The Bookworm: You Can't Be President

You Can’t Be President: The Outrageous Barriers to Democracy in America by John R. MacArthur. 288 pages. Melville House Publishing. 2008.

I hope I’m wrong, but I think that for Obama, even the distant echo of the people’s voices has been mostly drowned out by the thunderous cheers of his rallies and the whispered advice of his “smart, interesting” new friends on Wall Street and K Street. Like the Clintons before him, Obama recognized that the route to power runs at least as much through high finance and the Business Roundtable as through the humble living rooms of Iowa and New Hampshire. Perhaps Obama had even out-Clintoned the Clintons.

I know what you’re thinking. It’s the same thing I thought when I first saw John R. MacArthur’s You Can’t Be President on a shelf at Skylight: “Cool. A book that outlines the shady and undemocratic way in which presidents are chosen and controlled, of why I can’t be president.”

I hate to say it and burst your bubble of hope, but that’s not what it’s about.

It’s easy to take this book at face value. But, misleadingly, You Can’t Be President is not a book about the reasons why everyday Americans — my family, friends, me, and the Latino lawn workers who tend our neighbors yard every Saturday — can’t become president. That assumption is implied, but the book is more accurately described by its subtitle: The Outrageous Barriers to Democracy in America. That’s what You Can’t Be President really is: an explanation and examination of the American democratic process and the roots of its problems. In the acknowledgements, MacArthur writes, “Although made in America, this book was conceived in France, so I must first thank my French publisher, Laurent Beccaria, whose idea it was for me to ‘explain’ U.S. democracy to a foreign audience.” Before reading that line — keep in mind the acknowledgments are placed at the very end of the text — I was frustrated with MacArthur for not adhering to what I thought was the main premise. After all, it’s printed in big, bold letters on the cover.

While looking ahead to this Bookworm post, I planned to bash MacArthur and the book because, in my opinion, it didn’t deliver as promised. And despite the unconscious clarification in the acknowledgement — an almost revelation to me — I’m going through with that plan, though in a slightly different way. Now that I know what the book is truly about, and explained the whole title issue, I can move on to the small drawbacks that accumulated and made You Can’t Be President less enlightening and convincing.

Frankly, I like what MacArthur did and what he had to say. But as a writer and former journalist I was bothered by his presentation and analytical methods. The book is divided into 13 chapters: an introduction, 11 numbered problems (Problem #1, Problem #2…), and an epilogue. The problem chapters, obviously, constitute the bulk of the book, and also my dissatisfaction. Each one, in my opinion, should have served as a standalone analytical essay that would contribute to the underlying argument. Each would feature an introduction, thesis, main body with supporting material, and conclusion, much like the type of essays college students write. But that’s not how MacArthur wrote them. He put the pedal to the metal, going from 0 to 80 with commentary, explanation, facts, figures, history, and anecdotes; only the chapter titles hinted at our direction for the next 20 pages, and even those couldn’t be counted on as trustworthy guideposts.

For example, take “Problem #9: You Don’t Look Good on TV…The Tragedy of Consumer Choice.” I assumed, like most people I’m sure, that MacArthur would write about public appeal, image, and the way candidates are marketed (after all, they are like products). Also, I expected him to go in depth regarding the unfair and controlled access of presidential debates and the unbalanced way media spreads its coverage, almost always excluding third party hopefuls. Not quite. MacArthur uses the chapter to outline the American belief that democracy and capitalism are the same thing, the rampant rise of big box stores and their damage to small and locally owned retailers, decreases in product diversity and consumer choice (related to big box retail), and political collusion with media conglomerates. He says absolutely nothing about the problem of not looking good on TV. This gave the book a kind of wandering, unorganized, vague, stream of consciousness quality. MacArthur may have intended to write each chapter with the title in mind, but everything he mentioned raised other issues, which he expounded on regardless of whether or not it had anything to do with the underlying “problem.”

Just as the whole book fails to deliver on the main title’s proposition, all but one chapter has the same shortcoming. The single fulfilling chapter was one of the best. “Problem #11: I Rest My Case: The 2008 Election,” the last problem chapter, incorporated everything written before to showcase each problem at work in the Democrat and Republican primaries. “Problem #5: You’re Tied Up At Home: A Story From Portsmouth, Rhode Island” was my personal favorite. It was an anecdote of how grassroots, local, town hall-type democracy can work. A Portsmouth woman organizes a group opposed to the building of a Target on a vacant lot near their homes, and they are able to influence their city council to block the company’s acquisition of the land, and even place restrictions on store size to deter future big box development. However, even that chapter suffers from the same shortcoming: it outlines citizens will and ability to organize, but not how their commitment to influence town policy was undermined by their home lives.

Another issue I had with the book was MacArthur’s penchant for glazing over intriguing facts and history. For example, he writes about Chicago major Richard J. Daley stealing votes for John F. Kennedy in the 1960 presidential election, but doesn’t go into detail and explain how the votes were stolen. All I wanted was a couple more lines of explanation to flesh out his point. In numerous places I wrote “Examples?” in the margins because his commentary was not illustrated or supported by evidence.

Despite the misleading title, though, the cover art is awesome.

New words I learned: All descriptions are compliments of my MacBook dictionary. Fief: “an estate of land, esp. one held on condition of feudal service; a person's sphere of operation or control.” Collusion (which I used in this post): “secret or illegal cooperation or conspiracy, esp. in order to cheat or deceive others.” Hidebound (a great word): “unwilling or unable to change because of tradition or convention.” Largesse (which I’ve seen before but don’t know what it really means): “generosity in bestowing money or gifts upon others.” Panoply: “a complete or impressive collection of things; a splendid display.” Sepulcher: “a small room or monument, cut in rock or built of stone, in which a dead person is laid or buried.” Bromide: in the context used it means “a trite and unoriginal idea or remark, typically intended to soothe or placate,” which is derived from the chemical bromide, used as a sedative. Brio: “vigor or vivacity of style or performance.” Specious: “superficially plausible, but actually wrong.” Adjure: “urge or request (someone) solemnly or earnestly to do something.” Obloquy: “strong public criticism or verbal abuse.” Encomium: “a speech or piece of writing that praises someone or something highly.” Perquisite: “a thing regarded as a special right or privilege enjoyed as a result of one's position.” Ancillary: “providing necessary support to the primary activities or operation of an organization, institution, industry, or system.” Vacuous: “having or showing a lack of thought or intelligence; mindless.”

Maybe I’m taking that new words thing over the top. But I owe it to myself as a writer and reader.

Overall, You Can’t Be President was enlightening and intriguing, but it definitely wasn’t what I thought it would be. In this case, judging the book by its cover had a negative result. Now I know that cliché works both ways.