Americans are unusually likely to die young compared with citizens of other developed countries. The U.S. has more fatalities from gun violence, drug overdoses, and auto accidents than just about any other similarly rich nation, and its obesity rate is about 50 percent higher than the European average. Put this all together and the U.S. is rightly considered a “rich death trap” for its young and middle-aged citizens, whose premature death is the leading reason for America’s unusually short lifespans.

But without much media fanfare, the U.S. has recently experienced a boomlet in good health news. In May 2024, the U.S. government reported that drug-overdose deaths fell 3 percent from 2022 to 2023, a rare bright spot in a century of escalating drug deaths. In June, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration reported that traffic fatalities continued to decline after a huge rise in 2020 and 2021—and that this happened despite a rise in total vehicle miles traveled. In September, the U.S. government announced that the adult-obesity rate had declined in its most recent count, which ended in August 2023. Also in September, FBI analysis confirmed a double-digit decline in the national murder rate.

[Read: America fails the civilization test]

How rare is this inside straight of good news? Some government estimates—such as rates of obesity and overdose deaths—have reporting lags of one to two years, meaning that these causes of mortality are not necessarily all currently declining. Still, by my count, this year marks the first time in the 21st century that obesity, overdose deaths, traffic fatalities, and murders all declined in the official data analysis. The level of premature death in the U.S. is still unacceptably high. But progress isn’t just about where you are; it’s also about what direction you’re going in. And by the latter definition, 2024 was arguably the best year for American health reports in decades.

It would be convenient—for both efficient punditry and public-policy clarity—if a small number of factors explained all of these trends. After all, if we could isolate a handful of lessons, we could carry them forward and unleash a golden age of American health. Unfortunately, reality is messy and does not always comport with our preference for simple explanations.

Take, for example, the decrease in overdose deaths, which might be the most surprising news of the bunch. “This is the largest decline we’ve seen in recent data, going back at least back to 1999, which is remarkable because overdoses have been going up so steadily,” Charles Fain Lehman, a fellow at the Manhattan Institute, told me. But the exact cause of the decline is mysterious. “I could tell you a policy story,” he said, “such as the fact that we’ve made it easier for people to access drug-addiction treatment and we’ve significantly expanded the availability of Narcan”—an opioid antagonist that rapidly reverses the effects of overdose.

[Read: An anti-overdose drug is getting stronger. Maybe that’s a bad thing?]

But Lehman said he’s not convinced that these policy changes explain all—or even most—of the decline in overdose deaths. “Most of the evidence suggests that the effect size of these interventions should be small and universal across states,” he said. “But instead the U.S. is seeing a decline in overdose deaths that is both large and geographically concentrated in the East, where the overdose crisis started.”

According to Lehman, these facts point to other explanations. Maybe the overdose surge is burning out on its own. Drug waves tend to crest and fall in the absence of a coordinated policy response, because the people mostly likely to get hooked on any one generation of deadly drugs can’t remain indefinitely addicted—they either recover, seek treatment, or die. Or maybe a surge in suicides in 2021 created an unusual and unsustained spike in mortality. “This is grim, but for lack of a better phrase, folks who died during the pandemic can’t die later, and so maybe we should have always expected overdose deaths to decline” after the COVID crisis, he said.

Another possibility is that the fentanyl available on the street became weaker because of relatively lax immigration enforcement under the Biden administration. “There’s an idea known as the ‘iron law of prohibition,’ which says that the more intensive the law enforcement, the more intense the drug,” Lehman said. Perhaps as the risk of contraband confiscation at the border declined, cartels adjusted by moving more units of narcotics across the border while switching to a less concentrated product on a per-unit basis.

The frequency of maybes and perhapses in the above paragraphs makes my point. The decline in overdose deaths was either the direct result of good policy, the ironic result of bad policy, the mathematically inevitable result of lots of addicts dying during the peak pandemic years, or some combination of all three. Celebrating a nice-looking chart is much easier than understanding exactly what is making the line change direction.

A similar theme of uncertainty holds for the obesity story. This fall, the National Health and Nutrition Examination reported that the prevalence of obesity among U.S. adults declined from 41.9 percent to 40.3 percent in its latest sample of several thousand individuals. “Obesity prevalence is potentially plateauing in the United States,” one CDC official told The Washington Post. “We may have passed peak obesity,” the Financial Times’ John Burn-Murdoch wrote of the news.

[Read: The ‘peak obesity’ illusion]

Obesity has declined before by the government’s count, only to continue rising within a few years. One reason to think that this time is different is the rise of GLP-1 drugs, such as Ozempic and Mounjaro, which are remarkably adept at reducing appetite, leading to weight loss. Roughly one in eight Americans has taken a GLP-1 drug, and one in 16 is currently doing so, according to a survey by the health nonprofit KFF. It seems inevitable that as more Americans take therapies that put a lid on their appetite, obesity should mechanically decline.

Another possibility is that the developed world might be running up against a natural limit in overall obesity. In 2023, a team of Greek researchers wrote that obesity rates might stabilize in developed countries in the next few years, as “obesity has reached a biological limit … [or] a saturation threshold for the proportion of people who can become obese.” In fact, international evidence suggests that obesity has already “stabilized in children and adolescents of most economically advanced countries since 2000,” they wrote. (They also conceded that “the trends in adults are mixed and ambiguous and do not unequivocally support the obesity plateau hypothesis.”)

Finally, there’s the sudden decline in violent crime in the past few years—by some accounts, one of the fastest declines in homicide rates since the 1960s. One explanation is that the early 2020s marked the second time in a decade when the U.S. experienced the double whiplash of what some sociologists call the “Ferguson effect.” This theory holds that public outrage about police shootings reduces police activity and leads to an increase in violent crime. Adherents of this theory argue that in 2014, the death of Michael Brown created a backlash against policing, and in 2020, the death of George Floyd created another; in both cases, a high-profile killing created social unrest, which, they argue, may also have reduced police activity, possibly causing an overall increase in violent crime. As the health emergency wound down, policing picked up, and the spell of violence broke.

Another related explanation is that violent crime surged when lockdowns and other social disruptions unmoored young men from their routines in 2020 and 2021. But in the “great normalization” of 2022, young people returned to their pre-COVID schedules, and violent behavior quickly reverted to its pre-COVID rates. As John Roman, the director of the Center on Public Safety and Justice at NORC at the University of Chicago, told The Atlantic’s Rogé Karma, the beginning of the decline in violent crime coincided with the beginning of the 2022–23 school year, when pre-pandemic norms resumed for America’s teenagers.

This theory—that the pandemic created a brief bubble of abnormal and deadly behavior—would also explain why the U.S. saw an increase in auto fatalities during the first years of the pandemic. In March 2022, The Atlantic’s Olga Khazan summarized the berserk sociology of the moment pithily: “Everyone is acting so weird!” But, with time, people acted a little less weird. They resumed, among other things, their pre-pandemic manners of driving—that is to say, normally reckless, rather than completely out-of-control reckless.

[Read: The murder rate is suddenly falling]

Public policy may have played a small but meaningful role in declining crime and auto fatalities too. One creative explanation, from Bloomberg’s Justin Fox, is that Joe Biden’s American Rescue Plan sent hundreds of billions of dollars to governors and mayors, which allowed them to increase law-enforcement spending to crack down on both violent criminals and out-of-control drivers. In fact, state and local government spending increased in 2022 by nearly 8 percent, its largest annual increase since the Great Recession. This coincided with a voter push toward tougher policing standards, as “Minneapolis voters rejected a plan to replace the city’s police department,” “San Franciscans threw out their progressive district attorney,” and “New Yorkers elected a former cop as mayor,” Fox wrote.

At the heights of government power, there is currently a “rift” in the debate over “how to make America healthier,” as Gina Kolata of The New York Times recently pointed out. On one side are techno-optimists such as Elon Musk, who trust in science and technology. “Nothing would do more to improve the health, lifespan and quality of life for Americans than making GLP inhibitors super low cost to the public,” he posted on X. On the other side, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is deeply skeptical of technology—as varied as nuclear power plants and the polio vaccine—and he has stressed that “lifestyle” is the more important determinant of health.

Kennedy gets this much right: Our lifespans are shaped as much by our behavior as they are medically determined by the health-care system. But rather than scaremongering about effective vaccines, we should be laser-focused on the truly scary causes of premature death in America and what it really takes to eliminate them—and on figuring out what’s gone right in the past few years.

The concept of the food desert has been around long enough that it feels almost like a fact of nature. Tens of millions of Americans live in low-income communities with no easy access to fresh groceries, and the general consensus is that these places just don’t have what it takes to attract and sustain a supermarket. They’re either too poor or too sparsely populated to generate sufficient spending on groceries, or they can’t overcome a racist pattern of corporate redlining.

But these explanations fail to contend with a key fact: Although poverty and ruralness have been with us forever, food deserts arrived only around the late 1980s. Prior to that, small towns and poor neighborhoods could generally count on having a grocery store, perhaps even several. (The term food desert was coined in 1995 by a task force studying what was then a relatively new phenomenon.)

The high-poverty, majority-Black Deanwood neighborhood of Washington, D.C., is typical of the trend. In the 1960s, the area had more than half a dozen grocery stores, according to a study by the anthropologist Ashanté Reese. These included a branch of the local District Grocery Stores co-op, a Safeway supermarket, and independent Black-owned businesses such as Tip Top Grocery on Sheriff Road. By the 1990s, however, the number of grocery stores in Deanwood had dwindled to just two, and today the neighborhood has none.

A similar story played out across rural America, following the same timeline. Up until the 1980s, almost every small town in North Dakota had a grocery store. Many, in fact, had two or more competing supermarkets. Now nearly half of North Dakota’s rural residents live in a food desert. (The USDA defines a food desert as a low-income census tract where the nearest grocery store is more than 10 miles away in a rural area or more than one mile away in a city.)

A slew of state and federal programs have tried to address food deserts by providing tax breaks and other subsidies to lure supermarkets to underserved communities. These efforts have failed. More food deserts exist now than in 2010, in the depths of the Great Recession. That’s because the proposed solutions misunderstand the origins of the problem.

Food deserts are not an inevitable consequence of poverty or low population density, and they didn’t materialize around the country for no reason. Something happened. That something was a specific federal policy change in the 1980s. It was supposed to reward the biggest retail chains for their efficiency. Instead, it devastated poor and rural communities by pushing out grocery stores and inflating the cost of food. Food deserts will not go away until that mistake is reversed.

The structure of the grocery industry has been a matter of national concern since the rise of large retail chains in the early 20th century. The largest was A&P, which, by the 1930s, was rapidly supplanting local grocery stores and edging toward market dominance. Congressional hearings and a federal investigation found that A&P possessed an advantage that had nothing to do with greater efficiency, better service, or other legitimate ways of competing. Instead, A&P used its sheer size to pressure suppliers into giving it preferential treatment over smaller retailers. Fearful of losing their biggest customer, food manufacturers had no choice but to sell to A&P at substantially lower prices than they charged independent grocers—allowing A&P to further entrench its dominance.

Congress responded in 1936 by passing the Robinson-Patman Act. The law essentially bans price discrimination, making it illegal for suppliers to offer preferential deals and for retailers to demand them. It does, however, allow businesses to pass along legitimate savings. If it truly costs less to sell a product by the truckload rather than by the case, for example, then suppliers can adjust their prices accordingly—just so long as every retailer who buys by the truckload gets the same discount.

For the next four decades, Robinson-Patman was a staple of the Federal Trade Commission’s enforcement agenda. From 1952 to 1964, for example, the agency issued 81 formal complaints to block grocery suppliers from giving large supermarket chains better prices on milk, oatmeal, pasta, cookies, and other items than they offered to smaller grocers. Most of these complaints were resolved when suppliers agreed to eliminate the price discrimination. Occasionally a case went to court.

During the decades when Robinson-Patman was enforced—part of the broader mid-century regime of vigorous antitrust—the grocery sector was highly competitive, with a wide range of stores vying for shoppers and a roughly equal balance of chains and independents. In 1954, the eight largest supermarket chains captured 25 percent of grocery sales. That statistic was virtually identical in 1982, although the specific companies on top had changed. As they had for decades, Americans in the early 1980s did more than half their grocery shopping at independent stores, including both single-location businesses and small, locally owned chains. Local grocers thrived alongside large, publicly traded companies such as Kroger and Safeway.

With discriminatory pricing outlawed, competition shifted onto other, healthier fronts. National chains scrambled to keep up with independents’ innovations, which included the first modern self-service supermarkets, and later, automatic doors, shopping carts, and loyalty programs. Meanwhile, independents worked to match the chains’ efficiency by forming wholesale cooperatives, which allowed them to buy goods in bulk and operate distribution systems on par with those of Kroger and A&P. A 1965 federal study that tracked grocery prices across multiple cities for a year found that large independent grocers were less than 1 percent more expensive than the big chains. The Robinson-Patman Act, in short, appears to have worked as intended throughout the mid-20th century.

Then it was abandoned. In the 1980s, convinced that tough antitrust enforcement was holding back American business, the Reagan administration set about dismantling it. The Robinson-Patman Act remained on the books, but the new regime saw it as an economically illiterate handout to inefficient small businesses. And so the government simply stopped enforcing it.

[Zephyr Teachout: Why judges let monopolists off the hook]

That move tipped the retail market in favor of the largest chains, who could once again wield their leverage over suppliers, just as A&P had done in the 1930s. Walmart was the first to fully grasp the implications of the new legal terrain. It soon became notorious for aggressively strong-arming suppliers, a strategy that fueled its rapid expansion. By 2001, it had become the nation’s largest grocery retailer. Kroger, Safeway, and other supermarket chains followed suit. They began with a program of “self-consolidation”—centralizing their purchasing, which had previously been handled by regional divisions, to fully exploit their power as major national buyers. Then, in the 1990s, they embarked on a merger spree. In just two years, Safeway acquired Vons and Dominick’s, while Fred Meyer absorbed Ralphs, Smith’s, and Quality Food Centers, before being swallowed by Kroger. The suspension of the Robinson-Patman Act had created an imperative to scale up.

A massive die-off of independent retailers followed. Squeezed by the big chains, suppliers were forced to offset their losses by raising prices for smaller retailers, creating a “waterbed effect” that amplified the disparity. Price discrimination spread beyond groceries, hobbling bookstores, pharmacies, and many other local businesses. From 1982 to 2017, the market share of independent retailers shrank from 53 percent to 22 percent.

[Christopher Beam: Welcome to pricing hell]

If you were to plot the end of Robinson-Patman enforcement and the subsequent restructuring of the retail industry on a timeline, it would closely parallel the emergence and spread of food deserts. Locally owned retail businesses were once a mainstay of working-class and rural communities. Their inability to obtain fair prices beginning in the 1980s hit these retailers especially hard because their customers could least afford to pay more. Those who could travel to cheaper chain stores in other neighborhoods or towns were especially likely to do so. (Food deserts were not, by the way, a consequence of suburbanization and white flight, as some observers have suggested. By 1970, more Americans already lived in suburbs than in cities. Yet, at that point, low-income neighborhoods had more grocery stores per capita than middle-class areas. The relationship didn’t begin to reverse until the 1980s.)

Why didn’t large chains fill the void when local stores closed? They didn’t need to. In the 1960s, if a chain like Safeway wanted to compete for the grocery dollars spent by Deanwood residents, it had to open a store in the neighborhood. But once the independent stores closed, the chains no longer had to invest in low-income areas. They could count on people to schlep across town to their other locations. Today, in fact, many Deanwood residents travel to a Safeway outside the neighborhood to shop. This particular Safeway has had such persistent issues with expired meat and rotting produce that some locals have taken to calling it the “UnSafeway.” Yet, without alternatives, people keep shopping there.

In rural areas, the same dynamic means that Walmart can capture spending across a wide region by locating its supercenters in larger towns, counting on people in smaller places that no longer have grocery stores to drive long distances to shop for food. An independent grocer that tries to establish itself in a more convenient location will struggle to compete with Walmart on price because suppliers, who can’t risk losing Walmart’s business, will always give the mega-chain a better price. Indeed, during the height of the pandemic, when supply-chain disruptions left grocery manufacturers struggling to meet demand, Walmart announced stiff penalties for suppliers who failed to fulfill 98 percent of its orders. Suppliers complied by shorting independent grocers, who scrambled to keep staple products in stock even as Walmart’s shelves were full.

The problem of food deserts will not be solved without the rediscovery of the Robinson-Patman Act. Requiring a level pricing playing field would restore local retailers’ ability to compete. This would provide immediate relief to entrepreneurs who have recently opened grocery stores in food deserts, only to find that their inability to buy on the same terms as Walmart and Dollar General makes survival difficult. With local grocery stores back on the scene in these neighborhoods, chain supermarkets may well return, too, lured by a force far more powerful than tax breaks: competition.

The Biden administration has begun to connect the dots. Alvaro Bedoya, a member of the Federal Trade Commission, has been an outspoken proponent of Robinson-Patman enforcement, and the FTC under Chair Lina Khan is widely expected to file its first such case in the coming months. But Donald Trump’s election casts doubts on the long-term prospects for a Robinson-Patman revival. Although the law has garnered support among some GOP House members, powerful donors are calling for corporate-friendly appointments to the FTC. Hopefully the incoming Trump administration realizes that the rural and working-class voters who propelled him to power are among those most affected by food deserts—and by the broader decline in local self-reliance that has swept across small-town America since the 1980s. A powerful tool for reversing that decline is available. Any leader who truly cared about the nation’s left-behind communities would use it.

The Roosevelt Republic—the progressive age that extended social welfare and equal rights to a widening circle of Americans—endured from the 1930s to the 1970s. At the end of that decade, it was overthrown by the Reagan Revolution, which expanded individual liberties on the strength of a conservative free-market ideology, until it in turn crashed against the 2008 financial crisis. The era that followed has lacked a convincing name and a clear identity. It’s been variously called the post–post–Cold War, post-neoliberalism, the Great Awokening, and the Great Stagnation. But the 2024 election has shown that the dominant political figure of this period is Donald Trump, who, by the end of his second term, will have loomed over American life for as long as Franklin D. Roosevelt’s dozen years as president. We are living in the Trump Reaction. By the standard of its predecessors, we’re still at the beginning.

This new era is neither progressive nor conservative. The organizing principle in Trump’s chaotic campaigns, the animating passion among his supporters, has been a reactionary turn against dizzying change, specifically the economic and cultural transformations of the past half century: the globalization of trade and migration, the transition from an industrial to an information economy, the growing inequality between metropolis and hinterland, the end of the traditional family, the rise of previously disenfranchised groups, the “browning” of the American people. Trump’s basic appeal is a vow to take power away from the elites and invaders who have imposed these changes and return the country to its rightful owners—the real Americans. His victory demonstrated the appeal’s breadth in blue and red states alike, among all ages, ethnicities, and races.

For two and a half centuries American politics alternated between progressive and conservative periods, played between the 40-yard lines of liberal democracy. The values of freedom, equality, and rule of law at least received lip service; the founding documents enjoyed the status of civic scripture; the requisite American mood was optimism. Although reaction has dominated local or regional (mainly southern) politics, it’s something new in our national politics—which explains why Trump has been misunderstood and written off at every turn. Reaction is insular and aggrieved, and it paints in dark tones. It wants to undo progress and reverse history, restoring the nation to some imagined golden age when the people ruled. They want a strongman with the stomach to trample on the liberal pieties of the elites who sold them out.

This is why so many voters are willing to tolerate—in some cases, celebrate—Trump’s vile language and behavior; his love affairs with foreign dictators; his readiness to toss aside norms, laws, the Constitution itself. Asked by pollsters if they’re concerned about the state of democracy, these voters answer yes—not because they fear its demise, but because it has already failed them. They don’t think Trump will destroy democracy; he’ll restore it to the people.

The triumph of the Trump Reaction should put an end to two progressive illusions that have considerably strengthened it. One is the notion that identity is political destiny. For a long time, the Democratic Party regarded demographic change in America, the coming “minority majority,” as a consoling promise during interim Republican victories: As the country turned less white, it would inevitably turn more blue. In the past decade this notion was absorbed into an ideological framework that became the pervasive worldview of progressives—a metaphysics of group identity in which a generalized “people of color” (adjusted during the social-justice revolution of 2020 to “BIPOC”) were assumed to share a common experience of oppression that would determine their collective political behavior, driving them far to the left on issues such as immigration, policing, and transgender rights.

The 2024 election exploded this illusion. Nearly half of Latinos and a quarter of Black men voted for Trump. In New York City he did better in Queens and the Bronx, which have majority nonwhite populations, than in Manhattan, with its plurality of wealthy white people. M. Gessen of The New York Times called it “not a good night for solidarity,” but the presumption of like-mindedness among immensely diverse groups of voters should be retired, along with the term people of color, which has lost any usefulness for political analysis.

[Read: The cumulative toll of Democrats’ delusions]

Adjacent to the demographic illusion is a majoritarian one. By this theory, the Democratic Party is kept out of power by a white Republican minority that thwarts the popular will through voter suppression, gerrymandering, judicial legislating, the filibuster, the composition of the Senate, and the Electoral College. By this thinking, the ultimate obstacle to the American promise is the Constitution itself. The United States needs to become less republican and more democratic, with electoral reforms and perhaps a second constitutional convention to give more power to the people. This analysis contains some undeniable truths—the public’s voice is thwarted by structural barriers, partisan machinations, and enormous quantities of plutocratic cash. As long as Republican presidents continued to lose the popular vote, the majoritarian argument was tempting, even if its advocates ignored the likelihood that a new constitution would turn out to be less democratic than the old one.

But every election is a reminder that the country is narrowly divided and has been for decades, with frequent changes of control in the House of Representatives. Now that Trump has won the popular vote and the Electoral College, the majoritarian illusion, like the demographic one, should be seen for what it is: an impediment to Democratic success. It relieved the party of the need to listen and persuade rather than expecting the dei ex machina of population and rule changes to do the work of politics.

When Democrats lose a presidential election, they descend into a familiar quarrel over whether the party moved too far to the left or to the center. This time the question seems especially irrelevant; their political problem runs so much deeper. The Democratic Party finds itself on the wrong side of a historic swing toward right-wing populism, and tactical repositioning won’t help. The mood in America, as in electorates all over the world, is profoundly anti-establishment. Trump had a mass movement behind him; Kamala Harris was installed by party elites. He offered disruption, chaos, and contempt; she offered a tax break for small businesses. He spoke for the alienated; she spoke for the status quo.

Democrats have become the party of institutionalists. Much of their base is metropolitan, credentialed, economically comfortable, and pro-government. A realignment has been going on since the early ’70s: Democrats now claim the former Republican base of college-educated professionals, and Republicans have replaced Democrats as the party of the working class. As long as globalization, technology, and immigration were widely seen as not only inevitable but positive forces, the Democratic Party appeared to ride the wave of history, while Republicans depended on a shrinking pool of older white voters in dying towns. But something profound changed around 2008.

I spent the years after the financial crisis reporting in parts of the country that were being ravaged by the Great Recession and the long decline that had preceded it, and were growing hostile toward the country’s first Black president. Three things recurred everywhere I went: a conviction that the political and economic game was rigged for the benefit of distant elites; a sense that the middle class had disappeared; and the absence of any institutions that might have provided help, including the Democratic Party. It was hard to miss the broken landscape that lay open for Trump, but the establishments of both parties didn’t see it, and neither did most of the media, which had lost touch with the working class. The morning after Trump’s shocking victory in 2016, a colleague approached me angrily and said, “Those were your people, and you empowered them by making other people feel sorry for them—and it was wrong!”

In some ways, the Biden administration and the Harris campaign tried to reorient the Democratic Party back toward the working class, which was once its backbone. Biden pursued policies and passed legislation to create jobs that don’t require a college degree in communities that have been left behind. Harris studiously avoided campaigning on her identity as a Black and South Asian woman, appealing instead to a vague sense of patriotism and hope. But Biden’s industrial policy didn’t produce results fast enough to offset the damage of inflation—no one I talked with in Maricopa County, Arizona, or Washington County, Pennsylvania, this year seemed to have heard of the Inflation Reduction Act. Harris remained something of a cipher because of Biden’s stubborn refusal to step aside until it was too late for her or anyone else to make their case to Democratic voters. The party’s economic policies turned populist, but its structure—unlike the Republican Party’s mass cult of personality—appeared to be a glittering shell of power brokers and celebrities around a hollow core. Rebuilding will be the work of years, and realignment could take decades.

So much of the Trump Reaction’s triumph is unfair. It’s unfair that a degenerate man has twice beaten a decent, capable woman. It’s unfair that Harris graciously conceded defeat, whereas Trump, in her position, would once again have kick-started the machinery of lies that he built on his own behalf, continuing to undermine trust in democracy for years to come. It’s unfair that most of the media immediately moved on from Trump’s hateful rhetoric and threats of violence against migrants and political opponents. His campaign was unforgivable—but in the words of W. H. Auden’s poem “Spain,” “History to the defeated / May say Alas but cannot help or pardon.”

[From the July/August 2017 issue: What’s wrong with the Democrats?]

The Trump Reaction is more fragile than it now seems. Trump’s behavior in the last weeks of the campaign did not augur a coherent second presidency. He will surround himself with ideologues, opportunists, and crackpots, and because he has no interest in governing, they will try to fill the vacuum and turn on one another. The Trump administration, with a favorable Congress, will overreach on issues such as abortion and immigration, soon alienating important parts of its new coalition. It will enact economic policies that favor the party’s old allies among the rich at the expense of its new supporters among the less well-off. It’s quite possible that, approaching 80, Trump will find himself once more among the least popular presidents in the country’s history. But in the meantime, he will have enormous latitude to abuse his power for enrichment and revenge, and to shred the remaining ties that bind Americans to one another, and the country to democracies around the world.

The Trump Reaction will test opponents with a difficult balancing act, one that recalls F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous line about a first-rate intelligence holding two opposed ideas in mind while still being able to function. The Democratic Party has to undertake the necessary self-scrutiny that starts with the errors of Biden, Harris, and their inner circle, but that extends to the party’s long drift away from the most pressing concerns of ordinary Americans, toward the eccentric obsessions of its donors and activists. But this examination can’t end in paralysis, because at the same time, the opposition will have to act. Much of this action will involve civil society and the private sector along with surviving government institutions—to prevent by legal means the mass internment and deportation of migrants from communities in which they’ve been peacefully living for years; to save women whose lives are threatened by laws that would punish them for trying to save themselves; to protect the public health from Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the nation’s security from Tulsi Gabbard, and its coffers from Elon Musk.

Journalists will have a special challenge in the era of the Trump Reaction. We’re living in a world where facts instantly perish upon contact with human minds. Local news is disappearing, and a much-depleted national press can barely compete with the media platforms of billionaires who control users algorithmically, with an endless stream of conspiracy theories and deepfakes. The internet, which promised to give everyone information and a voice, has consolidated in just a few hands the power to destroy the very notion of objective truth. “Legacy journalism is dead,” Musk crowed on his own X in the week before the election. Instead of chasing phantoms on social media, journalists would make better use of our dwindling resources, and perhaps regain some of the public’s trust, by doing what we’ve done in every age: expose the lies and graft of oligarchs and plutocrats, and tell the stories of people who can’t speak for themselves.

A few weeks before the election, Representative Chris Deluzio, a first-term Democrat, was campaigning door-to-door in a closely divided district in western Pennsylvania. He’s a Navy veteran, a moderate on cultural issues, and a homegrown economic populist—critical of corporations, deep-pocketed donors, and the ideology that privileges capital over human beings and communities. At one house he spoke with a middle-aged white policeman named Mike, who had a Trump sign in his front yard. Without budging on his choice for president, Mike ended up voting for Deluzio. On Election Night, in a state carried by Trump, Deluzio outperformed Harris in his district, especially in the reddest areas, and won comfortably. What does this prove? Only that politics is best when it’s face-to-face and based on respect, that most people are complicated and even persuadable, and that—in the next line from the Fitzgerald quote—one can “see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise.”

This article appears in the January 2025 print edition with the headline “The End of Democratic Delusions.”