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Corrupt Failure Trump The Worst POTUS in History - His Cult Full of Tra
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
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From
Trumpite Shitbag@21:1/5 to
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
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Ideas
The Worst President in History
Three particular failures secure Trump’s status as the worst chief
executive ever to hold the office.
By Tim Naftali
Presidents Richard Nixon, Donald Trump, and James Buchanan
AFP/ CORBIS / LIFE / GETTY / THE ATLANTIC
January 19, 2021
About the author: Tim Naftali is a clinical associate professor of history
at NYU. He was the first director of the Richard Nixon Presidential
Library and Museum.
President Donald Trump has long exulted in superlatives. The first. The
best. The most. The greatest. “No president has ever done what I’ve done,”
he boasts. “No president has ever even come close,” he says. But as his
four years in office draw to an end, there’s only one title to which he
can lay claim: Donald Trump is the worst president America has ever had.
In December 2019, he became the third president to be impeached. Last
week, Trump entered a category all his own, becoming the first president
to be impeached twice. But impeachment, which depends in part on the
makeup of Congress, is not the most objective standard. What does being
the worst president actually mean? And is there even any value, at the
bitter end of a bad presidency, in spending energy on judging a pageant of failed presidencies?
It is helpful to think of the responsibilities of a president in terms of
the two elements of the oath of office set forth in the Constitution. In
the first part, presidents swear to “faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” This is a pledge to properly perform the
three jobs the presidency combines into one: head of state, head of
government, and commander in chief. In the second part, they promise to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Trump was a serial violator of his oath—as evidenced by his continual use
of his office for personal financial gain—but focusing on three crucial
ways in which he betrayed it helps clarify his singular historical status. First, he failed to put the national-security interests of the United
States ahead of his own political needs. Second, in the face of a
devastating pandemic, he was grossly derelict, unable or unwilling to
marshal the requisite resources to save lives while actively encouraging
public behavior that spread the disease. And third, held to account by
voters for his failures, he refused to concede defeat and instead
instigated an insurrection, stirring a mob that stormed the Capitol.
Many chief executives have failed, in one way or another, to live up to
the demands of the job, or to competently discharge them. But historians
now tend to agree that our worst presidents are those who fall short in
the second part of their pledge, in some way endangering the Constitution.
And if you want to understand why these three failures make Trump the
worst of all our presidents, the place to begin is in the basement of the presidential rankings, where dwell his rivals for that singular dishonor.
For decades in the 20th century, many historians agreed that the title
Trump has recently earned properly belonged to Warren G. Harding, a
president they remembered. The journalist H. L. Mencken, master of the
acidic bon mot, listened to Harding’s inaugural address and despaired. “No other such complete and dreadful nitwit is to be found in the pages of
American history,” he wrote.
Poor Harding. Our 29th president popularized the word normalcy and self- deprecatingly described himself as a “bloviator,” before dying in office
of natural causes in 1923. Although mourned by an entire nation—9 million people are said to have viewed his funeral train, many singing his
favorite hymn, “Nearer, My God, to Thee”—he was never respected by people
of letters when he was alive. An avalanche of posthumous revelations about corruption in his administration made him an object of scorn among most historians. In 1948, Arthur M. Schlesinger Sr. began the tradition of
regularly ranking our presidents, which his son, Arthur M. Schlesinger,
Jr. continued—for decades Harding consistently came in dead last,
dominating a category entitled “failure.”
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Joe Pinsker
The scandal that prompted Harding’s descent to presidential hell involved
the leasing of private drilling rights on federal lands in California and
under a Wyoming rock resembling a teapot; Teapot Dome would serve as the shorthand for a terrible presidential scandal until it was displaced by Watergate. In April 1922, the Republican-controlled Senate began an investigation of the Republican administration, with Harding promising cooperation. Public hearings began only after Harding’s death the next
year. The secretary of the interior was ultimately found guilty of
bribery, becoming the first person to go from the Cabinet to jail. Other scandals engulfed the director of the Veterans’ Bureau and the attorney general.
Although Harding had some warning of the corruption in his administration,
no evidence suggests that he personally profited from it, or that he was
guilty of more than incompetence. John W. Dean, the former White House
counsel who pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in Watergate,
later concluded that Harding’s reputation was unfairly tainted: “The fact
that Harding had done nothing wrong and had not been involved in any
criminal activities became irrelevant.” And, regardless of Harding’s role
in the widespread corruption in his administration, he didn’t ever
threaten our constitutional system.
On the other side of the ledger, Harding had a number of positive
achievements: the Washington Naval Conference to discuss disarmament, the implementation of presidential authority over executive-branch budgeting,
the commutation of Eugene V. Debs’s sentence. These, combined with his own
lack of direct involvement in the scandals of his administration and the absence of any attack on our republic (which no positive administrative achievements could ever balance out), ought to allow him to be happily forgotten as a mediocre president.
Harding’s reputation has hardly improved, but in recent presidential
surveys organized by C-SPAN, his tenure has been eclipsed by the failures
of three men who were implicated in the breakup of the Union or who
hindered the tortuous effort to reconstruct it.
The first two are Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan. Pierce, a New
Hampshire Democrat, and Buchanan, a Democrat from Pennsylvania, abetted
and at times amplified the forces that drove the Union asunder. Although neither was from the South, both men sympathized with southern
slaveholders. They considered the rising tide of abolitionism an
abomination, and sought ways to increase the power of slaveholders.
Pierce and Buchanan opposed the 1820 Missouri Compromise, which had calmed political tensions by prohibiting slavery above a certain line in the
Louisiana Territory. As president, Pierce helped overturn it, adding the pernicious sentence to the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act that declared the Compromise “inoperative and void.” The Kansas-Nebraska Act not only
allowed the people of the Kansas and Nebraska territories to determine themselves whether their respective states were to be slave or free but
opened all unorganized territory to slavery.
Buchanan then used federal power in Kansas to ensure that slaveholders and their supporters, though a minority, would win. He authorized the granting
of an $80,000 contract to a pro-slavery editor in the territory and
“contracts, commissions, and in some cases cold cash” to northern
Democrats in the House of Representatives to press them to admit Kansas as
a slave state.
When Abraham Lincoln was elected to replace him in November 1860, and
states began to secede, Buchanan effectively abdicated his
responsibilities as president of the United States. He blamed Lincoln’s Republicans for causing all the problems he faced, and promised
southerners a constitutional amendment protecting slavery forever if they returned. When secessionists in South Carolina set siege to a federal
fort, Buchanan collapsed. “Like … Nixon in the summer of 1974 before his resignation,” wrote the Buchanan biographer Jean H. Baker, “Buchanan gave
every indication of severe mental strain affecting both his health and his judgment.”
During the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, President George Washington had led
the militia against the Pennsylvania rebels. Buchanan’s Cabinet didn’t
expect him to personally lead U.S. troops to protect the federal forts and customhouses being seized by southern secessionists, but he shocked them
by doing effectively nothing. When federal officeholders resigned in the
South, Buchanan did not use his authority to replace them. He even had to
be deterred by his Cabinet from simply surrendering Fort Sumter in
Charleston Harbor, and ultimately made only a feeble effort to defend the
fort, sending an unarmed merchant ship as relief. Meanwhile, former
President Pierce, who had been asked to speak in Alabama, instead wrote in
a public letter, “If we cannot live together in peace, then in peace and
on just terms let us separate.” After the Civil War ended, Pierce offered
his services as a defense lawyer to his friend Jefferson Davis. (Pierce
might not have been our worst president, but he’s in the running against
John Tyler, who left office in 1845 and 16 years later joined the
Confederacy, for leading the worst post-presidency.)
The next great presidential failure in U.S. history involved the
management of the victory over the South. Enter the third of the three men
who eclipsed Harding: Andrew Johnson. Lincoln had picked Johnson as his
running mate in 1864 to forge a unity ticket for what he expected to be a
tough reelection bid. A pro-Union Democrat, Johnson had been the sole
southern senator in 1861 not to leave Congress when his state seceded.
But Johnson’s fidelity to Lincoln and to the nation ended with Lincoln’s assassination in April 1865. While Lincoln had not left detailed plans for
how to “bind up the nation’s wounds” after the war, Johnson certainly
violated the spirit of what Lincoln had envisioned. An unrepentant white supremacist, he opposed efforts to give freedmen the vote, and when
Congress did so over his objections, Johnson impeded their enjoyment of
that right. He wanted slavery by another name in the South, undermining
the broad consensus in the victorious North. “What he had in mind all
along for the south,” as his biographer Annette Gordon-Reed wrote, “was a restoration rather than reconstruction.”
Johnson used his pulpit to bully those who believed in equal rights for formerly enslaved people and to encourage a culture of grievance in the
South, spreading myths about why the Civil War had occurred in the first
place. Many people are responsible for the toxic views and policies that
have so long denied Black Americans basic human rights, but Andrew Johnson
was the first to use the office of the presidency to give that project
national legitimacy and federal support. Having inherited Lincoln’s
Cabinet, Johnson was forced to maneuver around Lincoln’s men to impose his
own mean-spirited and racist vision of how to reintegrate the South. That
got him impeached by the House. A Republican Senate then fell one vote
short of removing him from office.
All three of these 19th-century presidents compiled awful records, but
Buchanan stands apart because—besides undermining the Union, using his
office to promote white supremacy, and demonstrating dereliction of duty
in the decisive crisis of secession—he led an outrageously corrupt administration. He violated not just the second part of his oath,
betraying the Constitution, but also the first part. Buchanan managed to
be more corrupt than the low standard set by his contemporaries in
Congress, which is saying something.
In 1858, members of Congress tried to curtail a routine source of graft, described by the historian Michael Holt as the “public printing rake-off.”
At the time, there was no Government Printing Office, so contracts for
printing the reams of congressional and executive-branch proceedings and statements went to private printers. In the 1820s, President Andrew
Jackson had started steering these lucrative contracts to friends. By the 1850s, congressional investigators found that bribes were being extorted
from would-be government printers, and that those who won contracts were kicking back a portion of their profits to the Democratic Party. Buchanan directly benefited from this system in the 1856 election. Although he
signed reforms into law in 1858, he swiftly subverted them by permitting a subterfuge that allowed his key contributor—who owned a prominent pro- administration newspaper—to continue profiting from government printing.
Does Trump have any modern competitors for the title of worst president?
Like Harding, a number of presidents were poor executors of the office. President Woodrow Wilson was an awful man who presided over an apartheid
system in the nation’s capital, largely confined his support for democracy abroad to white nations, and then mishandled a pandemic. President Herbert Hoover helped drive the U.S. economy into the ground during the Great Depression, because the economics he learned as a young man proved fundamentally wrong.
President George W. Bush’s impulse after 9/11 to weaken American civil liberties in the name of protecting them, and his blanket approval of interrogation techniques universally considered torture, left Americans disillusioned and impeded the struggle to deradicalize Islamists. His
invasion of Iraq in 2003, like Thomas Jefferson’s embargo on foreign trade during the Napoleonic Wars, had disastrous consequences for American
power, and undermined unity at home and abroad.
These presidents were each deeply flawed, but not in the same league as
their predecessors who steered the country into Civil War or did their
utmost to deprive formerly enslaved people of their hard-won rights while rewarding those who betrayed their country.
And then there’s Richard Nixon.
Before Trump, Nixon set the standard for modern presidential failure as
the first president forced from office, who resigned ahead of impeachment.
And in many ways, their presidencies have been eerily parallel. But the comparison to Nixon reveals the ways in which Trump’s presidency has been
not merely bad, but the very worst we have ever seen.
Like the 45th president, Nixon ascended to office by committing an
original sin. As the Republican presidential nominee, Nixon intervened indirectly to scuttle peace negotiations in Paris over the Vietnam War. He
was worried that a diplomatic breakthrough in the 11th hour of the
campaign would help his Democratic rival, Hubert Humphrey. For Nixon, it
set the pattern for future presidential lies and cover-ups.
Trump, too, put his political prospects ahead of any sense of duty. As a candidate, Trump openly appealed to Russia to steal his opponent’s emails. Then, as Russia dumped hacked emails from her campaign chair, he seized on
the pilfered materials to suggest wrongdoing and amplified Russian disinformation efforts. Extensive investigations during his administration
by then–Special Counsel Robert Mueller and the Senate Intelligence
Committee didn’t produce any evidence suggesting that he directly abetted Russian hacking, but those investigations were impeded by a pattern of obstructive conduct that Mueller carefully outlined in his report.
Trump’s heartless and incompetent approach to immigration, his use of tax policy to punish states that didn’t vote for him, his diversion of public
funds to properties owned by him and his family, his impulsive and self- defeating approach to trade, and his petulance toward traditional allies assured on their own that he would not be seen as a successful modern president. But those failures have more to do with the first part of his
oath. The case that Trump is not just the worst of our modern presidents
but the worst of them all rests on three other pillars, not all of which
have a Nixonian parallel.
Trump is the first president since America became a superpower to
subordinate national-security interests to his political needs. Nixon’s mishandling of renewed peace negotiations with Hanoi in the 1972 election campaign led to the commission of a war crime, the unnecessary “Christmas bombing” at the end of that year. But it cannot compare, in terms of the
harm to U.S. national interests, to Trump’s serial subservience to foreign strongmen such as Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, Kim Jong Un of North
Korea, and, of course, Russia’s Vladimir Putin—none of whom act out of a
sense of shared interests with the United States. Trump’s effort to
squeeze the Ukrainians to get dirt on his likely opponent in 2020, the
cause of his first impeachment, was just the best-documented instance of a
form of corruption that characterized his entire foreign policy.
The second pillar is Trump’s dereliction of duty during the COVID-19
pandemic, which will have killed at least 400,000 Americans by the time he leaves office. In his inaugural address, Trump vowed an end to “American carnage,” but in office, he presided over needless death and suffering.
Trump’s failure to anticipate and then respond to the pandemic has no equivalent in Nixon’s tenure; when Nixon wasn’t plotting political
subversion and revenge against his perceived enemies, he could be a good administrator.
Trump, of course, is not the first president to have been surprised by a
threat to our country. Franklin D. Roosevelt was caught off guard by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Trump, like FDR, could have tried to
redeem himself by his management of the response. But Trump lacked FDR’s intellectual and leadership skills. Instead of adapting, he dug in,
denying the severity of the challenge and the importance of mask wearing
and social distancing while bemoaning the likely damage to his beloved
economy.
Trump continued to insist that he was in charge of America’s coronavirus response, but when being in charge required him to actively oversee
plans—or at least to read and approve them—he punted on the tough issues
of ramping up testing, and was painfully slow to secure sufficient
protective equipment and ventilators. FDR didn’t directly manage the
Liberty ship program, but he grasped its necessity and understood how to empower subordinates. Trump, instead, ignored his own experts and
advisers, searching constantly for some silver bullet that would relieve
him of the necessity of making hard choices. He threw money at
pharmaceutical and biotech firms to accelerate work on vaccines, with good results, but went AWOL on the massive logistical effort administering
those vaccines requires.
In doubling down on his opposition to basic public-health measures, the president crossed a new line of awfulness. Three of Trump’s tweets on
April 17, 2020—“LIBERATE VIRGINIA,” “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!,” and “LIBERATE MINNESOTA!”—moved him into Pierce and Buchanan territory for the first
time: The president was promoting disunity. The “liberation” he was
advocating was civil disobedience against stay-at-home rules put in place
by governors who were listening to public-health experts. Trump then
organized a series of in-person rallies that sickened audience members and encouraged a wider public to put themselves at risk.
Trump channeled the same divisive spirit that Pierce and Buchanan had
tapped by turning requests from the governors of the states that had been
the hardest hit by the coronavirus into opportunities for partisan and sectarian attack.
Fifty-eight thousand Americans had already died of the virus when Trump signaled that ignoring or actively violating public-health mandates was a patriotic act. Over the summer, even as the death toll from COVID mounted, Trump never stopped bullying civic leaders who promoted mask wearing, and continued to hold large in-person rallies, despite the risk of spreading
the virus. When the president himself became sick in the fall, rather than being sobered by his personal brush with serious illness, the president
chose to turn a potential teachable moment for many Americans into a
grotesque carnival. He used his presidential access to experimental
treatment to argue that ordinary Americans need not fear the disease. He
even took a joyride around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in
his closed, armored SUV to bask in the glow of his supporters’ adulation
while endangering the health of his Secret Service detail.
American presidents have a mixed record with epidemics. For every Barack
Obama, whose administration professionally managed the threats from Ebola
and the H1N1 virus, or George W. Bush, who tackled AIDS in Africa, there’s
been a Woodrow Wilson, who mishandled the influenza pandemic, or a Ronald Reagan, who was derelict in the face of AIDS. But neither Reagan nor
Wilson actively promoted risky behavior for political purposes, nor did
they personally obstruct federal-state partnerships that had been intended
to control the spread of disease. On those points, Trump stands alone.
The third pillar of the case against Trump is his role as the chief
instigator of the attempted insurrection of January 6. Although racism and violent nativism preceded Trump, the seeds of what happened on January 6
were planted by his use of the presidential bully pulpit. No president
since Andrew Johnson had so publicly sympathized with the sense of
victimhood among racists. In important ways, Nixon prefigured Trump by conspiring with his top lieutenants to use race, covertly, to bring about
a realignment in U.S. politics. Nixon’s goal was to lure racists away from
the Democratic Party and so transform the Republican Party into a
governing majority. Trump has gone much further. From his remarks after
the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, to his effort to set the
U.S. military against the Black Lives Matter movement, Trump has openly
used race in an effort to transform the Republican Party into an agitated, cult-like, white-supremacist minority movement that could win elections
only through fear, disenfranchisement, and disinformation.
Both Trump and Nixon sought to subvert any serious efforts to deny them reelection. Nixon approved a dirty-tricks campaign, and his chief of staff
Bob Haldeman approved the details of an illegal espionage program against
the eventual Democratic nominee. Nixon won his election but ultimately
left office in the middle of his second term because the press, the
Department of Justice, and Congress uncovered his efforts to hide his role
in this subversion. They were helped in large part by Nixon’s absentminded taping of his own conversations.
Trump never won reelection. Instead, he mounted the first effort by a
defeated incumbent to use the power of his office to overturn a
presidential election. Both men looked for weaknesses in the system to
retain power. But Trump’s attempt to steal the 2020 election put him in a
class of awfulness all by himself.
Holding a national election during a pandemic was a test of the resilience
of American democracy. State and local election officials looked for ways
to boost participation without boosting the virus’s spread. In practical
terms, this meant taking the pressure off same-day voting—limiting crowds
at booths—by encouraging voting by mail and advance voting. Every
candidate in the 2020 elections understood that tallying ballots would be
slow in states that started counting only on Election Day. Even before
voting began, Trump planted poisonous seeds of doubt about the fairness of
this COVID-19 election. When the numbers didn’t go his way, Trump
accelerated his disinformation campaign, alleging fraud in states that he
had won in 2016 but lost four years later. The campaign was vigorous and widespread. Trump’s allies sought court injunctions and relief from
Republican state officials. Lacking any actual evidence of widespread
fraud, they lost in the courts. Despite having exploited every
constitutional option, Trump refused to give up.
It was at this point that Trump went far beyond Nixon, or any of his other predecessors. In 1974, when the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in U.S. v. Nixon that Nixon had to turn over his White House tapes to a special prosecutor, Nixon also ran out of constitutional options. He knew that the tapes proved his guilt, and would likely lead to his impeachment and then
to his conviction in the Senate. On July 24, Nixon said he would comply
with the order from a coequal branch of our government, and ultimately
accepted his political fate. In the end, even our most awful presidents
before 2017 believed in the continuation of the system they had taken an
oath to defend.
But not Trump. Heading into January 6, 2021, when Congress would ritually certify the election, Trump knew that he lacked the Electoral College
votes to win or the congressional votes to prevent certification. He had
only two cards left to play—neither one of which was consistent with his
oath. He pushed Vice President Mike Pence to use his formal constitutional
role as the play-by-play announcer of the count to unconstitutionally
obstruct it, sending it back to the states for recertification. Meanwhile,
to maintain pressure on Pence and Republicans in Congress, he gathered
some of his most radicalized followers on the Mall and pointed the way to
the Capitol, where the electoral count was about to begin. When Pence
refused to exceed his constitutional authority, Trump unleashed his mob.
He clearly wanted the count to be disrupted.
On January 6, Trump’s legacy was on a knife’s edge. Trump likely knew
Pence’s intentions when he began to speak to the mob. He knew that the
vice president would disappoint his hopes. In riling up the mob and
sending it down Pennsylvania Avenue, he was imperiling the safety of his
vice president and members of Congress. If there was any doubt that he was willing to countenance violence to get his way, it disappeared in the face
of the president’s long inaction, as he sat in the White House watching
live footage of the spreading assault.
And he may do still more damage before he departs.
Andrew Johnson left a political time bomb behind him in the nation’s
capital. After the Democratic Party refused to nominate Johnson for a
second term and Ulysses S. Grant won the election as a Republican, Johnson issued a broad political amnesty for many Confederates, including leaders
who were under indictment such as the former president of the Confederate States, Jefferson Davis.
So much of the pain and suffering this country experienced in the Trump
years started with that amnesty. Had Davis and top Confederate generals
been tried and convicted, polite society in the South could not have
viewed these traitors as heroes. Now Trump is hinting that he wishes to
pardon those who aided and abetted him in office, and perhaps even pardon himself—similarly attempting to escape accountability, and to delay a reckoning.
As Trump prepares to leave Washington, the capital is more agitated than
during any previous presidential transition since 1861, with thousands of National Guard troops deployed around the city. There have been serious
threats to previous inaugurations. But for the first time in the modern
era, those threats are internal. An incumbent president is being asked to discourage terrorism by supporters acting in his name.
There are many verdicts on Donald Trump still to come, from the Senate,
from juries of private citizens, from scholars and historians. But as a
result of his subversion of national security, his reckless endangerment
of every American in the pandemic, and his failed insurrection on January
6, one thing seems abundantly clear: Trump is the worst president in the 232-year history of the United States.
So, why does this matter? If we have experienced an unprecedented
political trauma, we should be prepared to act to prevent any recurrence. Nixon’s fall introduced an era of government reform—expanded privacy
rights, overhauled campaign-finance rules, presidential-records
preservation, and enhanced congressional oversight of covert operations.
Managing the pandemic must be the incoming Biden administration’s
principal focus, but it needn’t be its only focus. Steps can be taken to
ensure that the worst president ever is held to account, and to forestall
a man like Trump ever abusing his power in this way again.
The first is to ensure that we preserve the record of what has taken
place. As was done after the Nixon administration, Congress should pass a
law establishing guidelines for the preservation of and access to the
materials of the Trump presidency. Those guidelines should also protect nonpartisan public history at any public facility associated with the
Trump era. The Presidential Records Act already puts those documents under
the control of the archivist of the United States, but Congress should
mandate that they be held in the D.C. area and that the National Archives should not partner with the Trump Foundation in any public-history
efforts. Disentangling the federal Nixon Presidential Library from Nixon’s poisonous myths about Watergate took an enormous effort. The pressure on
the National Archives to, in some way, enable and legitimate Trump’s own
Lost Cause is likely to be even greater.
Trump’s documented relationship with the truth also ensures that his presidential records will necessarily be incomplete. His presidency has revealed gaping loopholes in the process of public disclosure, which the president deftly exploited. Congress should mandate that future candidates
and presidents release their tax returns. Congress should also seek to
tightly constrict the definition of privacy regarding presidential medical records. It should also require presidents to fully disclose their own
business activities, and those of members of their immediate family,
conducted while in office. Congress should also claim, as public records,
the transition materials of 2016–17 and 2020–21 and those of future transitions.
Finally, Congress must tend to American memory. It should establish a
Joint Congressional Committee to study January 6 and the events and
activities leading up to it, have public hearings, and issue a report. And
it should bar the naming of federal buildings, installations, and vessels
after Trump; his presidency should be remembered, but not commemorated.
Because this, ultimately, is the point of this entire exercise. If Trump
is now the worst president we have ever had, it’s up to every American to ensure that no future chief executive ever exceeds him.
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: fsxNet Usenet Gateway (21:1/5)