms of our families, in terms of the kind of big ethical concerns we care about—that doesn’t seem to me to be bad. When it’s debilitating us, when it’s—again, I really like this phrase—when it’s contributing to having that decision made for us and not by us, that’s when I worry about it.

Demsas: You view your project with your co-author as trying to kind of lift the ambivalence so that people can make a decision, so they can actually engage fully with this question about whether or not they should have children on their own. And in order to do that, you sort of attack some of the reasons why people say they don’t want to have kids. Jay Caspian Kang in The New Yorker calls your book “a corrective to liberal neuroses about having kids.” How do you feel about that tag?

Berg: Yeah. That’s a great question because, as I was saying before, I think there are parts of Jay’s characterization—we also went on his podcast—that we were happy to embrace, and part of it we wanted to kind of hold off on. He said, This really gratifies a debate bro in me. I think that’s not in The New Yorker. That might just be on the podcast. And we said, Oh, that’s nice, Jay. That’s really not all that we want to do.

And that kind of goes to what I was saying before. A lot of people are taking cheap shots at people not having kids today, including our newly elected vice president. And it seemed to us, as people who were ourselves struggling with the question of the role of children in our own lives and in human life, that that kind of attitude would not guide us through our own ambivalence. So it is true that we look at the kind of dominant narratives and scripts and arguments that are not helping people think through this, that make this decision harder to navigate. But I wouldn’t say we attack them, and certainly not the people who hold them. And in fact, what we often do is allow people to, I think, productively move through them.

So notice, again, I’ll recall an example and use a new one. When I was talking about the financial concern, the point isn’t to just say, Well, look—by the way, the Nordic countries. Look at them. Every material hurdle to having children has been lifted. They’re not having kids. End of story. So whatever people are saying when they’re talking about finances might just be bad faith, and that’s it.

No, I don’t think it’s just bad faith. I think those concerns are looming very large for people. What we wanted to understand is why and how. What we found was, as I was saying, a concern with a kind of ideal—a mirage, perhaps—of sufficient readiness that was underlying what often presented itself as just talk of money. The mirage is that I can ever be so rich, so successful that I would be completely confident in my choice to have children. That is the potential mirage, because a standard could be so high that we’ll never know if we’ve ever reached it.

Demsas: And so why did those standards change?

Berg: I think that’s a great question. The reason why it’s hard to answer is because we see it across very different arenas of life. Like I was saying before, people, when they think of their own personal development, they’re thinking, I need to be very mature, very stable. It’s kind of jokes around adulting—so, I’m not there yet. We see that in romantic relationships, so the idea that we have to be in a relationship for a very, very long time before we ever progressed to the next stage.

So people are taking longer to vet potential partners, taking longer to go exclusive, taking longer to introduce them to their parents, taking longer to move in, to get the pet, to get the child. So how to explain the change? More locally, we can think about the kind of upheavals that the Millennial generation, in particular, had undergone. It does seem to be very much the case that there is this myth of readiness that we certainly didn’t see before that I think is truer and more interesting than the kind of dithering, immature, Millennial caricature that we’re used to.

Demsas: Well, one of the big concerns—and this is, as you mentioned, what really kicked off your decision to write this book—is this idea that people are afraid of bringing children into the world because of climate change, that they’re worried about the idea that you are consigning your kids to a world where it’s unclear how their stability will look like, whether that’s literally the changes that will occur with weather, whether it’s floods or droughts or hurricanes or whatever it is, but also just that there’s tons of costs that children may add to the planet by increasing pollution.

You know, you cite one person saying that this is a good reason that people can proffer, but it’s hiding their actual underlying ambivalence. Why isn’t that, by itself, a reason that you find credible that many people are using to not have kids?

Berg: Again, I definitely don’t characterize anything through the paradigm of, like, they’re hiding one explanation with another. And that’s really important to emphasize.

What we do is we quote a kind of academic, ecological activist who had studied the decision processes of people who are environmentalists vis-à-vis the decision to have kids. And what he found was that for those for whom children were a positive prospect—they’re leaning towards kids—they will talk about climate change as a reason to have children. They’ll say, I’m having children so I can raise people who are responsible vis-à-vis the environment.

And people who are leaning against having children will cite the environment as a reason not to have children, along the lines that you mentioned. And moreover, they consistently said that they will then emphasize that reason of their deliberations in order to affect positive change around them. That doesn’t seem to me as something to be sneered at, and I wouldn’t call that as hiding. I would call that as trying to use your personal choice to have these larger ramifications to show other people that the damages of climate change—the cost that it exacts from us are not something in the distant future. It’s something that is happening right here and right now.

Briefly, the reason why we think that that is the case for most people is because all the data—both our kind of more local and qualitative conversations, as well as large surveys of how people are ordering their preferences and how much is climate change figuring in their procreative choices—as of yet, climate change is not featuring as a significant driver of the decision to have kids or have fewer children.

Although, of course, there wasn’t a month that would go by without us being able to find in The New York Times an op-ed along the lines of, Can I have children, given climate change? So it was very much the way that the public conversation was framed, but it just wasn’t what was—and still isn’t what is—driving the personal, deliberative choices.

Demsas: One implication of your book, I think, is that ambivalence can sort of be cured by more rumination. When Rachel, in the intro, asks her mother about how she decided to have a family, her mother responds, “I always knew. It was never even a question.” And to me, part of what your book is trying to do is it’s trying to help you shed some of these mirages around whether you could ever be ready financially to have a kid, or this idea that, you know, climate change necessitates you not having children. But is it really a rational enterprise, whether or not people choose to have children?

Berg: That’s a fantastic question. So the way I think about our project is as one that can actually do something quite limited. Does it have anything to say about what is the shape that your own life should take? No. I hope the book can show people that for most people, it is the case that they are, in fact, committed to the possibility of a good human future. And as such, that might be something they want to contribute to directly in some way. But what way you do that, that’s up to a person to navigate.

As for how to navigate that choice, I do have something to say about that, but we don’t say it in the book, which is: I’m a big pluralist as to the actual personal reasons for people to have children. And the reason I am is not just because I’m generally a pluralist, and it’s a very personal, fraught decision you shouldn’t judge people about. These are all good reasons to be a pluralist, but that’s not why I’m a pluralist here. It’s because one thing that you can realize without having kids—but having a child, really, this is one thing it really brings home—and it’s the fact that whatever it is that you’re thinking you’re doing it for, whatever you’re trying to get out of it, whatever was your motivating reason, having the child can never be reduced to that.

So maybe you did it because you really like the company of kids, but no matter how much you like the company of kids, parenting is going to confront you with a lot of things that are not just the joys of the company of children. Maybe this is your vanity project—you wanted the child to do everything that you never could do. Well, no matter how many times that child succeeds in doing that, parenting is never reducible to the vanity project, inherent, you know, that one can find in having a child.

And I think that’s true for anything. You wanted a pension plan? Trust me—there are other ways of going about it. And this one is going to bring a lot more. And it’s because what’s at stake in having a child is not any of your goals. It’s another human being that you’re going to enter into one of the most intense and intimate relationships that human beings can enter into. And so that’s why I’m, really—I’m a pluralist.

And I’m with you in thinking, in some sense, that means that you can’t quite enter this rationally, not necessarily, as we hear sometimes philosophers say, Because it will transform you. That’s one thing that can happen. It’ll transform you so much that how could you even kind of rationally choose it? You don’t know who you’re gonna be on the other end. I think it’s because whatever you’re trying to get out of it, another human being and that intensity of a relationship and that responsibility that you’re going to be taking for them is going to absolutely exceed that. So whatever is helping you jump over that ledge, that’s really cool by me.

Demsas: Well, so you just glanced at it, but I think one of the reasons why I feel that it’s very difficult to even enter into the idea of whether or not to have children in sort of a cost-benefit analysis is, is L.A. Paul’s work on transformative experiences. Just to summarize briefly for our listeners, the idea is that, you know, before undergoing a transformative experience, you cannot imagine what it would be like. If your cost-benefit analysis is wholly changed by the event, your preferences, your goals, your personality—it’s just completely different once you’ve entered into parenthood. If this is right, doesn’t it kind of call into question even the idea of trying to figure out if you’d be happier or not with a kid? And I know that you are a bit skeptical about this line of reasoning, so I’m curious for your take here.

Berg: Right. So you said, if this is right. So if this is right, yes, that’s correct. I don’t think it’s right—not that it’s not right sometimes. I think it’s not necessary.

And we should say, to Laurie Paul’s credit, her biggest claim, I take it, is about transformative experiences and the challenges they present to rationality. Parenthood, and particularly motherhood, is an example. And the reason why I kind of use a funny tone to use that is, I think, something that L.A. Paul definitely did not intend, but oftentimes culturally we talk about motherhood as a transformative experience, by that, meaning exactly what you mean and more.

We even sometimes mean that not only do you get a new identity you could not predict the significance of in advance, but, in fact, this comes at the cost of your other identities, perhaps identities that you liked and worked very hard to cultivate. And so somebody is now telling you: Not only you’ll have new preferences you can’t predict, but maybe you’ll lose touch with the things you care about most.

One thing that’s really important to notice, even before we get to my own kind of objections to the necessity aspect of this claim, is that it has a very strong kind of, I think, ultimately, a sexist undercurrent. We don’t talk about fatherhood as being transformative, nowhere as frequently as we do about motherhood being transformative.

Again, it’s a case where the intention is right—we want to be able to see women, acknowledge the special challenges that they undergo. But in the process, oftentimes what we’re doing is we’re sort of reifying the tie between parenting and women. And we’re reinforcing the idea that for them it is significant, meaningful, and important in ways that it might not be for men. So that’s something I really want to push against.

And then I just want to introduce the claim that motherhood can be all those things, but it might not. And luckily, the way to show the falsity of a universal claim is you just need one counterexample, so I do it in my own person. And so I share that, in fact, I don’t think that the experience of motherhood has been a rupture in my life. I have no problem recognizing myself after having children. The same things that I cared about before, I care about now.

However, one of the things that I thought was so interesting is people who said to me, you know, I have been transformed by motherhood, but it didn’t happen in the way that you usually hear about it, which is either instantaneous with birth or something that’s kind of lodged in that first year of parenting, which is often how we portray parenting today. It’s all about being a parent to a baby. The transformation is one that happened over decades. It’s one that happened over the life of my child.

And I thought, Oh, wow. That is very poignant. That’s very interesting. And then I thought, But over decades, we all change. So the childless will, too, be transformed over decades of their life, by the projects they undertake, by the relationships they enter into. So that’s kind of my caveat now, is that I am more open to the long-term transformative potential of entering into such a significant relationship. It’s not a necessary one.

And I think this is so important to emphasize for two reasons, and I’ll rest there, which is, first I alluded to: It’s very anxiety provoking when the framing of the possible choice is whether or not to take on a new identity that might erase all others. And insofar as that’s not a necessary framing, I think it’s very important to introduce it to others.

And the other thing is that once you undergo the experience—and you see the prevalence of this narrative of sort of utter, complete, rupturous transformation—but you yourself don’t recognize yourself in it, you might feel like you’re doing it wrong. And in looking at responses to the book, it has been really interesting and, I admit, gratifying to hear from other women who are mothers, I have found in what you described a narrative that I could identify with more than I could identify with many of the narratives that I saw around the idea of the necessarily transformative power of motherhood.

Demsas: I wonder, then, how you think about what happens to someone when they finish reading your book, right? So let’s say they’ve removed the mirages that you want to take away from them, and they’re free now to engage fully in the question of whether or not they actually want kids.

At some level, I feel like, if I were to just—and you know, I guess this is hinted in my earlier questions—but if I was just, like, to kind of tally up the costs of having a kid, even putting aside sort of the transformative-experiences point, I think that if I were to just say, Okay, the potential risk of what will happen to my career, to my body, and then, of course, just the necessary risk, even if everything goes well, of all the costs of raising a child, of saving up for their future, I think even freed of some of the ideas that you’ve talked about here, most people would rationally assume that children don’t fit in with their lives. Do you agree with that, or do you think that that’s not what you find in your experience?

Berg: Well, it’s not what I found in my experience, given the choices I’ve made. But my hope is that while reading a single book cannot transport you to a different age to which we do not want to be transported, for many other reasons—where having children, you know, you just a kind of unthinkingly engage in this activity and make the choice—I do hope that the fact that we provide an analysis, that helps them see that the frames of evaluation that they’re bringing to the children question are not the only ones possible, that by reminding them that what’s at stake is, in fact, not just this personal experience for them, not just sum some satisfaction that they’re going to be enjoying in their own lives, but that what’s at stake is ultimately how they will or will not be contributing to a human future, which by the end of the book I hope to have shown is something that most of us are, in fact, concerned with to one degree or another.

So once you’re at the end of the book, and you kind of realize, Actually, I’m not indifferent to what happens, to put it a bit crudely, after my death. I’m not indifferent to the possibility of there being not just more human beings but, in fact, human beings that live a kind of existence that I, as a human being, can be proud of, not just something I should be ashamed of, as we kind of talked about is represented in that eco lit.

I think then you are confronted with the questions: What are you going to do about this? How are you going to be contributing to that future? This is vague, because, as I said, this is not a book for somebody who wants, at the end of it—I got, recently, a question about a decision procedure. There is no decision procedure that we can offer you, by the end of which you’ll be like, Oh yes. Okay, I see now. It makes sense for me to have kids.

In fact, I would put things more strongly than you did. I think considering the kind of risks a person takes on themselves in having a child, which, just to kind of remind all of us listening to this conversation, is every possible horrible, bad, and tragic thing that can happen to you can happen to your child. And then, bringing a child to the world, you’re becoming that much more vulnerable. Like, for every child, you’re becoming vulnerable in another person. I think it never makes sense if what we think about making sense is this kind of weighing of pros and cons or an instrumental calculation of how to increase satisfaction or minimize risk. It does make sense once you think of your own existence as something that’s not reducible to you just maximizing your satisfaction across your own lifetime.

And I think the book helps you recover a sense of that perspective and raises that question for you, and how you’re going to answer it is up to you. Although, it is a conversation that one-on-one I do love having, so people can reach out to me for heart-to-hearts about what shape their own lives should take.

Demsas: Well, that’s a great part to go to our last and final question. What is something that you once thought was a good idea but ended up only being good on paper?

Berg: I really wanted to answer this by saying, “having children,” but just in the sense of, like, I love my children. I stand behind my choices.

I wanted to use the question, though, to say basically what we were just talking about, which is that the considerations of the book, those lifting of norms, those reminding us of different perspective, reorienting us to the fact that what’s at stake is the future of humanity—all those things can only get you so far. And the nitty gritty reality, not of, I don’t know, the diapers and the crying that we see—as I was saying, we see parenting today represented just through infancy—but of the whole arc of the life of a parent.

And in particular, the one thing I think is truly universal in parenting—this is my big controversial claim—is that nothing is universal in parenting. You don’t necessarily become a better person. Only some people do. You don’t necessarily relive your happy childhood. Only some people do, etcetera, etcetera. What’s universal is that you become inalienably vulnerable to the risks, pains, sufferings, and tragedies that can befall another human being. And in doing that, in entering this incredibly intimate and demanding relationship, it’ll always sort of exceed in its wonder, in its joys, but also in its pains and in its horrors, anything that we can write in a single book.

Demsas: Thank you so much for coming on the show.

Berg: Thank you so much for having me.

[Music]

Demsas: Good on Paper is produced by Jinae West. It was edited by Dave Shaw, fact-checked by Ena Alvarado, and engineered by Erica Huang. Our theme music is composed by Rob Smierciak. Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio. Andrea Valdez is our managing editor.

And hey, if you like what you’re hearing, please leave us a rating and review on Apple Podcasts.

I’m Jerusalem Demsas, and we’ll see you next week.

This article was featured in the One Story to Read Today newsletter. Sign up for it here.

When Americans went to the polls last week, they wanted cheaper food. Groceries really are more expensive than they used to be, and grocery costs are how many Americans make sense of the state of the economy at large. In September, Pew Research Center reported that three-quarters of Americans were “very concerned” about them. And this month, many of those people voted for Donald Trump, the candidate who touted his distance from the economic policy of the last four years, and who promised repeatedly to lower prices.

But two of Trump’s other big promises—mass deportations of undocumented immigrants and more restrictive trade regulations—would almost certainly raise food prices, economists told me. American-grown staples would get more expensive owing to a domestic labor shortage, and imported foods would too, because they would be subject to double-digit import taxes. This cause-and-effect dynamic “could be my final exam,” Rachel Friedberg, who teaches “Principles of Economics” at Brown University, told me. “It’s just very straightforward principles of economics.”

The main issue is labor. American farming depends on undocumented workers; if the Trump administration were to enact “the largest deportation operation in American history” and deport every undocumented immigrant living in the United States, somewhere between 40 and 50 percent of the people who plant our crops and pick our fruit would leave the domestic workforce. Proponents of immigration enforcement typically say these jobs could be taken by documented or American-born workers. But the farm industry is already in a prolonged labor crisis, and undocumented immigrants tend to be willing to work for less money—that’s why employers hire them, even though it’s illegal. Fewer workers means higher wages means higher prices, straight up.

[Read: Trump signals that he’s serious about mass deportation]

Some farms might be able to get by shorthanded, at least for a little while. Some might embrace technology more quickly, investing in automated systems that could help fill the labor gap. But that would take time, and as David Anderson, a Texas A&M University agricultural economist, told me, “You gotta get the cows milked and fed every day.” America’s agricultural system relies on hands and feet, arms and legs, day in and day out.

If the Trump administration does, in fact, deport millions of people, produce prices would likely increase the most, Bradley Rickard, an agricultural economist at Cornell University, told me in an email, because “labor represents a significant share of total costs.” Prices would probably go up quickest and most dramatically for the crops that are most labor-intensive to harvest: strawberries, mushrooms, asparagus, cherries. So would those for the foods farmed in California, which grows three-quarters of the fruit and nuts, and a third of the vegetables, produced domestically, and is home to about half of the country’s undocumented agricultural workers.

Mass deportations would also drive up prices for dairy and meat, whose industries have also been in a labor shortage, for at least the past half decade. According to a 2022 analysis from the American Immigration Council, which advocates for immigrants and seeks to shape immigration policy, a scarcity of workers led the median wage in the dairy and meat sectors to increase 33.7 percent from 2019 to 2022, and prices to rise between 4.5 and 7 percent. In 2015, Anderson and some colleagues conducted a survey on behalf of the dairy industry and found that eliminating immigrants from the sector would reduce production, put farms out of business, and cause retail milk prices to increase by about 90 percent.

Anderson’s study is 10 years old, and assumed a total loss of all immigrant labor, documented and undocumented. Last week, he told me that he has no reason to believe the dynamic wouldn’t hold to a lesser degree if a smaller amount of the workforce were deported now. “We wouldn’t be able to produce all the stuff that we do today. Less production means less supplies,” he said, “and less supplies means food prices would go up.”

Immigration policy affects food that is grown domestically. But about 15 percent of the American food supply is imported, including about 60 percent of fresh fruit, 80 percent of seafood, 90 percent of avocados, and 99 percent of coffee. Our reliance on, or taste for, imported goods has ticked up steadily over the past few decades, as we have become accustomed to Italian olive oil and raspberries in winter. On the campaign trail, Trump proposed taxing these—and all—imported goods, in an attempt to raise domestic production and to reduce the deficit. If his plan goes through, Chinese imports—which include large amounts of the fish, seafood, garlic, spices, tea, and apple juice we consume—would be subject to 60 to 100 percent tariffs. All other imports would be subject to 10 to 20 percent tariffs. Those taxes would be passed onto consumers, especially in the short term, as domestic production ramps up (if it can ramp up), and especially if undocumented immigrants are simultaneously leaving the workforce. “There’s no safety valve,” Marcus Noland, the executive vice president and director of studies at the nonpartisan think tank Peterson Institute for International Economics, told me. “If you start deporting people, it’s not like you can import the product and make up for it if you have these tariffs.”

[Read: The immigration-wage myth]

We all need food to live, and all food needs to come from somewhere. The process by which it makes it to our plate is complicated, resource-intensive, and subject to the vagaries of policy, weather, disease, and labor supply. The system does not have a large amount of slack built into it. If sticker-shocked milk fans start gravitating toward other drinks, those prices will also go up. If California’s berry industry is squeezed by a labor shortage, and the market for imported berries is squeezed by tariffs, berries will cost more.

And although farms are the biggest employer of undocumented workers, these workers are also a major part of the mechanism that processes, butchers, cooks, and delivers our food, from the sprawling poultry-processing plants of the South to the local fried-chicken place. The restaurant industry—which employs more than 800,000 undocumented immigrants, according to a Center for American Progress analysis—is already struggling to fill jobs, which is driving higher prices; even a small reduction in the workforce would increase operating costs, which will almost definitely result in either restaurants closing or costs being passed onto eaters.

The immigration and tariff policies, in other words, would affect all the food we eat: snacks, school lunches, lattes, pet food, fast food, fancy restaurant dinners. People will not stop eating if food gets more expensive; they will just spend more of their money on it.

Trump’s team proposed deportations and tariffs as a way to fix America’s inflation-addled economy. But voters are unlikely to be comforted by what they see over the next few years. Toward the end of our call, I asked Friedberg if she could see any scenario under which, if the new administration’s policies are enacted, prices don’t go up. “No,” she said, without pausing. “I am extremely confident that food will get more expensive. Buy those frozen vegetables now.”

After the 2016 elections, critics blamed Facebook for undermining American democracy. They believed that the app’s algorithmic News Feed pushed hyperpartisan content, outright fake news, and Russian-seeded disinformation to huge numbers of people. (The U.S. director of national intelligence agreed, and in January 2017 declassified a report that detailed Russia’s actions.) At first, the company’s executives dismissed these concerns—shortly after Donald Trump won the presidential election, Mark Zuckerberg said it was “pretty crazy” to think that fake news on Facebook had played a role—but they soon grew contrite. “Calling that crazy was dismissive and I regret it,” Zuckerberg would say 10 months later. Facebook had by then conceded that its own data did “not contradict” the intelligence report. Shortly thereafter, Adam Mosseri, the executive in charge of News Feed at the time, told this magazine that the company was launching a number of new initiatives “to stop the spread of misinformation, click-bait and other problematic content on Facebook.” He added: “We’ve learned things since the election, and we take our responsibility to protect the community of people who use Facebook seriously.”

Nowhere was the effort more apparent than in the launch of the company’s “war room” ahead of the 2018 midterms. Here, employees across departments would come together in front of a huge bank of computers to monitor Facebook for misinformation, fake news, threats of violence, and other crises. Numerous reporters were invited in at the time; The Verge, Wired, and The New York Times were among the outlets that ran access-driven stories about the effort. But the war room looked, to some, less like a solution and more like a mollifying stunt—a show put on for the press. And by 2020, with the rise of QAnon conspiracy theories and “Stop the Steal” groups, things did not seem generally better on Facebook.

[Read: What Facebook did to American democracy]

What is happening on Facebook now? On the eve of another chaotic election, journalists have found that highly deceptive political advertisements still run amok there, as do election-fraud conspiracy theories. The Times reported in September that the company, now called Meta, had fewer full-time employees working on election integrity and that Zuckerberg was no longer having weekly meetings with the lieutenants in charge of them. The paper also reported that Meta had replaced the war room with a less sharply defined “election operations center.”

When I reached out to Meta to ask about its plans, the company did not give many specific details. But Corey Chambliss, a Meta spokesperson focused on election preparedness, told me that the war room definitely still exists and that “election operations center” is just another of its names. He proved this with a video clip showing B-roll footage of a few dozen employees working in a conference room on Super Tuesday. The video had been shot in Meta’s Washington, D.C., office, but Chambliss impressed upon me that it could really be anywhere: The war room moves and exists in multiple places. “Wouldn’t want to over-emphasize the physical space as it’s sort of immaterial,” he wrote in an email.

It is clear that Meta wants to keep its name out of this election however much that is possible. It may marshal its considerable resources and massive content-moderation apparatus to enforce its policies against election interference, and it may “break the glass,” as it did in 2021, to take additional action if something as dramatic as January 6 happens again. At the same time, it won’t draw a lot of attention to those efforts or be very specific about them. Recent conversations I’ve had with a former policy lead at the company and academics who have worked with and studied Facebook, as well as Chambliss, made it clear that as a matter of policy, the company has done whatever it can to fly under the radar this election season—including Zuckerberg’s declining to endorse a candidate, as he has in previous presidential elections. When it comes to politics, Meta and Zuckerberg have decided that there is no winning. At this pivotal moment, it is simply doing less.

Meta’s war room may be real, but it is also just a symbol—its meaning has been haggled over for six years now, and its name doesn’t really matter. “People got very obsessed with the naming of this room,” Katie Harbath, a former public-policy director at Facebook who left the company in March 2021, told me. She disagreed with the idea that the room was ever a publicity stunt. “I spent a lot of time in that very smelly, windowless room,” she said. I wondered whether the war room—ambiguous in terms of both its accomplishments and its very existence—was the perfect way to understand the company’s approach to election chaos. I posed to Harbath that the conversation around the war room was really about the anxiety of not knowing what, precisely, Meta is doing behind closed doors to meet the challenges of the moment.

She agreed that part of the reason the room was created was to help people imagine content moderation. Its primary purpose was practical and logistical, she said, but it was “a way to give a visual representation of what the work looks like too.” That’s why, this year, the situation is so muddy. Meta doesn’t want you to think there is no war room, but it isn’t drawing attention to the war room. There was no press junket; there were no tours. There is no longer even a visual of the war room as a specific room in one place.

This is emblematic of Meta’s in-between approach this year. Meta has explicit rules against election misinformation on its platforms; these include a policy against content that attempts to deceive people about where and how to vote. The rules do not, as written, include false claims about election results (although such claims are prohibited in paid ads). Posts about the Big Lie—the false claim that the 2020 presidential election was stolen—were initially moderated with fact-checking labels, but these were scaled back dramatically before the 2022 midterms, purportedly because users disliked them. The company also made a significant policy update this year to clarify that it would require labels on AI-generated content (a change made after its Oversight Board criticized its previous manipulated-media policy as “incoherent”). But tons of unlabeled generative-AI slop still flows without consequence on Facebook.

[Read: “History will not judge us kindly”]

In recent years, Meta has also attempted to de-prioritize political content of all kinds in its various feeds. “As we’ve said for years, people have told us they want to see less politics overall while still being able to engage with political content on our platforms if they want,” Chambliss told me. “That’s exactly what we’ve been doing.” When I emailed to ask questions about the company’s election plans, Chambliss initially responded by linking me to a short blog post that Meta put out 11 months ago, and attaching a broadly circulated fact sheet, which included such vague figures as “$20 billion invested in teams and technology in this area since 2016.” This information is next-to-impossible for a member of the public to make sense of—how is anyone supposed to know what $20 billion can buy?

In some respects, Meta’s reticence is just part of a broader cultural shift. Content moderation has become politically charged in recent years. Many high-profile misinformation and disinformation research projects born in the aftermath of the January 6 insurrection have shut down or shrunk. (When the Stanford Internet Observatory, an organization that published regular reports on election integrity and misinformation, shut down, right-wing bloggers celebrated the end of its “reign of censorship.”) The Biden administration experimented in 2022 with creating a Disinformation Governance Board, but quickly abandoned the plan after it drew a firestorm from the right—whose pundits and influencers portrayed the proposal as one for a totalitarian “Ministry of Truth.” The academic who had been tasked with leading it was targeted so intensely that she resigned.

“Meta has definitely been quieter,” Harbath said. “They’re not sticking their heads out there with public announcements.” This is partly because Zuckerberg has become personally exasperated with politics, she speculated. She added that it is also the result of the response the company got in 2020—accusations from Democrats of doing too little, accusations from Republicans of doing far too much. The far right was, for a while, fixated on the idea that Zuckerberg had personally rigged the presidential election in favor of Joe Biden and that he frequently bowed to Orwellian pressure from the Biden administration afterward. In recent months, Zuckerberg has been oddly conciliatory about this position; in August, he wrote what amounted to an apology letter to Representative Jim Jordan of Ohio, saying that Meta had overdone it with its efforts to curtail COVID-19 misinformation and that it had erred by intervening to minimize the spread of the salacious news story about Hunter Biden and his misplaced laptop.  

Zuckerberg and his wife, Priscilla Chan, used to donate large sums of money to nonpartisan election infrastructure through their philanthropic foundation. They haven’t done so this election cycle, seeking to avoid a repeat of the controversy ginned up by Republicans the last time. This had not been enough to satisfy Trump, though, and he recently threatened to put Zuckerberg in prison for the rest of his life if he makes any political missteps—which may, of course, be one of the factors Zuckerberg is considering in choosing to stay silent.

Other circumstances have changed dramatically since 2020, too. Just before that election, the sitting president was pushing conspiracy theories about the election, about various groups of his own constituents, and about a pandemic that had already killed hundreds of thousands of Americans. He was still using Facebook, as were the adherents of QAnon, the violent conspiracy theory that positioned him as a redeeming godlike figure. After the 2020 election, Meta said publicly that Facebook would no longer recommend political or civic groups for users to join—clearly in response to the criticism that the site’s own recommendations guided people into “Stop the Steal” groups. And though Facebook banned Trump himself for using the platform to incite violence on January 6, the platform reinstated his account once it became clear that he would again be running for president

This election won’t be like the previous one. QAnon simply isn’t as present in the general culture, in part because of actions that Meta and other platforms took in 2020 and 2021. More will happen on other platforms this year, in more private spaces, such as Telegram groups. And this year’s “Stop the Steal” movement will likely need less help from Facebook to build momentum: YouTube and Trump’s own social platform, Truth Social, are highly effective for this purpose. Election denial has also been galvanized from the top by right-wing influencers and media personalities including Elon Musk, who has turned X into the perfect platform for spreading conspiracy theories about voter fraud. He pushes them himself all the time.

In many ways, understanding Facebook’s relevance is harder than ever. A recent survey from the Pew Research Center found that 33 percent of U.S. adults say they “regularly” get news from the platform. But Meta has limited access to data for both journalists and academics in the past two years. After the 2020 election, the company partnered with academics for a huge research project to sort out what happened and to examine Facebook’s broader role in American politics. It was cited when Zuckerberg was pressed to answer for Facebook’s role in the organization of the “Stop the Steal” movement and January 6: “We believe that independent researchers and our democratically elected officials are best positioned to complete an objective review of these events,” he said at the time. That project is coming to an end, some of the researchers involved told me, and Chabliss confirmed.

The first big release of research papers produced through the partnership, which gave researchers an unprecedented degree of access to platform data, came last summer. Still more papers will continue to be published as they pass peer review and are accepted to scientific journals—one paper in its final stages will deal with the diffusion of misinformation—but all of these studies were conducted using data from 2020 and 2021. No new data have or will be provided to these researchers.

When I asked Chambliss about the end of the partnership, he emphasized that no other platform had bothered to do as robust of a research project. However, he wouldn’t say exactly why it was coming to an end. “It’s a little frustrating that such a massive and unprecedented undertaking that literally no other platform has done is put to us as a question of ‘why not repeat this?’ vs asking peer companies why they haven't come close to making similar commitments for past or current elections,” he wrote in an email.

The company also shut down the data-analysis tool CrowdTangle—used widely by researchers and by journalists—earlier this year. It touts new tools that have been made available to researchers, but academics scoff at the claim that they approximate anything like real access to live and robust information. Without Meta’s cooperation, it becomes much harder for academics to effectively monitor what happens on its platforms.

I recently spoke with Kathleen Carley, a professor at Carnegie Mellon’s School of Computer Science, about research she conducted from 2020 to 2022 on the rise of “pink slime,” a type of mass-produced misinformation designed to look like the product of local newspapers and to be shared on social media. Repeating that type of study for the 2024 election would cost half a million dollars, she estimated, because researchers now have to pay if they want broad data access. From her observations and the more targeted, “surgical” data pulls that her team has been able to do this year, pink-slime sites are far more concentrated in swing states than they had been previously, while conspiracy theories were spreading just as easily as ever. But these are observations; they’re not a real monitoring effort, which would be too costly.

“Monitoring implies that we’re doing consistent data crawls and have wide-open access to data,” she told me, “which we do not.” This time around, nobody will.

Donald Trump’s history of racism is breathtaking. His track record of prejudice is so prodigious that keeping all of the incidents straight is difficult: There’s the Central Park Five, the “Muslim ban,” his response to Charlottesville. “Shithole” countries and lamenting that Nigerian immigrants won’t “go back to their huts.” The fabrications about Haitians eating pets. There’s Sunday’s horrifying Madison Square Garden rally, where Trump surrogates made racist comments about Harris and Puerto Rico. The list goes on. And grows. You would be hard-pressed to find a more brazenly racist major American politician on this side of the Civil Rights Act.

Future historians will therefore marvel at the fact that Trump has increased his support among African Americans since he was elected to the presidency in 2016. No serious person expects Trump to win anything close to a majority of Black voters in this year’s election. But months upon months of polls—from a welter of different pollsters—predict Trump substantially growing his share of those voters, particularly young Black men. In a recent poll of Black voters, 58 percent of Black men said they’d support Vice President Kamala Harris if the election were held today, and 26 percent said they’d vote for Trump—a percentage that would represent record-setting support for a Republican candidate.

Other forms of evidence—shoe-leather reporting, first-person testimony, 16 years of declining Black male support for Democratic presidential candidates, the presence of the Black manosphere—suggest that we are in the midst of a substantial racial realignment. If Democratic candidates have long benefited from Black magic—the near-universal support of African Americans—the spell has been broken for a growing share of Black men. Now Democrats, including the Harris campaign, are trying to figure out how to cast a new one. But the chances of stopping the realignment appear slim, because Black voters are both more culturally conservative and more economically liberal than the current version of the Democratic Party.

[Read: Why do Black people vote for Democrats?]

Lauren Harper Pope, a political and communications strategist, told me politicians need to start thinking of Black men—in contrast to more reliably Democratic Black women—as politically independent. “I’ve been telling people for months: Black men, Hispanic men, minority men are independent voters,” she said. “People need to look past the concept that if you’re a Black man with a college degree, you’re going to vote for a Democrat. No. Absolutely not. I’ve got plenty of Black friends who have college degrees who are from the South, not from the South, whatever, who are genuinely concerned about things the Democratic Party is doing.”

Sharon Wright Austin, a political scientist at the University of Florida, also believes that some level of realignment is happening. “I do think we have to take the polls seriously, because they are showing that Donald Trump is getting more support among Black men,” she told me. “I don’t know if the numbers are going to be as high as the polls indicate. I do think there are going to be some African Americans who are going to vote for Trump because they find him to be a better candidate.” Austin noted that the strength of the economy under Trump, as well as some Black men’s discomfort with Democratic positions on cultural issues such as abortion, trans rights, and immigration, are likely driving some of this defection.

Other political scientists who specialize in Black politics contest the idea that Black voting habits are meaningfully changing. Justin Zimmerman, a political-science professor at the University of Albany, said that the kind of frustration Black men are exhibiting isn’t new. “It’s not so much that there’s no Black political disenchantment with the Democratic Party,” Zimmerman told me. “That’s always been there.” He said that most rankled African Americans will likely hold their nose and vote for a candidate they may not be enthusiastic about, something Black voters have had to do throughout American history.

Christopher Towler, who directs the Black Voter Project and is a partner at Black Insights Research, also dismissed the notion that African Americans are undergoing a meaningful transition away from the Democratic Party. He argues that polls frequently rely on small sample sizes of Black voters, which makes getting a representative cross-section of the Black community impossible.

“You have a sample that has [18 to19] percent support for Trump, but it has a nine-point margin of error,” Towler told me. “That means it could be as low as 10 or as high as 27 percent. That tells us absolutely nothing.”

Although this point about sample size is reasonable and was echoed by other political scientists I interviewed, it fails to explain why those sample-size errors would lead to polling consistently skewed in one direction. And, more important, it discounts historical trends: Democrats have been bleeding male Black voters for nearly two decades.

Some degree of realignment was probably inevitable, given the widening mismatch between the worldview of many Black men and that of the Democratic Party. Many Black voters are quite conservative, especially culturally, and they may hold views on issues like abortion and gender that are more at home in the Republican Party. In June, the Pew Research Center released what is perhaps the most comprehensive recent survey of American opinions about fraught cultural issues. Conducted when Joe Biden was still the Democrats’ presidential nominee, Pew’s polling illustrates notable contrasts between the views of Black and white supporters of the Democratic candidate. On an array of cultural questions, Black Biden supporters were not simply more conservative than their white peers; they were more conservative than any other demographic group in the Democratic coalition.

Pew found that Black Biden supporters were the least likely to answer questions about immigrants favorably, trailing white supporters by double digits. Similarly, Black Biden voters were about twice as likely to say that “an emphasis on marriage and family makes society better off” compared with their white counterparts. And whereas only 32 percent of white Biden supporters agreed that “gender is determined by a person’s sex assigned at birth,” 64 percent of Black Biden voters said they agreed. Black Biden voters were also much less likely than any other group of Biden voters to say they were comfortable with they/them pronouns. When the questions turned to religion, the differences were even more stark: 35 percent of Black Biden voters said “government should support religious values” and more than half—a higher percentage than among Trump supporters —said “belief in God is needed for morality.” Only 7 and 8 percent of white Biden supporters, respectively, said the same. A different Pew survey from the same period also found that majorities of Black men and Black women agreed that “the government [promotes] birth control and abortion to keep the Black population small.” Again, these polls were not conducted when Harris was the candidate, but there is little reason to believe that cultural attitudes among Black Democrats suddenly changed when she became the nominee.

Since Trump’s rise, Democrats have seemed to assume that if they yell about his racism, misogyny, and authoritarian tendencies enough, African Americans will be scared or shamed into voting for Hillary Clinton, Biden, and now Harris. Eight years ago, the Clinton campaign dropped an ad tying Trump to Ku Klux Klan members; after she lost the election, she warned that Trump supporters wanted to take away the rights of Black Americans. For this year’s presidential race, the Harris campaign has commissioned former President Barack Obama to scold Black men for allegedly being too sexist to vote for the first Black woman president. Harris is hammering messages about fascism, racism, and democracy in the campaign’s final week even though polls have shown that these talking points are among the least popular with voters of all kinds—to say nothing of the fact that Black voters have been moving toward Trump despite nearly a decade of those messages being shouted from a bullhorn.

Democrats seem unwilling to believe that a small but significant portion of Black voters might be willing to overlook Trump’s racism, and are even drawn to aspects of his nationalism, xenophobia, and traditionalism. When Biden won in 2020, many liberal talking heads cheered that “Black voters saved democracy” and heaped praise on Black “superhero women”  as part of an outpouring of awkward gratitude that several Black pundits noted was a little fetishistic and traded in “magical negro tropes.” Some progressives seem to imagine minority voters as mythical beings, electoral angels who radiate light and virtue. In their minds, the Democratic Party is a Marvel movie coalition of Nice Whites and Saintly Blacks and Browns who team up every four years to try to save the country from the Bad Whites: the hodgepodge of unsavory working-class whites and car-dealership-owning whites and Christian-nationalist whites who make up Trump’s coalition. But people of color are people, not saints or saintly monoliths, and the cost of this idealization has been a certain blindness in Democratic circles to the actual, rather than imagined, political landscape within minority communities. And it’s not just African Americans: Other male minority voters are also generally less liberal than white Democrats. Recent polls found that 44 percent of young Latino men back Trump and more than half of Hispanic men support deportations of undocumented immigrants (51 percent) and building the border wall (52 percent). These men are more than twice as likely to say Trump, compared with Biden, helped them personally.

The question, then, is what to do about these growing tensions between the cultural views of Black Americans and other minority voters and those of the Democratic Party. Despite their competing views on realignment, the experts I spoke with largely agreed that Democrats tend to take Black voters for granted, and that the Harris campaign should have started doing targeted outreach to Black voters much sooner. “What Black folks want is an identifiable, explicit agenda,” the political scientist Sekou Franklin told me, one that appeals to their unique needs and interests. He added, “That’s what they’re seeing with LGBTQ+ persons … That’s what they’re seeing with women, so they want the same thing.” Others said that some in the Black community think too much money is going to help foreign countries overseas, while Black Americans—especially Black men—struggle at home. Black Americans are among the least supportive of sending military aid to Ukraine and Israel.

[Daniel K. Williams: Democrats can’t rely on the Black Church anymore]

What Harris has offered to combat these perceptions has been less than inspiring. Trying to court young Black men with policy proposals on crypto, weed legalization, and mentorship programs—the focus of a recent policy rollout—is both confusing and condescending. One ambitious proposal, handing out loans to Black Americans on the basis of race, is very possibly illegal, and thus likely an empty promise. And although Harris has moved to the right explicitly and implicitly on a number of cultural and economic issues, there is approximately zero chance that she can outflank Donald Trump on problems such as immigration, no matter how much she wants to expand the border wall. Anyone whose primary concern is the southern border is almost certainly going to vote for the former president. So if shifting right on cultural and social issues is unlikely to move the needle, what will?

The answer is staring Democrats in the face. If Black voters are perhaps the most culturally conservative wing of the Democratic coalition, they also tend to be among the most progressive on economic issues. A survey this summer found that Black voters are almost twice as likely as other racial demographics to say that “the government should provide more assistance to people in need” and also more likely than any other group to say that Social Security benefits should be expanded. And roughly two-thirds of African Americans say that the government should have a more active hand in solving problems. Another survey found that a majority of African Americans have critical views of the country’s prison system (74 percent), courts (70 percent), policing (68 percent), big businesses (67 percent), economic system (65 percent), and health-care system (51 percent). These are issues that the Democratic Party can credibly claim to be better at addressing than Republicans.

Black voters’ realignment seems less like a sea change than something akin to coastal erosion: a grinding process that can be stopped with concerted collective effort. Democrats cannot out-Republican the Republicans on cultural issues, and it would be a fool’s errand to try. What they can do is spend the final days of the campaign playing to their strengths: loudly championing the kind of bold populist vision that is actually popular with voters, including African Americans.