From The ClassroomFrom The Classroom

In wartime, a push for colleges

gcalder — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 11:30:04 +0000

April 21, 2013 – Philadelphia Inquirer

While studying the Civil War, my students were surprised to discover that among its many consequences were the founding and expansion of hundreds of colleges and universities.

With Southern Democrats no longer in Congress following secession, Republicans easily passed the Morrill Land-Grant Act in 1862. Government land was granted to each state to be sold, and the moneys used to create endowments for the maintenance of colleges that would teach, among other things, agriculture and engineering in order to “promote the liberal and practical education of the industrial classes.”

The bill provided federal aid for a new, more inclusive vision of publicly supported higher education. Penn State, founded in 1855, became Pennsylvania’s land-grant college in 1863. Rutgers followed for New Jersey in 1864, and the University of Delaware was designated a land-grant college in 1867.

A host of black colleges emerged in the South after the war. Howard University, in Washington, began in 1866, like so many of its white counterparts, as a place to train clergymen but rapidly evolved into a university with a medical school and a law school. Freed from slavery by the war, a Georgian, William Sanders Scarborough, went on to become a classicist and later president of Wilberforce College in Ohio, one of the few historically black colleges founded before the war. More than a hundred so-called HBCUs continue to operate today, though many have struggled since desegregation, and a few are now majority white.

Former officers on both sides of the conflict joined college faculties. After the surrender, Robert E. Lee became president of Virginia’s Washington College, now known as Washington and Lee.

The federal budget leapt from 2 percent to 13 percent of gross domestic product during the war and fueled tremendous growth in Northern industry. Philadelphia textile mills supplied blankets and uniforms to the Union Army and, by the turn of the century, the city was the largest textile center in the country. A group of mill owners established the Philadelphia Textile School in 1884. It became a college in 1941, and was renamed Philadelphia University in 1999.

The second wife of Cornelius Vanderbilt, the New York shipping and railroad magnate, was a Southerner, and she persuaded her husband to take an interest in the former Confederacy. Vanderbilt paid for the building of Vanderbilt University (1873) in Nashville.

The most famous historically black women’s college, Spelman (1881) in Atlanta, was funded in part by John D. Rockefeller, the oil baron, who built his first refinery during the war. Spelman was named in honor of Rockefeller’s wife and her parents, who had been active in the abolitionist movement.

Today the United States is the world leader in higher education, with about 4,500 degree-granting institutions. Learning more about where these colleges and universities came from, and how they have evolved, might help students look beyond rankings and name recognition and take a broader view of their college options.

A shortage of greatness

gcalder — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 13:16:54 +0000

March 29, 2013 - Philadelphia Inquirer Inquirer columnist Karen Heller wrote recently on the revival of interest in Thaddeus Stevens, the Pennsylvania congressman who led the Radical Republicans during and after the Civil War. "For a state with few legends among our elected politicians," she noted, "Stevens is a giant." My students decided she was right. Other than Stevens, whose legendary status is well deserved, not many names from Pennsylvania's political past come to mind. And we wondered why. Pennsylvania played a pivotal role in early American history. In 1776, Philadelphia was the largest city in British North America. It was the headquarters of the Confederation for much of the War for Independence and became the second capital of the United States. Philadelphia was also a center, arguably the center, of trade, banking, law, and medicine. The Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, and the Constitution were written in Philadelphia. Virtually all of the great American thinkers and leaders of the day walked its streets. Philadelphia attracted extraordinary talent from here and abroad - Ben Franklin from Boston, Thomas Paine from London, and Stephen Girard, the richest American of his generation, from France. Was James Buchanan of Lancaster, the nation's 15th president, "Pennsylvania's worst elected official"? Library of Congress, Marian S. Carson collection Why, especially in those early decades of the republic, did neither the city nor the state produce any presidents, major-party candidates for president, or even vice presidents? Philadelphia was full of well-educated, civic-minded citizens with the time and resources to serve. Admittedly, the so-called Virginia dynasty (Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe) didn't leave much room for other would-be chief executives, but Pennsylvania wasn't even in the game. Massachusetts produced two early presidents, the Adamses, as well as Elbridge Gerry, a vice president. From New York came two major-party presidential candidates and two vice presidents. South Carolina also contributed two presidential candidates. We did find a couple of Philadelphians who ran for national office in those days, among them Jared Ingersoll in 1812 and Richard Rush in 1820, but only for the vice presidency, and none was elected. A few appear in the record among the advisers and secretaries of the early presidents, and the class decided this behind-the-scenes style fit the "Quaker city." The influence of William Penn and other members of the Religious Society of Friends helped make Philadelphia the most progressive and diverse community in the colonies. But Quakers also held some radical views for the times. They refused to support or participate in war and took an early stand against slavery, effectively removing themselves from direct involvement in presidential politics. Philadelphians' reputation for saying what's on their minds may owe something to the Friends. Quakers have long been known for their commitment to speaking the truth, and though they have often been respected for this trait, it hasn't always made them popular, or electable. One local citizen, not a Quaker, did get within a heartbeat of the presidency. In 1845, George M. Dallas became the 11th vice president of the United States. No one in the class had ever heard of him. Ironically, he was a bitter political rival of James Buchanan, the only Pennsylvanian (from Lancaster) to become president. In her column, Heller described Buchanan as "arguably Pennsylvania's worst elected official." Dallas might well have agreed. As the Philadelphian who came closest to the White House, and who also served as mayor of the city and as a U.S. senator, why not include George Dallas on the list of Pennsylvania political legends? There's room.

Submarines and Drones

gcalder — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 15:58:09 +0000

Philadelphia Inquirer - February 28, 2013 Reading Woodrow Wilson's 1917 war message to Congress in our American history class reminded my students and me of the ongoing debate over the use of drones by the American government to target suspected terrorists. In the early 20th century, submarines were useful primarily as hit-and-run weapons. They would sneak up on much bigger ships and hope to remain undetected long enough to launch a torpedo or two and get away. In his speech to Congress, the president expressed his outrage at the German government's policy of using submarines to sink any vessels (many carried passengers and cargo) headed for British or other Allied ports, labeling it "warfare against mankind." Wilson rejected Germany's claims that it had no way to cut off trade to its enemies except by using submarines, which, he said, are "impossible to employ ... without throwing to the winds all scruples of humanity." His view was that the Germans were ignoring the rules of war. There was no opportunity for the ships attacked to surrender before they were sunk, no way for the submarines to rescue survivors, and no distinction made between combatants and innocent civilians. "I am not now thinking of the loss of property involved," the president went on, "but only of the wanton and wholesale destruction of the lives of noncombatants, men, women, and children, engaged in pursuits which have always, even in the darkest periods of modern history, been deemed innocent and legitimate." The drones at the center of the current controversy are small, unmanned aircraft. Like their World War I counterparts, they rely upon stealth and surprise. Undetectable from the ground, they seek out their objectives and strike with air-to-surface missiles. The suspected terrorists they target are simply executed. There is no opportunity for negotiation or surrender and, in many cases, noncombatants die, too. Defenders of the program say that the United States is at war with al-Qaeda, and drones play an essential role in the fight against a stateless, terrorist organization whose operatives conceal themselves among civilians in multiple countries. Drones are effective, as were the early submarines, which explains at least some of Wilson's righteous indignation. If a weapon works, at least in the limited sense of destroying its target, does that necessarily justify its use? Wilson didn't think so. He suggested that America's conduct in war would be governed by a different set of standards than those of the German empire. The goal of U.S. entry into the Great War, the president said, was to "make the world safe for democracy," and by means that were consistent with our principles. To my students, the practice of "targeted killing" seemed to conflict with the constitutional separation of powers. The executive branch identifies suspects, determines guilt, imposes a sentence, and uses drones to carry it out. The lack of due process also attracted their notice. Even those held at Guantanamo as enemy combatants have been accorded protection under the Geneva Convention, and some have been brought before military tribunals.

Osama bin Laden was tracked down and killed (not by a drone) for orchestrating the 9/11 attacks. My class and I had some difficulty determining whether those on the drone lists are targeted only for what they have done or for what they might do. And that distinction seemed important. Some of my students will be eighteen in November, and the rest by 2014. They have already spent more time than most of their fellow citizens discussing our government's use of drones, but remain divided about how to proceed. As voters they will often be reminded that securing our own safety and making the world safe for democracy can never be entirely compatible goals.

Painstaking steps forward

gcalder — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 13:25:04 +0000

Philadelphia Inquirer - January 31, 2013 On this last day of January in 1865, the House of Representatives passed a proposal for a constitutional ban on slavery. In Steven Spielberg’s latest film, Abraham Lincoln is the consummate politician who, in the midst of a great war and facing determined resistance in Congress, made it happen. But before we join the “Why can’t President Obama be more like Lincoln?” chorus, it’s worth noting that the 13th Amendment was less a great leap forward than a single conflicted step. Daniel Day Lewis in Steven Spielberg's "Lincoln." It reads, “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.” But not a word is said about the post-slavery legal status of the roughly 3.8 million people who became known as freedmen. While the amendment was still working its way through the ratification process, the white South went ahead and filled in the blanks. Under their “black codes,” freedmen were granted certain privileges, such as the right to sue, to act as witnesses in court, and to legally marry, but they were expressly denied others, such as the right to bear arms and to peacefully assemble. The economic restrictions embodied in the codes bound the freedmen in most cases to a white person by contract, using as models the traditional systems of indenture and apprenticeship. Most insidious were the parts of the codes relating to vagrancy and guided, tragically, by the wording of the 13th Amendment itself. The outlawing of involuntary servitude “except as punishment for a crime,” opened the door to the widespread exploitation of blacks (and poor whites) as convict labor. In 1868, the North finally issued its own answer to the question — What were the freedmen? — with the 14th Amendment, which made them citizens of the United States. “No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States,” it read, “nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.” On paper at least, these expansive phrases extended the protection of the Bill of Rights to all Americans. But the freedmen could only defend these rights if they could vote and, as the historian and sociologist W.E.B. Du Bois observed, in 1865, “not a single Southern legislature stood ready to admit a Negro, under any conditions, to the polls.” For a time, with the support of Union troops, many freedmen did vote, but Northern appetite for continued occupation waned. In 1870 the North added the 15th Amendment to the Constitution, stating that neither race nor “previous condition of servitude” could be used to exclude (male) citizens from the franchise. Sadly, even good laws are only as effective as our willingness to abide by them. A quarter of a century later, DuBois wrote, “despite compromise, war, and struggle, the Negro is not free.... In well-nigh the whole rural South the black farmers are peons, bound by law and custom to an economic slavery, from which the only escape is death or the penitentiary.” Every January 31 we should recognize the achievement of Lincoln and his allies, but we should also remember that no matter what the president and Congress do, making this Great Experiment work remains up to us.

We the oppressed

gcalder — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 13:21:43 +0000

Philadelphia Inquirer - November 29, 2012 The first reading of the Declaration of Independence is reenacted behind Independence Hall in July. Tom Gralish/Staff Photographer In the aftermath of the election, several hundred thousand citizens have taken advantage of their First Amendment right to petition the government by expressing their desire to leave the Union on a White House website. The colonists of the 18th century, whose Declaration of Independence they invariably quote, had no such recognized right — much less a government-sponsored forum for their complaints. Having spent the last month studying the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, my students have been intrigued by these recent displays of secessionist sentiment and the questions they raise. If we believe the people have a right “to alter or abolish” oppressive governments, as the declaration states, how do we know when that point has been reached? How oppressed do we have to be to justify rebellion or secession? The answer to the latter question appears to be: Not very. The colonists saw themselves as victims of a tyrannical ruler, King George III, but by all objective measures, they were among the least taxed, least oppressed, best fed, and most prosperous people on the planet. Almost a century later, when South Carolina became the first state to secede from the Union, its white residents took that step to protect their social status and wealth, both of which rested largely upon the labor of 400,000 slaves. We tend to assume that rebels rise from the ranks of the downtrodden. But quite often, those who actually manage to alter and abolish governments are insiders — members of local, if not national, ruling elites. It always helps to be connected. In 1776, when the signers of the Declaration of Independence pledged “our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,” they weren’t kidding. The declaration was not a petition; it was a statement by the colonies’ leaders that they no longer recognized the authority of the British Empire within their borders. By the time they made the break, the shooting had already begun, and the colonists had spent years organizing, protesting, petitioning, boycotting, vandalizing, and generally obstructing British efforts to administer the colonies. The slogan “No taxation without representation” reflected the reality that Americans had no direct representation or official voice in England’s government. The same cannot be said of the South of the mid-19th century or of today’s would-be secessionists. In 1860, a solid majority of South Carolina’s voters supported John C. Breckenridge, the Southern Democratic candidate who came in a distant second to Lincoln in the Electoral College, with 72 votes. This November (2012), the Democratic candidate won. Voters were free to back Breckenridge in 1860, just as they were to support Romney in 2012. But participating in an election and then deciding to leave the country when your candidate loses is problematic. It may be the only obvious restriction on the right to rebel. Ironically, it was Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Independence, who 25 years later noted wisely that “absolute acquiescence in the decisions of the majority” is “the vital principle of republics.” He added that “the minority possess their equal rights, which equal law must protect, and to violate would be oppression.” It’s encouraging that today’s political leaders seem broadly committed to continuing the difficult and frustrating work of negotiation and compromise. None, as far as we could tell, has signed a secession petition.

Not your father’s presidency

gcalder — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 12:25:29 +0000

Phladelphia Inquirer - October 4, 2012 "Mothers all want their sons to grow up to be president, but they don't want them to become politicians in the process." The second part of John F. Kennedy's observation probably still holds true. But does anyone talk to kids these days about growing up to be president? David Goldman/AP - Stand-ins for Mitt Romney and President Obama shake hands during a rehearsal for the debate at the University of Denver.

Among my 11th-grade American history students, one recalled his third-grade teacher telling him that if he kept at his spelling, he might grow up to be president. Another said a grandparent had talked to him about the possibility. But that was it, and none of them mentioned their parents conveying the message.

I am too young to remember JFK but old enough to remember his younger brother Bobby as well as Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon. I also remember grown-ups occasionally telling me that if I worked hard, I could be president someday. The point was not to single me out, but to include me in part of the American dream: that any (native-born) citizen with enough talent, ambition, and luck could potentially become the chief executive of the republic. (Of course, being white and male would help, too.) Some of the shift away from that ideal must be attributable to Watergate. The break-in at Democratic headquarters 40 years ago, followed by a steady stream of leaks, denials, and hearings, culminated with the first resignation of a U.S. president. Richard Nixon's eventual pardon was defended as allowing the country to move on: Serious damage had already been done to the prestige of the presidency, some said, and to the public's faith in elected officials. They were right about that. In late 1973, in the midst of the uproar, the New York Times quoted a "white-haired algebra teacher from Auburn, Maine" as saying, "We used to tell these kids that you may grow up to be president of the United States, that it was something to which they should aspire. Now we can't tell them that anymore because they just laugh in our faces." Those kids, now mothers and fathers themselves, have understandably been lukewarm at best about encouraging their own children to aim for the White House. In their perceptions of the presidency, today's students seem less influenced by their parents' experiences than by the fact that the nation has been at war in Iraq and Afghanistan for almost as long as they can remember, and by years of recession and fitful recovery. Though they have watched President Obama's hair turn gray over the past few years, they can also recall the excitement of the last election. It showed that the possibility of becoming president now realistically applies to the students of color and to the girls in my class. This dramatic expansion in the pool of potential candidates is a good thing. The complexities of the 21st century have only made the job more daunting, and we need all the talent we can find. It might not be a bad idea to start reminding kids again that they can grow up to be president.

PSU figures defy gravity

gcalder — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 11:25:53 +0000

Philadelphia Inquirer – September 5, 2012

Jerry Sandusky’s arrest and the subsequent firing of coach Joe Paterno and university president Graham B. Spanier last fall must have precipitated some hurried recalculations in the Penn State admissions office.

Most colleges and universities accept more students than they have room for based on educated guesses about the share of those admitted that will actually enroll. Ideally, they end up with the number of students they budgeted for. Too few students, and the college runs at a deficit; too many, and classrooms and dorms overflow.

Generally, the previous year’s figures are the best guide to the next cycle. But in the wake of the Sandusky scandal, who knew what would happen at Penn State?

Some sighs of relief undoubtedly accompanied the freshmen who just moved in: Their number exceeded the enrollment goal for the main campus by a manageable amount. The fallout from the Sandusky case has not seriously hurt Penn State’s admissions.

To the extent that the 11th graders I counseled last spring were aware of what happened at Penn State, they didn’t seem to make a connection between those events and their application plans. I spoke with a number of them specifically about applying to Penn State for the fall of 2013, and not one mentioned the university’s troubles.

The economy is still weak, and the university still offers well-respected programs at half the cost of the most expensive private institutions. This fall, its applications may well run ahead of last year’s numbers. The few high school seniors and parents who decide to scratch the university off their lists will be more than made up for by others who see opportunities in the aftermath of the scandal.

For the next few years, prospective Penn State students and their parents will expect more accountability and more oversight from a chastened administration. They will assume, rightly, that the university will try harder than ever to be responsive to its constituents. And they will hope that in the post-Sandusky era, Penn State might be an even better school than it was.

In the 1980s, revelations of payments to football players led the NCAA to levy the so-called death penalty against Southern Methodist University, suspending its football program. That and other sanctions prompted SMU’s trustees to agree to sweeping changes in the university’s bylaws, including a significant reduction in the number of board members, and to hire a new president widely credited with important institutional reforms.

Penn State will continue to face legal challenges and scrutiny from accrediting agencies and other groups. But it avoided a suspension of its football program, and it continues to fill seats with highly qualified students. What remains to be seen is whether the university’s board chooses to take advantage of the crisis and institute real change, or whether, after the lawsuits are settled, it will be business as usual.

1812: The war without a name

gcalder — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 11:59:05 +0000

Philadelphia Inquirer - June 18, 2012 We don't refer to the Civil War as the "War of 1861" or the Revolutionary War as the "War of 1776." So what's with the War of 1812? The name doesn't even accurately reflect the war's timing. If you count the Battle of New Orleans, which was fought after the peace treaty was signed, the war lasted until early 1815.

The flag of 1812 and a gathering of tall ships and other vessels in the Norfolk, Va., harbor marked the bicentennial of the War of 1812 last week. STEVE HELBER / Associated Press

The bicentennial of the War of 1812 — which began 200 years ago today — happens to coincide roughly with the sesquicentennial of the Civil War. The latter was known by several names before general usage shifted decisively in favor of "Civil War." Southerners favored "War Between the States"; Northerners, "War of the Rebellion." "Civil War" may seem bland in comparison, but at least it makes a clear statement about the nature of the conflict.

The same cannot be said for "War of 1812." It's a lousy label, and we should grasp the opportunity offered by the 200th anniversary of the conflict to adopt a better one. British challenges to American sovereignty at sea and on the frontier led Congress to declare war on England in June 18, 1812. The United States was completely unprepared, however, and as things went from bad to worse, the label "Mr. Madison's War" became popular, especially in the New England newspapers. The president's humiliation peaked in August 1814, when the British marched into Washington, chased the locals (including Madison and his wife, Dolley) into the countryside, and burned the Capitol and the White House. Philadelphians were in a panic, afraid that their city would be next. Thousands of volunteers began building a huge defensive earthwork along the Schuylkill. Fortunately, that attack never came. Naming the war after the president would be an improvement, but it probably won't get much support from the current chief executive, who might be loath to set such a precedent. My students came up with some good alternatives, including the "Revolutionary War, Take Two," "British-American Imbroglio," and "Anglo-American War for Sovereignty." In the end, they settled on a name that has been suggested before: the "Second War of Independence." Adopting this name would suggest that the war that began in 1776 was the "First War of Independence." Since Americans like abbreviations, and given the analogy of World Wars I and II, we would then have a WI1 and a WI2, appropriately emphasizing their connectedness. As a high school student, I remember hearing my teacher use the term "War of Independence" instead of "Revolutionary War," and it made sense to me right away. Americans issued a Declaration of Independence in 1776. They weren't interested in toppling the British monarchy; they just wanted to separate themselves from it. The Second War of Independence, beginning in 1812, was certainly no revolution, but it did seem to settle the issue of American sovereignty as far as the English were concerned. And the persistence of anti-British feeling in parts of the United States did not prevent the steady improvement of relations between the two nations after WI2. In fact, a number of agreements beneficial to the United States followed during the next decade. Congress should declare June "Second War of Independence Month" and officially rename the conflict. In this contentious election year, perhaps both sides of the aisle could agree on a war — or at least a better name for one.

For city schools, a century of struggle

gcalder — Tue, 15 May 2012 19:04:51 +0000

Philadelphia Inquirer - May 15, 2012 Speaking of the Philadelphia School District recently, Mayor Nutter said, “If we don’t take significant action now, the system will collapse.” That “significant action” could include widespread school closings, many more charter schools, and increased local control of the remaining district schools. If this is a case of desperate times calling for desperate measures, we should at least get some perspective on where we’ve been — and how we got here — before we plow ahead. Consider the Philadelphia School District of a century ago. The city’s population then, and the number of students in its public schools, were about the same as they are today. The birthrate was higher, though, which suggests that many school-age children were not enrolled in school. Those who were had to contend with underfunded, understaffed programs and crowded, poorly maintained facilities. Sound familiar? On top of that, teachers’ salaries were the lowest among the country’s large cities. Philadelphia was a one-party (Republican) town then, too, and teaching positions were patronage jobs acquired on the basis of connections with ward bosses (a not-so-good version of “local control”). Academic qualifications mattered little. Once hired, teachers were required to kick back a percentage of their meager pay to the party machine. And they often had to purchase textbooks for students with their own money. Capacity was so limited that a third of the student body — more than 50,000 pupils — could attend school only half-time. Another couple of thousand were on waiting lists, unable to attend at all. There were, in short, no “good old days” for the Philadelphia School District. In the early 20th century, the city was an industrial powerhouse, with plenty of financial and intellectual capital. Still, it lacked the will to invest in high-quality education for all its children. Not much has changed. The schools today face cuts in programs and personnel, decrepit facilities, safety problems, and corruption scandals. Teachers still use their own money to purchase supplementary materials for the classroom. Thousands of students are chronically late or absent, and therefore de facto part-timers. In the 21st century, Philadelphia’s low attendance and high dropout rates have led some to blame the students and their parents for not valuing education sufficiently. But if the district’s families bear some responsibility for its problems, it’s no more than they did a hundred years ago. In those days, parents often kept their children out of school so they could work in the city’s factories and shops, or stay at home and take care of their younger siblings. In 1912, unlike today, the district’s population was more than 90 percent white — largely Irish, Italian, Russian, Polish, and German. But the populations served by the district over the decades have always lacked the economic and political clout to force the city to provide better schools. In 2012, Lower Merion, just beyond the city limits, spends almost twice as much per student as Philadelphia does. Of course, there were and are bright spots in the city’s schools. Today, they include some high-performing elementary schools, old gems such as Central High, and individual teachers whose passion and dedication are inspiring. The latest overhaul plan is worth a try. Charters at least offer some curricular variety, and decentralization of the remaining district schools might encourage more local input and participation. The system won't collapse, but these changes won't solve its fundamental problems either. America's big city districts will all continue to struggle. They are too diverse, too unwieldy, too inefficient and too few of the people who pay the highest property taxes send their own kids to city public schools.

The president’s palace guard

gcalder — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 18:21:13 +0000

Philadelphia Inquirer - April 4, 2012 Mitt Romney has been dubbed "Javelin"; Rick Santorum, "Petrus." It's an election year, and Secret Service agents are guarding another set of candidates. The lighthearted news coverage of this development has focused on such tidbits as the current and historic code-names: Truman was referred to as "General," Reagan as "Rawhide." The rest of the first family's code-names, we are told, usually begin with the same letter as the president's: Those of Reagan's children included "Radiance" and "Riddler." A Secret Service agent watches as presidential candidate Mitt Romney greets people at a campaign event in Madison, Wis., this week. STEVEN SENNE/ Associated Press Although we hire the president and we can fire him, he and his family also function as our "royals." We are endlessly fascinated by their personal lives and other goings-on in the White House. The Secret Service not only plays a central role in this pageant; the agency encourages it. The more carefully the president's moves are choreographed, the easier it is to keep an eye on him. It was not always so. Nineteenth-century Americans would have been horrified to see the chief executive, his family, and even the candidates for the job surrounded by such a huge security apparatus. They took great pride in the fact that their freely chosen presidents did not have to be protected from their fellow citizens. When President John Tyler visited New York in the 1840s, he said, "My bodyguard I desire to be the people, and none but the people. That is the bodyguard that a plain, republican president of the United States can alone desire to have." For more than a hundred years after Washington, presidents (with the exception of Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War) were essentially unguarded. On the morning of his inauguration in 1801, Thomas Jefferson walked alone from his boardinghouse down Pennsylvania Avenue to the stands where he was sworn in as the third president of the United States. There were no escorts, barriers, sharpshooters, or decoys. One hundred sixty-eight years later, the total force deployed for Nixon's first inauguration numbered around 15,000. The rooftops of buildings along the parade route swarmed with snipers, two helicopters filled with agents hovered over the presidential motorcade, and the streets were lined with police and military personnel. The assassination of William McKinley, in 1901, was a turning point. One of his predecessors, Grover Cleveland, responded to the news with "stunning amazement that in free America, blessed with a government consecrated to popular welfare and contentment, the danger of assassination should ever encompass the faithful discharge of the highest official duty." Worse, Cleveland added, McKinley was the third president to have been gunned down "within the memory of men not yet old." Following McKinley's death, Congress informally requested that the Secret Service protect the president, but it wasn't until several years later that it voted to fund the effort. Lawmakers' hesitation stemmed not from a lack of concern about the president's safety, but from a deep-seated reluctance to give up a vision of American society's exceptional nature. No one wanted to admit that the president of the United States needed palace guards, as if he were an Old World emperor or king. The winner of this election will take office in 2013, exactly 100 years after Congress voted for permanent protection for the president. Sadly, beside his contemporary European counterparts, America's chief executive appears more regal than ever.