When I wrote It’s All Local: Saving Democracy From the Ground Up, I had no idea how many places this little book would eventually take me. Now, just a few months after its release, I’m getting ready to take it on the road.

My book tour begins next week in Hagerstown, Maryland, the community where I grew up. There is something particularly meaningful about starting this journey there. I left Hagerstown many years ago, but the experiences I had growing up there shaped much of how I think about community, government, and the responsibilities we have to one another.

Later this month, I’ll be making stops in Sheboygan and Glendale, Wisconsin, and in October the tour continues to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and Chapel Hill, North Carolina—the home of UNC-Chapel Hill, where I earned my PhD. We’re also working on dates in the Twin Cities, Denver, and Los Angeles, so I hope there will be opportunities to gather with readers, activists, local officials, and people who care about the future of our democracy in those communities as well.

The book grew out of something I have seen throughout my years in politics and local government. We have become incredibly sophisticated at campaigning. We have data. We have microtargeting. We have sophisticated polling and digital advertising. We know how to identify voters and deliver precisely tailored messages to them. But somewhere along the way, we stopped doing something much more fundamental:

We stopped organizing people.

Politics has become increasingly focused on convincing voters rather than building relationships with citizens. But people don’t experience government through a political advertisement or a carefully targeted text message. They experience government in the ordinary things that make up their lives. They experience it when the garbage gets picked up. When their children can safely walk to school. When the classroom has a good teacher. When they turn on the faucet and clean water comes out. When the roads are maintained. When they can afford a home. When they can retire without worrying about whether they’ll have enough money to buy groceries. When getting sick doesn’t mean financial ruin.

Those things don’t belong to Democrats or Republicans. They belong to all of us. And I believe that if we want to rebuild faith in democracy, we have to start there. That’s the argument of It’s All Local: democracy is strongest when we build it from the ground up.

As mayor of Glendale and president of Democratic Municipal Officials, I’ve had the opportunity to see firsthand how much of American democracy happens far away from Washington. As a member of the Democratic National Committee, I’ve also had the opportunity to see how our national political institutions operate.

Those experiences have convinced me that we need to reconnect national politics with the communities where people actually live. That’s why I’m excited about this book tour. I don’t want these events to simply be book signings. I want them to be conversations. And those conversations are also helping support the It’s All Local Foundation, the nonprofit organization I created to carry these ideas beyond the book.

The Foundation is focused on creating opportunities for community conversations, town halls and civic engagement. The goal is to create spaces where people can come together—not simply during campaigns, but throughout the year—to talk about the issues affecting their communities and to rediscover the things we share.

Every book purchased helps support that mission. So if you see that It’s All Local is coming to a community near you, I hope you’ll come. Bring a friend. Bring a neighbor. Bring someone who agrees with you and, maybe even more importantly, bring someone who doesn’t. Because if we’re going to save democracy, we can’t just talk to people who already agree with us.

We have to start talking to one another again.

There is something almost schizophrenic about the way Americans think about war. We love American military power—at least at first. When an American president orders missiles launched, bombs dropped, or troops deployed, there is often an immediate surge of national pride. The language is familiar: America is strong. America is standing up to a dictator. America is showing the world that we will not be pushed around.

For a brief moment, the country seems to agree. Then the war goes on. And on. And on. And suddenly the same American public that applauded the show of strength begins asking a very different set of questions:

• Why are our young men and women dying in a country thousands of miles away?

• How much is this costing us?

• Why is gasoline so expensive? Why is everything so expensive?

• What exactly are we trying to accomplish?

• When are we getting out?

We have been through this movie before. The names change, the presidents change, and the justification changes, but the American emotional cycle remains remarkably consistent. Iraq. Afghanistan. Kuwait. The Balkans. Vietnam before my generation. And now Iran.

The opening act is almost always about strength. We are told that America has an obligation to act. The enemy is portrayed as uniquely dangerous. Military action is described as necessary, decisive, and limited. And the American public, understandably, wants to believe it. After all, nobody wants to believe that our country is weak. Nobody wants to see American soldiers threatened and think our government will simply stand by. There is a legitimate place for military power in protecting the United States and our allies.

But there is a vast difference between believing America should have military power and believing America should use it. We are extraordinarily good at confusing the two. The beginning of a war is abstract. The president speaks from behind a podium. Generals stand in crisp uniforms. Television screens show explosions from a safe distance. Maps are covered with arrows. Military analysts talk about “targets” and “capabilities.”

Then comes the part of war that doesn’t fit neatly on a television graphic:

• Body bags.

• Wounded veterans.

• Funerals.

• Trillions of dollars.

• Families who discover that the young person they sent overseas comes home carrying wounds that cannot be seen.

And eventually, Americans begin to wonder what the hell we were doing there in the first place. That is exactly what happened with Iraq and Afghanistan. Years after the excitement of “shock and awe” had faded, majorities of Americans came to conclude that the wars had not been worth the cost.

And now we are watching the cycle unfold again with Iran. Six months after the United States and Israel launched the war, the conflict has become prolonged and enormously expensive. American service members have been killed and wounded, oil prices have risen, and the economic consequences have reached directly into American households. And public support for the war has fallen sharply.

This should not surprise anyone. It is the predictable consequence of treating war as though it were a demonstration of national virility rather than what it actually is: an extraordinarily expensive, unpredictable, and destructive instrument of national policy.

The uncomfortable truth is that being willing to use force is not the same thing as being strong. Sometimes strength means having the military capability to destroy your adversary. But sometimes the stronger nation is the one disciplined enough not to use that capability unless it has a clearly defined objective, a realistic strategy, and a plausible exit. We should be careful about celebrating the beginning of wars simply because the missiles make us feel powerful.

Because eventually the missiles stop being fireworks on our television screens. They become funerals. And debt. And higher prices. And veterans trying to rebuild their lives. And they become the inevitable question that Americans eventually ask after the adrenaline wears off: What exactly did we accomplish?

Maybe the lesson we ought to learn is not that America should never fight. It is that before we fight, we should demand something harder than toughness. We should demand wisdom. Because anybody can start a war. The truly difficult thing is knowing whether the war you are starting is actually worth the price Americans will eventually be asked to pay.

There is a particular kind of political fundraising that has become almost impossible to escape:

• “Progressive Power”

• “Dem Action”

• “Dem Power”

• “Progressive Victory”

• “Elect Democratic Women”

• “Defend Democracy”

The names change, but the formula is remarkably consistent. They tell you that Donald Trump is destroying democracy. Republicans are coming for Social Security. Abortion rights are under attack. LGBTQ rights are threatened. We have to protect voting rights. We have to take back Congress.

And then comes the ask: “Can you chip in $5?”

As someone who has spent a considerable amount of my life working in Democratic politics, I understand exactly why these appeals work. They are designed to appeal to people like me—and probably people like you. They take values we genuinely hold and turn those values into a fundraising opportunity.

The problem is that the organization making the appeal may be little more than a fundraising operation. That doesn’t mean every unfamiliar PAC with a progressive-sounding name is illegitimate. There are plenty of good organizations doing important political work. But donors need to understand that a compelling name and a compelling email are not evidence that an organization is actually doing much of what its fundraising pitch suggests.

This has become serious enough that the Democratic National Committee has begun actively fighting what it calls “scam PACs”—organizations that raise money by presenting themselves as allies of Democratic candidates and causes while spending little of that money on actual candidates. In one 2025 case, the DNC accused a super PAC called National Democrats of raising more than $500,000 while spending less than $10,000 on candidates.

That is not a minor problem. It is a threat to the Democratic Party’s grassroots fundraising infrastructure. Because every $25 that goes to one of these organizations is potentially $25 that doesn’t go to a candidate who needs to win a competitive race. It is $25 that doesn’t go to a state party rebuilding its organization. It is $25 that doesn’t pay for a field organizer knocking on doors in a swing district.

And sometimes the money doesn’t even get close to politics. Investigations into the digital fundraising ecosystem have documented networks in which enormous sums raised from small donors flow through consultants, vendors, and affiliated political committees before very little reaches actual campaigns. One recent analysis described a network in which a consulting firm extracted hundreds of millions of dollars while only a small fraction reached campaigns.

This is where I think we need to stop confusing being asked to support our values with actually supporting our values. If an email tells me that democracy is on the line, I believe democracy is on the line. If it tells me that we need to defeat Republicans, I may agree completely. But before I give them my money, I want to know:

• What exactly are you going to do with it?

• Who runs the organization?

• Who gets paid?

• How much goes to consultants?

• How much goes to more fundraising?

• How much actually goes to candidates, voter contact, or organizing?

Those aren’t unreasonable questions. They are the questions every responsible donor should ask.

We are going to be asked for money constantly between now and Election Day. There will be hundreds of organizations competing for our attention and appealing to our fears, our hopes, and our political convictions. Don’t let a clever name make the decision for you.

If you want to help save democracy, make sure your money is actually being used to save democracy. And if what you really want is to elect a particular candidate, there is nothing wrong with bypassing the organization with the spiffy name and giving that candidate your $25 directly.

Your political convictions are valuable. Don’t let somebody else get rich simply because they figured out how to package those convictions into an email.

If you are politically engaged, you probably recognize the feeling. Your inbox is full. Your text messages are full. Your social-media feeds are full. Every candidate, party committee, political organization, and advocacy group seems to have an urgent reason why you need to send them $25, $5, or even $1, today.

And if you care about winning elections, the pressure to give can be overwhelming. So this election cycle, I want to suggest a simple question before you pull out your credit card: Where will my dollar do the most good?

My answer is increasingly simple: when you have identified a candidate you genuinely want to elect, consider giving directly to that candidate’s campaign. That doesn’t mean third-party organizations, party committees, or political action committees don’t serve important purposes. They do. Some perform valuable voter-registration, organizing, and issue-advocacy work. But donors should understand that giving to a political organization is not the same thing as giving to a candidate.

There is an important efficiency difference. Candidates receive advantages in the political marketplace that outside organizations generally do not. One of the most significant is advertising. Federal law provides qualified candidate campaigns access to special political advertising rates, and a recent federal court decision has reinforced how distinct those rates are from those available to political committees.

That means the same $1,000 can potentially buy more advertising when it is spent by a candidate campaign than when it is spent by a party committee or by an outside organization. But there is another issue I think donors should consider: overhead. When you give to an organization, your contribution helps pay for that organization’s entire operation. That can mean staff salaries, offices, consultants, technology, fundraising, accounting, compliance and the cost of raising the next dollar. Those are legitimate expenses. Every organization needs them. But they are still expenses.

The Federal Election Commission explicitly recognizes fundraising, staff, rent, advertising and other administrative costs as legitimate campaign expenditures. Party committees likewise have administrative expenses for personnel, rent, and other overhead. The question isn’t whether those costs are legitimate. The question is whether that’s what you want your contribution to accomplish.

There are political organizations that spend a surprisingly small percentage of what they raise on actual voter contact, direct mail, or advertising. Money circulates through fundraising consultants, direct-mail vendors, digital advertising companies, and organizational staff, generating another fundraising appeal designed to generate another contribution. My goal is not to criticize that model, but donors should know that it exists.

When you give directly to a candidate you believe in, you are giving that campaign the resources to do what it needs to do to win: hire organizers, communicate with voters, knock on doors, make phone calls, produce literature and advertisements, and build the campaign’s operation. And importantly, the campaign doesn’t have to raise money from you again in order to spend the money you just gave them.

So as the requests for political contributions inevitably accelerate, I’m not suggesting that you stop giving to organizations whose work you value. I’m suggesting that you become a more discerning donor. Before giving $25, $50, or $100 to the next political organization that lands in your inbox, ask yourself: What exactly do I want this money to accomplish? If the answer is, “I want that candidate to win,” then maybe the best place for your money is the candidate.

In an election season increasingly dominated by the business of raising money, sometimes the most effective political contribution is the one that skips the middleman.

A number of famous people who I admired have died in my lifetime. I guess that is what happens by the time you reach your 50s. My columns are rarely tributes, although I did use a lot of characters paying homage to Jimmy Carter. Today, I want to spend some time discussing someone who helped so many people and became synonymous with with the term kind-hearted.

For those of us who came of age in the 1970s and ’80s, Dolly Parton was never just a country singer. She was part of the landscape of our childhood. She was on television. She was on the radio. She was in the movies. She was Dolly—the impossibly big hair, the rhinestones, the laugh, the voice, the jokes, the songs about heartbreak and working for a living. For a generation of Gen Xers, she was simply always there.

And now she is gone. Dolly Parton died Tuesday at 80, and I find myself grieving her in a way that feels strangely personal for someone I never knew. Part of that is because Dolly represented something that Gen X understood instinctively: you could be totally underestimated and overlooked, and still become extraordinary.

She came from poverty in rural Tennessee. She didn’t hide where she came from or pretend that success had erased it. Instead, she carried those roots with her. She became enormously wealthy and famous, but she never seemed to forget what it felt like not to have much.

As a Democrat, I also think there was something uniquely important about Dolly Parton to liberals and progressives. She wasn’t a political activist in the traditional sense. She didn’t spend her career giving partisan speeches. But she embodied a set of values that many of us believe should be at the center of public life: compassion, dignity, opportunity, education, inclusion, and the obligation to help people who have been given less than we have.

Dolly didn’t just talk about kindness. She practiced it. Consider the children who grew up receiving a free book every month through Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library. What began as a program in her home community became a global literacy effort that has distributed more than 300 million books. Somewhere, right now, there are adults who don’t remember the first time they heard Dolly sing. They remember the first book that arrived in the mailbox with Dolly Parton’s name on it. There are parents who couldn’t afford to buy books who watched their children build home libraries. There are children who learned to love reading because somebody they had never met believed they deserved a book.

And then there was the COVID pandemic. In March 2020, when the world was frightened and scientists were racing to understand a virus that had brought society to a standstill, Dolly donated $1 million to Vanderbilt University Medical Center for COVID research. That money supported research that contributed to the early development of the Moderna vaccine. Think about the millions of people who eventually rolled up their sleeves and received that vaccine. Dolly Parton was, in a very real sense, part of their story.

But perhaps what moves me most is that Dolly’s philanthropy wasn’t limited to writing checks for national causes. She invested in places and people that she knew. She helped families devastated by wildfires in Tennessee with direct financial assistance. She supported hospitals, education, scholarships, and children’s programs. She invested in her own community, creating jobs and economic opportunity through Dollywood while using her foundation to help people who needed a hand up. She even used the $10 million she made in royalties from Whitney Houston’s famous cover of her song “I Will Always Love You” to invest in a Black neighborhood in Nashville.

That is an important lesson about philanthropy. Dolly understood that poverty isn’t an abstraction. It is a child who doesn’t have a book. A family that loses its home. A community without enough economic opportunity. A patient who needs medical care. A young person who needs somebody to believe in them. And she didn’t require those people to look or think like her before she helped them.

That is why Dolly became something more than a celebrity. She became a kind of American moral shorthand. You could love country music or hate it and still love Dolly. You could be conservative or liberal. You could be from Tennessee or Wisconsin or California. You could be rich or poor. You could be young or old. Dolly somehow made room for all of us.

For my generation, her death feels like the closing of another chapter of our childhood. So many of the people who seemed permanent when we were young are disappearing now. But Dolly leaves behind something better than nostalgia.

She leaves behind evidence. Evidence that you can come from poverty and become enormously successful without becoming embarrassed by the people you left behind. Evidence that kindness doesn’t have to be weakness. Evidence that giving away some of what you have can make you richer in ways that don’t show up on a balance sheet. Evidence that you can build something enormously successful and still believe that the people around you should benefit from that success. And evidence that in a country increasingly divided by politics, culture, and class, there are still values that can bring us together.

Dolly Parton gave us songs. She gave us laughter. She gave us movies and memories. But she also gave children books. She helped fund medical research. She helped families rebuild. She invested in communities that needed investment. And she spent a lifetime reminding us that where you start does not have to determine where you end up.

For a Gen Xer, losing Dolly feels like losing someone who was part of the soundtrack of our lives. For the millions of people she helped, it is something even more profound. They didn’t just listen to Dolly Parton. They received something from her: book; a scholarship; a job; a hospital; a vaccine; a check when disaster struck; a chance; a little hope.

That may ultimately be Dolly Parton’s greatest song. She spent her life taking what she had been given—talent, success, money, fame—and giving a lot of it away. And the world is a better place because she did.

Goodbye, Dolly. And thank you.

There is something happening in American society that worries me deeply: We are witnessing the dumbing down of nearly everything.

We are losing the ability, and perhaps increasingly the willingness, to process complicated information, synthesize competing ideas, conduct rigorous research, and engage in genuine intellectual inquiry. We are replacing curiosity with certainty, analysis with slogans, and evidence with whatever confirms what we already believe. And increasingly, the people who benefit most from that transformation are the people who want us to stop thinking critically.

I was the first person on either side of my family to go to college. My mother has a high school education. My biological father has a high school diploma, as did all of his siblings. Yet they were able to build lives for themselves because society once provided far more opportunities to earn a family-sustaining income without a college degree.

I eventually went to college, earned a master’s degree, and then a PhD. But the foundation for all of that was laid long before I ever walked into a university classroom. My mother started reading to me and teaching me to read before I ever started kindergarten. She believed education was my way out.

And that leads us to one of the great ironies of modern American life. We believe that education is a liberator from underclass and poverty, but far too many people in those conditions spend much of their time watching or listening to right-wing propaganda outlets, like Fox News and Newsmax or right-wing podcasts, where they are told that intellectuals and academics are somehow the enemy, that universities are brainwashing young people, and that teaching people to question conventional wisdom is itself a form of indoctrination.

NEWSFLASH: It isn’t.

Teaching someone how to research, evaluate evidence, recognize logical fallacies, understand competing arguments, and reach their own conclusions is not brainwashing. It is the opposite of brainwashing. It is teaching someone to think. And once someone can think for themselves, they are far less prone to indoctrination, which is a major tactic of right-wing media and politicians.

My own political evolution illustrates how deeper thinking broadens horizons. When I first became eligible to vote in 1988, I registered Republican, and I would say that I was a moderate Republican. I supported Jack Kemp in the 1988 Republican presidential primary. What attracted me to Kemp wasn’t partisan tribalism. It was his ideas. He was interested in using public-private partnerships to create jobs, revitalize America’s urban cores, and expand economic opportunity.

By 1992, I had become a moderate Democrat and supported Bill Clinton. Again, I was drawn to a politician who was presenting a complicated set of ideas about government, economics, and social policy, rather than simply telling voters who to blame. My politics evolved because I kept seeking new ideas and innovative solutions to problems.

I don’t see that same intellectual curiosity of someone like Jack Kemp in today’s Republican Party. The Republican Party once produced competing ideas about how government could work differently. Today, much of the right-wing intellectual infrastructure begins with a conclusion and then searches for evidence to support it.

The modern conservative movement has built an enormous network of think tanks, policy organizations, advocacy groups, media outlets, and political influencers. They often present themselves as serious intellectual institutions producing research and evidence-based policy solutions.

But there is a fundamental problem: What happens when the foundation of your research is an assumption rather than a fact? Much of the modern conservative policy apparatus begins with a set of ideological premises:

• Government is inherently inefficient.

• Government is inherently broken.

• Private enterprise is inherently more effective.

• Individual freedom is almost always preferable to collective action.

• Regulation is generally harmful.

• Taxes are generally harmful.

• Markets, if sufficiently free, will ultimately produce better outcomes.

There is nothing wrong with debating any of these propositions. That is what intellectual inquiry is supposed to do.

The problem comes when those propositions are treated as established facts rather than assumptions to be tested. If you begin with the assumption that government is broken, you can find mountains of evidence demonstrating government failure. If you begin with the assumption that private enterprise is always more efficient, you can find examples where private enterprise outperforms government. If you begin with the assumption that regulation is inherently harmful, you can find businesses burdened by regulation.

But none of that proves the underlying assumption. It simply proves that your assumptions can be used to organize evidence around the conclusion you already reached. That isn’t intellectual curiosity. It is ideological confirmation.

True intellectual curiosity starts somewhere very different. It starts with the facts and asks:

• What do these facts tell us?

• What don’t they tell us?

• What are the competing explanations?

• What does the research show?

• What would change my mind?

The difference may sound subtle, but it is enormous. Think of it as building a house. Academic inquiry is supposed to begin with a solid foundation of evidence. From that foundation, you build the structure. You test the structure. You look for weaknesses. You invite other people to inspect it and tell you where it might fail.

The modern right-wing thought machine often does the opposite. It starts with a house of cards built from ideological assumptions and then constructs an elaborate scaffolding around it to make the structure appear stronger than it is. The scaffolding can look impressive. There can be white papers, economists, policy institutes, charts, graphs, citations, television appearances, congressional testimony, and carefully crafted talking points.

But if the foundation is cracked, adding more scaffolding doesn’t make the building sound. This is also why the Right complains so loudly that universities are “one-sided” and “liberal.” There certainly are ideological biases within academia. Academics are human beings, and human beings have biases. Universities should be places where those biases are challenged. But the existence of a liberal professor doesn’t invalidate the research produced by an entire academic discipline. And the fact that many academics reach conclusions that conservatives don’t like does not mean those academics are engaged in indoctrination. In many cases, they simply started with the evidence. They asked the question first, and then followed the evidence wherever it led. That is fundamentally different from beginning with an ideological conclusion and then finding evidence that supports it.

One of the most important lessons I learned in graduate school was remarkably simple: Don’t take my word for it. Research reputable sources and prove me wrong. That advice became a kind of intellectual operating system for me. It meant that an argument wasn’t true because an authority figure made it. It wasn’t true because I wanted it to be true. It wasn’t true because a politician said it on television. It is the way that academics do research:

1. Go look at the evidence.

2. Read the original research.

3. Understand the methodology.

4. Find the counterargument.

5. Ask what they might be missing.

6. And most importantly, be willing to change your mind.

That process doesn’t guarantee that you will reach the right conclusion. But it makes you considerably less vulnerable to people who want to do your thinking for you.

And that is precisely why I find the current assault on intellectualism so troubling. There is a growing political movement that treats expertise as elitism, universities as indoctrination factories, scientists as political operatives, teachers as propagandists, and intellectuals as people who are somehow disconnected from “real America.”

There is nothing inherently virtuous about being uneducated. Nor is there anything inherently virtuous about having a PhD. But there is enormous value in learning how to think. The danger comes when a political movement begins convincing people that thinking critically is itself a problem.

Once you can persuade people that experts are inherently untrustworthy, that research is inherently biased, that universities are inherently corrupt, and that complicated questions always have simple answers, you no longer have to persuade them with evidence.

You only have to give them something to believe. We see this everywhere. Social media rewards outrage and certainty. Cable news rewards conflict and repetition. Political influencers reduce complicated policy questions to memes. Algorithms feed us increasingly narrow versions of the world until we begin confusing familiarity with truth.

And authoritarian politics thrives in that environment. Authoritarian leaders promise certainty. They tell people they have all the answers. They identify enemies. They simplify complicated problems. They tell their followers whom to trust and whom to hate.

Democracy requires something much harder. It requires citizens who are willing to wrestle with ambiguity. It requires people who can acknowledge that they might be wrong. It requires us to distinguish between evidence and assertion, expertise and authority, disagreement and disloyalty.

Education doesn’t make people immune to propaganda. College graduates can be manipulated, too. But education at its best gives people tools for recognizing manipulation, indoctrination, and gaslighting.

That is why the current attack on education is so frustrating. The goal shouldn’t be to create a society in which everyone has a PhD. My parents didn’t need college degrees to live meaningful and productive lives, and neither should anyone else. We need skilled tradespeople, mechanics, electricians, healthcare workers, farmers, construction workers, small-business owners, and countless others whose expertise doesn’t come from a university classroom.

But every person deserves the opportunity to learn how to think critically. My mother understood that when she taught me to read before kindergarten. She didn’t know that her son would eventually earn a PhD. She simply understood that education was freedom. I hope we as a people still remember that.

Because the answer to a society becoming less intellectually rigorous isn’t to make education easier, simpler, or less demanding. It is to make thinking matter again:

• Read more.

• Question more.

• Research more.

• Listen to people with whom you disagree.

• Challenge your own assumptions.

And above all, don’t let anyone convince you that asking questions is a weakness.

I was nearly run over this past weekend on the Oak Leaf Trail in Glendale. Not by a car. Not by a motorcycle. By someone riding what was essentially an electric motorcycle down a trail shared by walkers, runners, bicyclists, and people out walking their dog.

The rider was moving at what I would estimate was about 30-35 miles per hour. That is an entirely different experience when you are a runner on a relatively narrow, shared-use trail.

I love the Oak Leaf Trail. I love that Milwaukee County and our communities have created protected spaces where people can walk, run, ride their bikes, and enjoy the outdoors without worrying about traffic. These trails are one of the great public amenities we have in southeastern Wisconsin.

But they only work when everyone recognizes that they are shared spaces. And I think we need to have a serious conversation about electric bikes and scooters that have become so powerful that they no longer behave like bicycles.

I am not opposed to e-bikes. Quite the opposite. Electric bicycles can be an incredible tool. They make bicycling accessible to people who might otherwise struggle with hills, distance, or physical limitations. They can make commuting by bicycle practical for more people. They can replace car trips.

But there is a difference between an electric bicycle that gives you a little assistance and a machine capable of traveling 30, 35 or even 40 miles per hour.

Wisconsin law defines an electric bicycle as having fully operative pedals and an electric motor of 750 watts or less. Depending on the class, motor assistance can take a rider up to 20 or 28 miles per hour. Wisconsin law also allows e-bikes on public paths and trails, subject to applicable restrictions.

That creates a problem when technology begins to outrun the law. A bike can have pedals. It can look like a bicycle. It can even be marketed as an e-bike. But if the motor is doing most of the work and the machine is capable of motorcycle-like speeds, calling it a bicycle doesn’t make the safety implications disappear. And that is where I think Wisconsin needs to rethink its approach.

The Oak Leaf Trail isn’t a racetrack. It isn’t a roadway. It is a shared recreational corridor. When you are walking with your family, running with headphones, pushing a stroller, walking your dog, or riding a traditional bicycle, you shouldn’t have to anticipate that something moving at 35 miles per hour might suddenly appear behind you and whiz right past you.

Wisconsin’s own rules recognize that people using bicycles have responsibilities. Riders are required to exercise due care and give an audible signal when passing pedestrians or other riders, and they must yield to pedestrians.

But rules about yielding and signaling don’t fully address the fundamental issue of speed. A vehicle traveling 10 or 15 miles per hour can give someone a reasonable opportunity to react. A machine traveling 35 miles per hour closes distance extraordinarily quickly. The faster it travels, the more consequential a mistake becomes.

This isn’t about demonizing e-bike riders. Most are responsible people simply trying to get somewhere or enjoy a ride. It is about recognizing that different machines create different risks. We should be able to establish reasonable speed limits on shared-use trails. We should be able to distinguish between an e-bike designed to assist someone pedaling at a moderate speed and a high-powered machine that is effectively an electric motorcycle with pedals attached.

And we should give local governments and park directors more authority to make those distinctions. We don’t have to choose between embracing new transportation technology and protecting pedestrians. We can do both. I want more people riding bicycles. I want more people using e-bikes. I want fewer cars on our roads and more people enjoying our trails.

But I also want to be able to do my morning run on the Oak Leaf Trail without wondering whether the next “bicycle” coming up behind me is actually traveling 35 miles per hour. Innovation is wonderful. But sometimes the law needs to catch up with the technology. And on our shared trails, safety should always come first.

Is it native landscaping, or is it just weeds?

That question has generated more than a few debates in our community over the years. And I understand why. We want to encourage environmentally responsible landscaping, protect our water, support pollinators and wildlife, and give residents the freedom to decide that a traditional lawn isn’t for them.

But there is an important distinction we sometimes lose sight of: native landscaping is not the same thing as an overgrown yard.

Our community ordinance recognizes that distinction. Residents can use native plantings as landscaping. You don’t have to have a traditional grass lawn stretching from the sidewalk to the front door. That’s a good thing. Wisconsin’s native plants provide habitat for birds, bees, butterflies, and other wildlife, and they can help manage stormwater.

The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources encourages homeowners to use native plants because they support the food web and, when properly incorporated into landscapes such as rain gardens, can help reduce flooding and filter pollutants.

The Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District makes a similar case. Native landscaping can beautify a yard, reduce mowing, provide habitat, and improve the ability of soil to absorb rainwater. But MMSD also provides resources specifically about caring for a native landscape.

That’s the part of the conversation that sometimes gets lost. A native landscape is still a landscape. Think about a prairie or meadow. It isn’t simply a piece of ground where someone scattered a bag of seeds and walked away. There is composition. There are different heights, textures, colors, and blooming seasons. There are intentional groupings of plants. There may be paths, borders, trees, shrubs, or other features that give the space definition.

In other words, it looks natural without looking neglected. That’s an important distinction for municipalities to make when they write and enforce ordinances. We shouldn’t be requiring everyone to maintain a perfectly manicured Kentucky bluegrass lawn. There are legitimate environmental reasons to encourage native landscaping, and residents should have the opportunity to make those choices.

But we also shouldn’t allow someone to avoid basic property-maintenance standards simply by declaring that everything growing in their yard is “natural landscaping.” Tall grass isn’t automatically a native prairie. A yard filled with weeds isn’t automatically a pollinator garden. And an unmowed lawn isn’t automatically an environmental statement.

There is nothing inherently wrong with a little wildness. In fact, one of the great benefits of native landscaping is that it allows us to move away from the idea that every square inch of our property needs to look like a golf course. But intentionality matters. If you’re going to replace your lawn with native plants, plan it. Know what you’re planting. Use species appropriate to Wisconsin or to your state. Establish the boundaries of the landscape. Maintain it. Weed it. Create some definition between the native planting and the neighboring property or sidewalk.

The result doesn’t have to look formal. It doesn’t even have to look particularly manicured. It should, however, look like you meant to do it.

That’s the standard I think we should strive for as communities. We can encourage native landscaping without abandoning reasonable expectations for property maintenance. We can support biodiversity and cleaner water while still recognizing that our neighborhoods are shared spaces.

The goal isn’t to make every yard look the same. The goal is to make sure that when someone looks at a yard and sees a meadow, they can tell the difference between a meadow that was planted and cared for, and a lawn that simply wasn’t mowed. Those aren’t the same thing. And our ordinances shouldn’t pretend that they are.

Every once in a while, I like to take a departure from the usual conversations about politics, local government, and democracy and simply talk about something I enjoy: books.

So today, I’m sharing some of the books that have occupied my summer reading list. It is an eclectic group, to say the least. Some are deeply connected to my work as a mayor, and my interest in cities and democracy. One is a work of fantasy that came highly recommended by my 22-year-old daughter. And one is a book written by a good friend, and even if I didn’t know him, I probably would have found myself reading it anyway because of my work in Democratic politics.

Here are five books that have particularly interested me this summer:

1. The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

My recent-college-graduate daughter’s favorite book of the last few years became part of my summer reading this year.

The Starless Sea is a very different kind of book from the others on this list. It is a fantasy novel, but one built around stories within stories, mysterious doors, underground libraries and a world that gradually reveals itself to the reader. What initially seem like disconnected tales eventually begin to weave together in remarkably intricate ways. The payoff comes as those seemingly separate stories converge.

After spending much of my summer reading books about politics, cities, housing, and democracy, it was a delightful departure to simply get lost in a story. Sometimes reading something completely outside your usual intellectual lane is exactly what you need.

2. Escaping the Housing Trap: The Strong Towns Response to the Housing Crisis by Charles L. Marohn Jr.

Charles Marohn and the Strong Towns movement have been enormously influential on the way I think about local government.

As a mayor, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about how we transform a post-World War II suburban community into a 21st-century community that can welcome people of different ages, incomes, and backgrounds while still respecting the community we have inherited.

Housing is at the center of that challenge. The question isn’t simply whether we should build more housing. It is how we build communities that are financially sustainable, increasingly more walkable and bikeable, connected, and capable of supporting the people who live in them.

Marohn’s work challenges many of the assumptions that shaped American suburban development. It has given me another framework for thinking about what comes next—not simply how we grow, but how we grow responsibly. For a mayor trying to rethink the future of a first-tier suburban community, that’s pretty important reading.

3. The Menace of Prosperity: New York City and the Struggle for Economic Development, 1865–1981 by Daniel Wortel-London

This book was given to me by a dear friend and a member of our city’s Planning and Architectural Review Commission. As a mayor, I found it incredibly insightful.

At its heart, the book examines the complicated history of economic development in New York City and the competing interests, political decisions, and assumptions that shaped the city over more than a century. It reminded me that economic development is never simply about putting up a building, attracting a business, or increasing a tax base. Cities are constantly making choices about who benefits from growth, who bears its costs, and what kind of community that growth ultimately creates.

That is a particularly relevant question in a city like Glendale, where we are thinking about the future of older commercial and industrial properties, and how they might be redeveloped. A good planning conversation isn’t simply, “What can we build here?” It is also, “What kind of community do we want to create?”

4. This Is the Plan: How to End America’s Meltdown and Save Democracy by Ben Wikler

I’ve known Ben Wikler for years through Democratic politics, and his new book was a natural addition to my summer reading. We were writing our books at the same time and had several calls and Zooms to support one another and share advice during the process.

This Is the Plan is an argument about what Democrats need to do differently if we are serious about rebuilding American democracy and creating a political movement capable of winning.

What I particularly appreciate is the emphasis on organizing and building power rather than treating politics as something that happens primarily during election season. I’ve seen firsthand how this process has worked in Wisconsin during the six years that Ben was our state party chair. Ben transformed Wisconsin from a purple state that was rigged for Republicans to win, to a competitive state where either party can now win statewide and control the legislature. That happened because the Democratic Party of Wisconsin never stopped organizing between elections…and because we had a plan.

The ideas in this book resonate with me because so much of my own work—both as a mayor, through Democratic Municipal Officials, and as a member of the Democratic National Committee—has been about the importance of building democracy from the ground up.

National politics gets most of the attention, but democracy is experienced locally. It happens in city halls, school board meetings, neighborhood organizations, union halls, and community conversations. That is one reason I was interested in reading Ben’s prescription for where we go from here.

5. Your Fellow Americans: Dispatches from Across the Country We Call Home by Peter Santenello

Peter Santenello’s book takes readers around the country and into communities and conversations that don’t always make it into our national political conversation.

I found that particularly interesting at this moment. We spend an enormous amount of time talking about “red America” and “blue America,” rural and urban America, working-class America, suburban America and all of the other labels we use to describe our fellow citizens. But labels can make it very easy to stop seeing people as people.

One of the things I have appreciated throughout my career in local government and Democratic politics is the opportunity to actually sit down with people and listen to their experiences. Santenello’s work approaches America from that same basic premise: go somewhere, meet people, listen to them, and try to understand how they see the country they live in. That seems like a pretty good exercise for all of us right now.

And, of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t add one more book. A shameless plug for my own book, which was released earlier this summer. It’s All Local: Saving Democracy From the Ground Up, is also available for anyone who hasn’t yet picked up a copy.

Yes, this is a shameless plug. But the ideas behind the book really do connect many of the themes running through the books I’ve been reading this summer: cities, housing, economic development, democracy, community, and the importance of building a future from the ground up.

Maybe that is the thread connecting all of this reading.

Whether we’re talking about a fantasy world hidden beneath New York, the future of American cities, the housing crisis, the Democratic Party, or the state of our democracy, I keep coming back to the same basic question: What kind of communities are we building, and who gets to be part of them? That is a question worth reading about. And apparently, worth spending a good portion of the summer thinking about.

If you are interested in supporting the work of the It’s All Local Foundation, you can do so through a donation at itsalllocal.com or by becoming a paid subscriber to this Substack newsletter. Paid subscriptions go directly to the Foundation. Also, the profits from my book It’s All Local: Saving Democracy From the Ground Up go to support the work of the Foundation. Every bit of that support helps us continue the work of bringing people together for the conversations our communities, and our democracy, need.

I grew up in Generation X, and one of the things I’ve been thinking about this week is how different it was to be a kid before social media. We had television. We had advertising. We had plenty of things competing for our attention. But we also had something that seems increasingly rare today: time and space to simply be kids.

My mom worked during the day, so in the summer my friends and I went outside. We rode our bikes. We wandered around the neighborhood. We found things to do. My grandparents lived on the same street, so I could go over to their house. Nobody had a smartphone tracking my location or sending me notifications every few minutes.

In the winter, I watched a lot more television. MTV debuted when I was 11, and I would come home from school, turn on MTV, and do my homework. In some ways, MTV was my babysitter until my mom got home from work. And yes, television could make us feel inadequate. Advertising told us that other people had better clothes, better cars, better vacations, and better lives. But then the television could be turned off.

There wasn’t a 24-hour window into everyone else’s carefully curated existence. There wasn’t Instagram showing you that your friends were always beautiful, always happy, and always having more fun than you were. There wasn’t an endless stream of videos designed to keep you scrolling. There wasn’t a comment section waiting to humiliate you. There wasn’t a group chat that could follow you into your bedroom at night.

There was no social media. That alone is important as we watch the federal trial against Meta unfold. Twenty-nine state attorneys general are pursuing claims involving Facebook and Instagram, including allegations that Meta knowingly designed its platforms in ways that encouraged addictive use among young people and collected data from children without proper parental consent. The states have also alleged that Meta misled the public about the risks. Meta denies the allegations.

The $1.4 trillion figure being discussed in the case is almost incomprehensible. But I think the dollar amount is actually the least interesting part of this story. The important question is whether we have allowed a handful of enormously profitable tech companies to conduct a massive social experiment on our children without demanding that they put children’s well-being ahead of engagement and profit.

I use social media every day. As mayor, it is an incredibly useful tool for communicating about city events, decisions, and issues. I also use it to advance the Democratic Party and the work of Democratic Municipal Officials. But I’ve tried to maintain a boundary. If you comment on one of my Substack columns, I might not respond for hours. Sometimes it is the next day.

Social media is a tool I use. It isn’t the place where I live. I’m not saying Gen X had perfect childhoods. Neither did Millennials, many of whom were already out of high school when Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram emerged. But today’s kids are growing up in a world where the audience never goes away, comparison never stops, and the algorithm is always asking for another minute of their attention.

They deserve better. The Meta trial isn’t simply about Facebook or Instagram. It is about whether we are willing to establish some boundaries around an industry that has become extraordinarily good at capturing our children’s attention. Perhaps the most important thing we can give kids today is something my generation had without even realizing how valuable it was: permission to put the phone down, walk outside, and just be a kid.

Last week, I had the opportunity to speak to the Democratic National Committee’s Poverty Council about a piece of legislation I believe Democrats should be talking about much more: the National Infrastructure Bank Act, H.R. 5356. Most people hear “infrastructure bank” and think about roads, bridges, water systems and construction projects. I hear something else: jobs. And that is why I believe the National Infrastructure Bank should be understood as an anti-poverty initiative.

As a mayor, I see the infrastructure needs in my community every day. Roads need to be rebuilt. Water and sewer systems need to be upgraded. Stormwater infrastructure needs to be improved. Sidewalks, streetlights, public buildings, and other community assets all eventually need to be replaced.

But communities are increasingly being asked to do all of this with inadequate state and federal support, plus rising construction costs. That means borrowing. And borrowing is expensive. Even my own community, which has a fund balance of roughly 43 percent and excellent bond ratings, paid over 4 percent interest on our most recent bond sale. For communities with weaker finances, the costs can be even more daunting.

H.R. 5356 offers a different model. The National Infrastructure Bank would provide municipalities and school districts with access to long-term, low-cost financing for infrastructure projects. As those loans are repaid, the money becomes available to finance projects somewhere else. It is essentially a revolving pool of capital that keeps working for communities.

But the most important part of this legislation, particularly for those of us concerned about poverty, is what happens when we actually build those projects. People go to work. We need to stop talking about infrastructure as though it is simply concrete, steel, and asphalt. Infrastructure investment is an economic development strategy. It puts electricians, plumbers, operating engineers, laborers, carpenters, equipment operators, and countless other skilled workers on the job.

And H.R. 5356 is particularly important because it connects infrastructure investment to good labor standards. Projects supported by the legislation include Davis-Bacon prevailing wage requirements and Project Labor Agreements. We aren’t simply creating jobs. We are creating opportunities for family-sustaining careers.

A young person can enter an apprenticeship, learn a skilled trade, join a union, and build a career while helping rebuild the community where they live. That paycheck supports a family. It gets spent at local businesses. It generates economic activity far beyond the construction site. That is how we fight poverty.

We should be offering people a pathway into the middle class—not simply asking how we can make poverty a little less painful. This is also a message Democrats should embrace: Government can invest in things that make people’s lives better while creating good jobs that allow people to build better lives.

And we need to build the political support for that vision now. I urged members of the Poverty Council to find out whether their member of Congress is already a co-sponsor of H.R. 5356. If they are, thank them. If they aren’t, ask them to become one. We are building momentum in this Congress because we need to be ready when Democrats retake the House.

I want H.R. 5356 to be more than another bill introduced in Congress. I want it to be a Democratic priority—something that moves through committee, reaches the floor, gets a vote, and ultimately becomes law. Because rebuilding America shouldn’t just mean rebuilding roads and bridges. It should mean rebuilding the economic security of working people. And that makes the National Infrastructure Bank much more than an infrastructure bill. It is an anti-poverty bill.

I was in Austin, Texas, this past week for the Democratic National Committee’s summer meeting, and one of the most interesting things about being there was getting a glimpse of how much work goes into a primary election that is still a year and a half away.

For most Americans, the 2028 presidential election feels like something far off in the future. For the Democratic Party, it has already begun. Not the campaigning. Not the television commercials or candidate rallies. The rules that will govern how Democrats choose their nominee were being written in 2026.

At this meeting, the DNC adopted the 2028 presidential primary calendar and delegate-selection rules. That may sound like inside baseball, but these decisions have enormous consequences. They establish the playing field for every candidate who will seek the Democratic nomination.

And they were decided long before voters cast the first ballots. That is intentional. Candidates who are beginning to build campaigns need to know where they will have opportunities to compete. They need to understand how delegates will be awarded, which states will vote first, what the rules will be, and where they should invest their time and money.

The first primary will be in South Carolina on January 22, 2028. Nevada follows on February 1, with New Hampshire, New Mexico, Michigan and Virginia holding their contests later in February. All six states will vote before Super Tuesday on March 7.

That represents a significant change from the presidential nominating calendars that Democrats have used for generations. Iowa, which has held the first-in-the-nation caucus position for decades, will no longer lead the Democratic process. Iowa representatives made their objections known at our meeting.

But the decision reflects a larger question that Democrats have been wrestling with for years: What should the beginning of the presidential nominating process look like in a Democratic Party that is as diverse as America?

There is an argument for tradition. Iowa has played an enormous role in presidential politics, and its caucuses created a unique opportunity for candidates to meet voters in small communities and build organizations from the ground up. But there is also an argument for making sure the earliest voters in the process better reflect the Democratic electorate and the diverse country we are trying to govern.

South Carolina’s Democratic electorate is heavily African American. Nevada and New Mexico provide significant Latino and Native American representation. Michigan brings a major Midwestern battleground state and a large union constituency into the early process. Virginia adds another important and diverse electorate that is suburban, rural, and urban. The new calendar is designed to give voters from different racial, geographic, and economic backgrounds an early voice in choosing our nominee.

That doesn’t mean the debate is over. It never is. We also spent considerable time leading up to the General Session vote discussing something that may become increasingly important in American elections: ranked-choice voting. Ranked-choice voting allows voters to express preferences rather than selecting only one candidate. As more states and localities consider or adopt the system, political parties have to determine how those votes should translate into delegates.

The DNC ultimately kept language allowing states to determine their own delegate-allocation methodology, subject to review and approval by the national party. I think that discussion illustrates an important principle in our political system. The Democratic Party is a national organization, but elections are administered at the state and local level. We need national standards that create fairness and transparency, while recognizing that states have different laws, election systems and political traditions. Each state will develop its plan for selecting and allocating delegates to the 2028 Democratic National Convention. Those plans will then come to the DNC for review.

That balance between national standards and state flexibility is not always easy. But it is democracy. And that is one of the things I have appreciated most about being at this meeting. We aren’t talking about candidates. We are talking about the rules of the game itself.

We gathered in caucuses and councils to work on issues ranging from voting rights and democracy to labor, rural communities, disability rights, LGBTQ+ rights, African American and Latino voter concerns, and so many other parts of our party and our country.

We have also heard from Texans and other leaders who reminded us why all of this matters in the first place. Political parties can become consumed with process. We can spend hours debating rules, calendars, delegate formulas, and parliamentary procedures. But behind every one of those decisions are actual people. The voter in a South Carolina church basement. The union member in Michigan. The young service and hospitality worker in Nevada. The Latino family in New Mexico. The suburban voter in Virginia. And let’s not forget the rural voter in Iowa who doesn’t want to be forgotten simply because the calendar has changed.

The purpose of a political party is ultimately to give all of those people a voice in choosing the leaders who will represent them. That is why the work we did in Austin matters. When the 2028 presidential campaign finally arrives, most Americans will never know about the meetings where these decisions were made. They won’t know how many hours were spent debating delegate formulas or primary dates. And that’s probably the way it should be.

I am grateful to have a front-row seat to the process. As a mayor, I spend most of my political life thinking about things that happen at the local level: streets, water, public safety, housing, budgets, and the everyday challenges that affect our neighbors.

My work with the DNC gives me an entirely different perspective. It reminds me that democracy doesn’t just happen on Election Day. It is built in meeting rooms like the ones we occupied this past week in Austin. It is built through arguments, compromises, rules, deadlines, and decisions made years before voters ever walk into a polling place.

And now, with the 2028 Democratic presidential nominating process taking shape, we have begun building that road. The candidates haven’t officially begun their journeys yet, but the road is already being paved.

In my Monday column, I wrote about the tendency to conflate socialism and communism. One of the points I wanted to make was that we already live in a society where taxpayers collectively fund many services that we have decided are important to everyone, while individuals remain perfectly free to spend their own money on private alternatives. Public education is one of the clearest examples, and vouchers provide a strange contrast in how we approach school funding versus everything else.

All of us contribute tax dollars to educate our children. We have made a collective decision that educating the next generation is not merely a private responsibility for individual families. It is something that benefits all of us. We need young people who can read and write, understand basic mathematics, navigate the world around them, enter the workforce, participate in our economy, and understand enough about government and society to become informed citizens and voters. That is why we invest in public schools.

But the existence of public education does not prevent anyone from choosing private education. If a family believes that a private school offers something the public school does not, they are free to pay for that education. They can choose a religious school, a Montessori school, a specialized school, or simply a school they believe is a better fit for their child. We don’t tell them they are prohibited from doing that because they have already paid taxes to support public schools. We recognize that people can want something different from the public option. The peculiarity comes in our response to funding private schools through vouchers—vouchers that do not exist for any other public good that we have collectively paid for.

We all pay for police protection through local police departments, county sheriffs, the State Patrol, federal law enforcement and our military. Yet some wealthy individuals, celebrities and business executives decide they want additional protection and hire private security guards. Millions of other Americans install alarm systems, cameras, and other security equipment around their homes. They aren’t asking the government to stop providing police protection because they have chosen a private alternative. They don’t get a portion of their tax money back to subsidize their private security detail. They simply pay for the additional service themselves.

The same principle applies to parks and recreation. We all pay for public parks that belong to everyone and where we can take our children without paying a membership fee. Some families also choose to belong to a country club, golf club, swim club, or other private organization. They pay for that privilege themselves. They don’t argue that because they paid taxes for public parks, taxpayers should reimburse all or part of their private club membership.

Transportation works the same way. Many cities provide public transportation through buses, light rail, or subway systems because we have decided that affordable transportation benefits the broader community. Yet millions of people in those same cities still choose to purchase cars because they want additional convenience, flexibility, and freedom. We don’t expect the public to rebate a portion of taxes to help people buy their cars for them. I know veterans who qualify for health care through the Veterans Health Administration but also receive private health insurance. They can use the public benefit available to them and purchase private insurance when they want another option. They do not receive a rebate of the VA healthcare costs to fund their private insurance.

The same is true of internet access. Communities provide public Wi-Fi through libraries, parks, and other public spaces, and businesses often provide it to their customers. Yet people still voluntarily pay an internet service provider because they want a private connection available whenever and wherever they need it. The public option doesn’t prevent them from purchasing something different, and purchasing something different doesn’t eliminate their obligation to support the public option.

So why do we approach education differently? This is where the voucher debate becomes enraging. If someone wants to send their child to a private school, I have no objection. Families should have choices. But there is a fundamental difference between choosing a private alternative, and asking taxpayers to pay for the private alternative after they have already funded the public system.

We don’t reimburse people for their private security guards because they don’t like the police. We don’t pay their country club dues because they prefer the private pool. We don’t buy their cars because they don’t want to ride the bus. We don’t pay their internet bill because they don’t want to use the Wi-Fi at the library.

Yet with school vouchers, we have increasingly moved toward the idea that taxpayers should help finance a private educational choice. That raises an important question: What exactly are we trying to accomplish?

If the goal is to make sure every child receives a quality education, then our first obligation should be to make sure the public education system that serves the overwhelming majority of children has the resources necessary to do that job well. Private schools can exist. Families can choose them. Religious organizations can operate them. People can spend their own money on them. But there is a difference between the freedom to choose a private option, and a public obligation to subsidize that choice.

We already understand that distinction in almost every other area of American life. Perhaps it’s time we applied the same common-sense principle to education.

[I wrote this yesterday on the airplane, traveling to Austin for the Summer DNC meeting. I will be giving updates from the Democratic National Committee meeting later this week.]

Politics does not always follow the script. Sometimes, the most unlikely candidate finds a way to win, and that is what happened Tuesday night when Milwaukee County Executive David Crowley narrowly won the Democratic nomination for Governor of Wisconsin.

Crowley had already dropped out of the race on July 8. Just over a month ago, it appeared his campaign was over. Then Sara Rodriguez left the race, Crowley got back in, and within days he had secured the endorsement of outgoing Governor Tony Evers. He had only weeks to make his case to voters across Wisconsin. When the votes were counted, Crowley had defeated State Representative Francesca Hong by less than 4,000 votes.

I have known David Crowley for more than a decade. I endorsed him when he first ran for Milwaukee County Executive in 2020, and I have had the opportunity to watch him grow as a political leader and as a public servant. What has always impressed me most about David is not simply his political ability. It is the way he interacts with people.

David has a remarkable ability to listen. When you are talking with him, his full attention is on you. He has a way of making the person standing in front of him feel like the most important person in the room. In an era when we are constantly distracted by our phones, our screens and the next thing demanding our attention, that quality is increasingly rare. David focuses on the person in front of him.

That may ultimately be one of the most important qualities a governor can possess.

Wisconsin is a state that does not fit neatly into political categories. It is urban and rural, progressive and conservative, union and nonunion, and increasingly suburban and independent. A governor has to be able to talk with people who do not necessarily agree with him. More importantly, that governor has to be willing to listen to them.

Crowley’s victory also continues an interesting pattern in Wisconsin Democratic politics. Over the past quarter-century, Democratic gubernatorial nominees have generally emerged from the center of the party rather than its ideological edges. Jim Doyle, Tom Barrett, and Tony Evers each built statewide coalitions capable of reaching beyond the Democratic base. Crowley now has the opportunity to build a similar coalition. The history is not a mathematical rule, but it is a reminder that Wisconsin Democrats have succeeded when they have nominated candidates capable of appealing to voters beyond the party’s core.

The general election will present a very different contest. Crowley will face Republican U.S. Rep. Tom Tiffany, who has made his alliance with Donald Trump a central part of his political identity. Tiffany voted against certifying electoral votes from Pennsylvania and Arizona following the 2020 election, and his candidacy will put questions about democracy, political power, and the direction of Wisconsin government squarely before voters.

For Wisconsin Democrats, however, the first task is not to relitigate Tuesday’s primary. It is to recognize what the voters decided and come together for the general election.

David Crowley has spent years governing Milwaukee County, building relationships and working with people across political and geographic lines. His victory gives him the opportunity to take that experience statewide.

The campaign ahead will be about much more than partisan labels. It will be about what kind of Wisconsin we want to build and what kind of leadership we expect from the person occupying the Governor’s office.

For those of us who have known David for years, Tuesday night’s victory was deeply gratifying. But the real test begins now. The task before him is to take the same willingness to listen, the same ability to build relationships, and the same focus on the people in front of him, and bring those qualities to the entire state of Wisconsin.

Today, Wisconsin voters go to the polls to choose the candidates who will represent their political parties in November. On the Democratic side, there are statewide partisan primaries for governor and state treasurer, along with primary contests for congressional seats and seats in the Wisconsin Legislature. These primary elections will effectively determine who moves on to the November ballot.

That makes today an important day to vote. Primary elections sometimes get treated as though they are merely a warm-up for the “real” election in November. I think that is a mistake. The general election gives us the opportunity to choose between the nominees selected by the parties. The primary gives us the opportunity to help decide who those nominees will be. If we care about the direction of our state and our communities, that choice deserves our attention.

I have spent a lot of time talking with the candidates seeking the Democratic nomination for governor. As part of my Conversations with a Mayor series, I interviewed Joel Brennan, David Crowley, Francesca Hong, and Kelda Roys about their campaigns, their priorities and, importantly, their understanding of local government and the relationship between state government and the communities it serves. Those conversations are available on my YouTube channel for anyone who wants to hear directly from the candidates before voting.

I want to make one thing very clear about those interviews and about today’s election. I am a member of the Democratic National Committee, and I am not endorsing any candidate in today’s Democratic primaries. My role in these conversations has been to give voters an opportunity to learn more about the people asking for their votes. The decision belongs to Wisconsin voters.

One of the challenges with primary elections is turnout. When relatively few people participate, it can be difficult to know exactly what low turnout means. Sometimes it reflects a lack of enthusiasm or energy about the candidates. Sometimes it means voters are less concerned about which candidate wins the nomination because they are already highly motivated to support whoever carries the party banner in November.

I suspect both dynamics may be at work this year. There is certainly a great deal at stake in November. Eighteen months into Donald Trump’s second presidency, Democrats and Independents—and perhaps even some moderate Republicans—have plenty of reasons to be paying attention to what happens next. Across the country, many Democrats are anticipating a strong Democratic performance in November, what some are calling a Blue Wave.

But waves don’t begin in November. They begin with people paying attention, getting involved and showing up. And showing up starts today.

You don’t have to be a political insider to participate. You don’t have to spend hours studying every race on the ballot. But you should take a few minutes to learn who is running, think about what matters to you, and cast your ballot. Wisconsin’s MyVote website can tell you what’s on your ballot and where you vote.

Democracy works best when people participate in it—not just when they are angry, not just when the stakes seem enormous, and not just in November.

Vote today. Your voice matters in choosing who gets the chance to earn your vote in November.

One of the things that frustrates me most about our current political conversation is how casually we use words that have very specific meanings. “Socialism” and “communism” are two of the most frequently conflated. Republicans routinely describe Democrats, particularly progressive Democrats, as “socialists” or even “communists.” Sometimes those labels are intended simply as political insults or scare tactics. But too often, they reflect a fundamental misunderstanding of what those words actually mean, and of how much of American society is already built around publicly provided, or socialized, services.

Let’s start with the word “socialized.” A socialized service is one that society collectively pays for, usually through taxes, and then makes available to the people who need it, either free of charge at the point of service or at a substantially reduced cost. By that definition, Americans have socialized a remarkable number of things. We have socialized public education, collecting taxes from everyone and using that money to educate every child regardless of whether their family could afford to pay for private schooling. We have socialized parts of higher education through public universities. We have socialized roads, police and fire protection, parks, libraries, and, in many communities, garbage collection and mass transit. We have also socialized significant portions of healthcare. The Veterans Health Administration is a government-run healthcare system, while Medicare is a publicly financed health insurance program serving tens of millions of Americans.

None of that makes the United States a communist country. In fact, none of it means that we have abandoned capitalism. What we have developed over generations is a mixed economy, i.e., a capitalist economy in which society has collectively decided that certain services are so important, so fundamental, or so inefficient to provide individually that they should be provided at least in part collectively. We then allow a private-sector economy to operate alongside those public services.

At the same time, we regulate private capitalism. We regulate telecommunications, broadcasting, electricity, natural gas, water and sewer systems, financial markets, and countless other industries. We establish rules for businesses to protect consumers, workers, and the public interest. We have antitrust laws because we recognize that allowing one company or a handful of companies to control an entire market can be harmful to consumers and to the economy.

Why do we do all of this? Because we have learned that capitalism works best when there are rules. A capitalist society can create extraordinary wealth. People can start businesses, invest money, invent products, and become very wealthy. There is nothing inherently incompatible between capitalism and public services. The question is whether wealth should translate into unlimited economic and political power. It shouldn’t. Regulation exists in part because we understand that an individual consumer and a massive corporation do not always have equal bargaining power.

This is where the distinction with communism becomes important. Communism is not simply government providing services. In its traditional political and economic definition, communism involves collective or state ownership of the means of production and distribution. The state or collective controls the major productive resources of society rather than leaving them primarily in private hands. The distinction is enormous. Under the American economic system, private companies manufacture automobiles, build houses, produce food, develop software, operate restaurants, make clothing, and provide countless other goods and services. People can own businesses, invest capital, and become wealthy. Government provides some services, regulates others, and leaves enormous portions of the economy in private hands.

That is not communism.

There is, of course, a legitimate debate about how much of our economy should be publicly provided and how much should remain in private hands. Americans can disagree about whether healthcare should be more heavily socialized, whether public transportation should be expanded, whether a particular utility should be publicly owned, or whether government is capable of delivering a service more efficiently than the private sector. Those are legitimate political arguments. We should have them.

But calling every proposal for a public service “socialism,” and then treating socialism and communism as interchangeable, doesn’t advance that debate. It simply turns complicated policy questions into political insults.

The irony is that the American system has been moving toward a form of social democracy for well over a century. The Progressive Era brought new regulations on corporations and financial markets. The labor movement fought for workplace protections and collective bargaining rights. The New Deal dramatically expanded the government’s role in providing economic security. After World War II, the United States experienced the growth of a massive middle class alongside an increasingly robust system of public institutions and social programs. None of those developments eliminated capitalism. In many ways, they helped make American capitalism sustainable.

That is why I get frustrated when political rhetoric turns every Democratic proposal into evidence that Democrats want to create a communist state. A proposal to expand public transportation is not communism. A proposal to make healthcare more affordable is not communism. A proposal to strengthen public education is not communism. A proposal to regulate a corporation is not communism. A proposal to provide a public service rather than requiring every individual to purchase that service privately is not communism.

We can debate whether any particular proposal is good policy. We should debate its cost. We should debate whether government can deliver the service effectively. We should debate whether the private sector could do it better. Those are exactly the kinds of debates we should be having in a capitalist democracy.

But those debates require us to use words accurately. Americans already live in a society where we have collectively decided that some things are too important, too essential, or too inefficient to leave entirely to the marketplace. We simply don’t usually call it socialism. We call it public education. We call it Medicare. We call it the interstate highway system. We call it the fire department. We call it the public library. We call it the city park. We call it the police department.

We call it government. Government is one of the ways a democratic society allows people to pool their resources and accomplish things collectively that they could not accomplish as individuals. We don’t have to agree that every government program is good to recognize that principle.

So the next time someone calls a Democratic proposal “communism,” I think it is reasonable to ask a very simple question: What exactly do you mean by communism? If the answer is “government providing something that people collectively pay for through taxes,” then we aren’t talking about communism. We’re talking about one of the fundamental ways modern democratic societies have chosen to organize themselves.

I spent much of yesterday volunteering at the Democratic Party booth at the Wisconsin State Fair. It was, in many ways, exactly the kind of day that reminds me why I became involved in politics in the first place. People stopped to ask about candidates, how they could get involved, how the party works and what we are trying to accomplish. Some wanted to talk about November and whether Democrats have a realistic chance of winning. Some were enthusiastic, others were worried, but almost all of them were genuinely interested in participating in our political process. Most importantly, they were willing to have a conversation.

Of course, not every interaction was quite so constructive. A few people came by simply looking for an argument. One man walked directly up to me and began berating the Democratic Party, using some remarkably harsh and hateful language. I listened politely for 15 or 20 seconds without interrupting him. Then I calmly said, “I don’t know what prompted you to come up to me and to be so rude and angry and hateful. I feel very sorry for you because you must be an incredibly sad and angry person.” He looked at me for about five seconds, apparently not knowing how to respond, and then simply walked away.

That encounter stayed with me for the rest of the day. I kept wondering what makes someone walk through a crowded state fair, see a political booth and decide that they want to go over and pick a fight with somebody they have never met. I don’t know the answer. Perhaps he has had experiences that have made him deeply distrustful of government or politics. Perhaps he was simply having a bad day. But there was something about the intensity of his anger that made me think about the larger condition of American politics and how much of our public life now seems to be driven by anger, fear, and resentment.

Whenever we talk about political division, someone inevitably says, “Both sides do it.” There is certainly harsh rhetoric on both sides of American politics, and Democrats are perfectly capable of being angry, dismissive, and unfair. But I don’t think the political dynamics are exactly the same. Much of today’s Republican messaging is built around telling people what they should hate about Democrats: that Democrats are communists, that they are coming for people’s guns, that they are grooming children, or that they intend to use government to control people’s lives. On the left, I see a different kind of response. Democrats often fear what Republicans do with political power: restrict people’s private choices, manipulate the rules of democracy through gerrymandering or voter suppression, use government to pursue political enemies, or structure public policy in ways that disproportionately benefit people who already have enormous wealth and influence.

If I had to reduce the difference to two words, I would say that Republicans are angry and Democrats are fearful. Neither is a healthy foundation for a functioning democracy. A country cannot thrive when one side is constantly being encouraged to hate the other, and the other side is constantly being encouraged to fear what the first side might do with power. Fear and anger are powerful political motivators, but they are terrible foundations for building the kind of democratic society in which people with fundamentally different political beliefs still have to live together.

I sometimes wonder how we got here. One important part of the story is the transformation of American media. In 1987, the Federal Communications Commission stopped enforcing the Fairness Doctrine, which had required broadcasters to present contrasting viewpoints on controversial issues. Within a few years, talk radio was being transformed by nationally syndicated conservative voices such as Rush Limbaugh. Cable news expanded the phenomenon, and eventually the internet and social media gave all of us the ability to live inside our own political information ecosystems. I don’t believe the end of the Fairness Doctrine alone created today’s political environment; our divisions have much deeper roots than that. But I do believe the transformation of our media helped create an environment in which outrage became a successful business model. The angrier people became, the more attention was paid…and the more attention was paid, the more profitable anger became.

The problem is that we eventually carried that anger out of our media feeds and into our communities. We began treating political opponents not as fellow citizens with whom we disagree, but as people who are somehow threatening our way of life. And once we see our neighbors that way, it becomes much easier to justify saying things to them that we would never say to another human being if we were sitting across a kitchen table.

That is why the contrast I saw at the State Fair was so striking. For every person who came looking for a fight, there were dozens who came looking for a conversation. They wanted to understand the candidates. They wanted to know how they could help. They wanted to talk about what was happening in our country and what might happen in November. They were not all Democrats, and they certainly did not all agree with me. But they were curious, engaged, and willing to talk.

As a mayor, I have learned that people are often much less divided in person than they appear to be on social media or cable television. Put people in a room together and give them an opportunity to talk about their community, their children, their neighborhoods, or their hopes for the future, and something interesting happens. We discover that we are still neighbors. We may disagree about politics, sometimes profoundly, but we still have many of the same concerns and aspirations.

That’s what I took away from my day at the State Fair. The angry man who approached me is not the person I will remember most. I will remember the people who stopped by because they wanted to learn something, the people who wanted to get involved, the people who were worried but still hopeful, and the people who reminded me that beneath all the noise of American politics are millions of Americans who still want their democracy to work.

We don’t have to pretend that our disagreements don’t exist. We don’t have to agree with one another, and we certainly don’t have to abandon our principles. But we do have to find a way to disagree without treating one another as enemies. If there is one thing I wish we could recover in American politics, it is the ability to see the person on the other side of the argument as a person first.

Maybe that is where we start. Not by becoming less passionate about what we believe, but by becoming more willing to listen to the people who believe something different. Our democracy doesn’t require us to agree. It requires us to keep talking. And after a day at the State Fair, I am more convinced than ever that there are still plenty of Americans who are willing to do exactly that.

One of the things I’ve learned in local government is that the most important public debates are rarely as simple as they’re portrayed. It’s easy to reduce an issue to a single talking point. It’s much harder, and much more useful, to understand the competing interests that local officials and residents must weigh before making decisions that will shape their communities for decades.

Artificial intelligence data centers are a good example. Over the next several years, Wisconsin is likely to see more and more proposals for large-scale AI data centers. Technology companies are searching for locations with available land, reliable infrastructure, access to water, and a dependable electric grid. Wisconsin checks many of those boxes, making our state an increasingly attractive destination.

Unlike many political issues, concerns about AI data centers do not fall neatly along partisan lines. Residents in both conservative and progressive communities have raised questions about what these projects will mean for their neighborhoods, while local elected officials weigh the promise of economic development against long-term environmental and infrastructure impacts.

The sheer number and size of proposed AI data centers in Wisconsin have sparked a conversation that doesn’t fit neatly into our usual political divisions. I’ve heard questions from Republicans and Democrats, environmental advocates and labor leaders, business owners and neighborhood residents. Their concerns are different, but they’re all asking variations of the same question: What will these projects mean for our communities?

The economic case is substantial. These facilities often represent investments measured in hundreds of millions, or even billions, of dollars. Construction can provide years of work for skilled tradespeople, creating thousands of union construction jobs while supporting local contractors and suppliers.

For municipalities, the long-term tax implications can be significant. Large commercial properties expand the local tax base, helping to support police and fire protection, road maintenance, parks, libraries, and public schools. At a time when many Wisconsin communities are searching for ways to fund essential public services, that’s a benefit that deserves serious consideration.

Supporters also argue that attracting advanced technology infrastructure positions Wisconsin to compete in an economy increasingly driven by artificial intelligence and cloud computing. They see these facilities as part of the next generation of economic development.

At the same time, there are legitimate concerns that deserve equally careful consideration. Water is one of them. Many data centers require substantial amounts of freshwater to cool tens of thousands of computer servers operating around the clock. While cooling technologies continue to evolve and some facilities use water more efficiently than others, communities are asking understandable questions about long-term water consumption, particularly during periods of drought or increasing demand.

Electricity is another major consideration. AI data centers consume enormous amounts of power. Utilities across the country are planning for sharp increases in electrical demand, and that means new generating capacity, expanded transmission infrastructure, and upgrades to the electric grid. Residents naturally wonder how those investments will be financed and whether future electric rates for homeowners and small businesses could be affected.

There are environmental questions as well. The answer depends in part on where that additional electricity comes from. If demand is met through renewable energy, the environmental impact looks different than if new fossil fuel generation is required. That conversation extends well beyond any single community.

Some residents have also asked about the concentration of large electrical infrastructure in one location and what it could mean for neighboring properties. Existing scientific research has not established clear evidence that properly designed electrical facilities create long-term health risks for nearby residents. Still, the unprecedented scale of many AI data centers has led some communities to seek additional research, transparency, and ongoing public dialogue before approving projects.

None of these questions should be dismissed, nor should the economic opportunities. That’s what makes this such an interesting public policy discussion. The debate isn’t simply whether Wisconsin should welcome AI data centers or reject them. It’s about how communities evaluate the tradeoffs, what conditions should accompany new development, and whether the long-term public benefits outweigh the long-term costs.

As a mayor, I’ve come to believe that good local government begins by asking good questions. AI data centers may become an increasingly important part of Wisconsin’s economic future. The challenge for local leaders won’t be deciding whether artificial intelligence is coming. It already is. The challenge will be making sure communities have the information they need to decide what kind of growth they want, what protections they expect, and how today’s decisions will affect the people who call those communities home long after the ribbon-cutting ceremonies are over.

A few days ago, I wrote about one of my favorite verses from the New Testament: “Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.” (James 2:17.) I have always understood that verse less as a statement of theology than as a practical truth about life. Believing in something is never enough. If you want to change the world, you have to do the work. That lesson applies just as much to politics.

There is growing consensus that Democrats could benefit from a Blue Wave this November. The political environment appears to be moving in our direction, and history suggests that the party out of power often performs well in midterm elections. But in Wisconsin, believing a wave is coming is not enough. In a state this evenly divided, a wave still has to be built.

Wisconsin is not California. It is not Alabama. It is probably the closest thing America has to a true 50-50 state. Every statewide election reminds us that a few thousand votes can determine the future of millions of people.

People often point to 2010 as proof that Republicans overwhelmed Wisconsin in the Tea Party wave. That’s not really what happened…at least not at the state level.

Scott Walker won the governorship with about 52 percent of the vote. Republicans ultimately secured a commanding Assembly majority of 60 seats (out of 99), and history remembers it as a landslide. But when you look beneath the headlines, a different story emerges. The ten Assembly seats that expanded their majority beyond the necessary 50 seats were won by a combined margin of roughly 6,000 votes. Six thousand voters changing their minds would have dramatically altered the balance of power in the state capitol.

The lesson is obvious: even in a wave election, Wisconsin remains extraordinarily competitive. That reality cuts both ways. A favorable national environment can help Democrats, but only if we have done the work necessary to capitalize on it. Likewise, a difficult political environment can be softened by strong local organization, good candidates, effective messaging, and relentless voter contact.

Infrastructure matters. That is why I have been less interested in the daily commentary criticizing Democratic Party Chair Ken Martin than I have been in watching where resources are actually being invested. Building state parties, strengthening county organizations, recruiting candidates, training volunteers, modernizing data systems, and expanding year-round organizing are not glamorous tasks. They rarely generate headlines. But they are the foundation upon which victories are built.

Here in Wisconsin, we have seen firsthand what that investment can accomplish. Under Ben Wikler’s leadership, the Democratic Party of Wisconsin became one of the strongest state parties in America. That organizational strength helped produce decisive victories in State Supreme Court races, even while other statewide elections remained fiercely competitive.

In 2024, Democrats gained fourteen state legislative seats despite Donald Trump carrying Wisconsin by less than one percentage point, while Tammy Baldwin won reelection statewide. Those successes did not happen because Democrats got lucky. They happened because thousands of volunteers knocked on doors, made phone calls, registered voters, and showed up election after election. Today, Chair Devin Remiker is continuing that work. The organization has not been dismantled after one successful cycle. It is being strengthened for the next one.

Democrats have every reason to be optimistic about November. But optimism is not a strategy. Hope is not a field program. A favorable political climate does not automatically produce victories in Wisconsin. Elections here are decided one conversation, one neighborhood, one volunteer shift, and sometimes one vote at a time.

If Democrats are fortunate enough to experience a Blue Wave this November, it will not be because history simply carried us there. It will be because tens of thousands of ordinary people chose to do the ordinary work that democracy requires. Faith may inspire us. But, as James reminds us, faith without works is dead. The same is true in politics.

As soon as the end of this week, the United States Senate may confirm Todd Blanche as Attorney General. If that happens, it will represent something far more troubling than another partisan cabinet confirmation. It will mark another step in the steady erosion of one of the most important principles of American democracy: that the Department of Justice exists to serve the Constitution and the American people, not the personal interests of the President.

Todd Blanche is not simply a lawyer who once represented Donald Trump. He was Trump’s lead criminal defense attorney in the most consequential criminal cases ever brought against a former president. He defended Trump in the New York hush-money prosecution that resulted in 34 felony convictions. He represented him in Special Counsel Jack Smith’s classified documents case. He represented him again in the federal election interference prosecution arising from Trump’s efforts to overturn the 2020 election. Those are not incidental entries on a résumé. They defined Blanche’s public identity before he entered government service.

Every criminal defendant deserves vigorous legal representation. That is a cornerstone of our justice system, and no attorney should be criticized merely for defending an unpopular client. The problem is what came next.

Rather than returning to private practice, Blanche moved directly into the highest levels of the Department of Justice, first as Deputy Attorney General and later as Acting Attorney General. In those roles, he repeatedly advanced President Trump’s political priorities, deepening concerns that the Justice Department was becoming an extension of the White House rather than an independent law enforcement institution. His nomination has advanced despite bipartisan questions about those actions and only after negotiations over the Anti-Weaponization slush fund that alarmed even some Republican senators.

The Attorney General is not the President’s personal attorney. The Attorney General is the chief law enforcement officer of the United States. The office demands independence precisely because it must sometimes say “no” to the President who appointed it. Throughout our history, Attorneys General from both political parties have faced moments when loyalty to the Constitution required resisting pressure from the Oval Office. That independence is not an inconvenience. It is the safeguard that prevents justice from becoming merely another instrument of political power.

That safeguard appears increasingly fragile. The concern surrounding Blanche is not simply about his past representation of Donald Trump. It is about the pattern that has emerged across this administration, where personal loyalty has too often seemed to outweigh institutional independence. Cabinet secretaries, agency heads, and senior officials have repeatedly been selected not because they are likely to challenge presidential excesses, but because they have demonstrated unwavering personal allegiance.

That is how democracies begin to lose the distinction between the state and the individual who temporarily occupies its highest office. The Department of Justice was never intended to become the President’s legal team. Prosecutors are supposed to follow evidence, not political instructions. Investigations are supposed to protect the rule of law, not settle political scores. Pardons, prosecutions, and enforcement decisions should never become rewards for friends or punishments for critics.

As a people, we can disagree about particular prosecutions, individual policies, or specific legal decisions. Those debates are healthy. What should not be debatable is whether Americans deserve confidence that the Attorney General’s first loyalty is to the Constitution rather than to the President who appointed him.

Perhaps Todd Blanche will surprise his critics and, if confirmed, will establish genuine independence from the man he spent years defending in court. Sadly, that is highly unlikely. After all, Blanche’s past performance certainly foreshadows even more future conflicts of interest if he is confirmed as Attorney General.

Our constitutional system should never depend upon hope; it should depend upon guardrails. One of those guardrails has long been an Attorney General whose professional identity is separate from the personal interests of the President. Confirming the President’s own criminal defense lawyer to permanently lead the Department of Justice weakens that distinction in ways that future presidents—Republican or Democrat—will undoubtedly remember.