Peggy Noonan

President Biden’s poll numbers are bad and Vice President Kamala Harris’s are worse. A survey this week from conservative-leaning Rasmussen had her at 39% favorable, 57% unfavorable.The number that stuck in the public’s mind came last month, from a USAToday/Suffolk poll that put her approval at 28%, disapproval at 51%.

The past few weeks she’s been hammered by bad news. There’s been an exodus of high-level staffers. The Washington Post had a sweeping, searing piece that described a “dysfunctional” and chaotic office full of bitter enmities. A consistent problem: Ms. Harris refuses “to wade into briefing materials prepared by staff members” and would “then berate employees when she appeared unprepared.” A former staffer said she’s not “willing to do the prep and the work.” There had been a similar, heavily sourced report from CNN. In the San Francisco Examiner an aide to Ms. Harris when she was California’s attorney general, Gil Duran, wrote a column saying such tales of chaos have a familiar ring.

All this leaves people uneasy. The president is old and his judgment questionable; she seems out of her depth. We will have another three years of this? It is also dangerous: We don’t want their weakness to become America’s weakness.

And so some thoughts on how she might improve her situation.

First, the good news. The Harris Is Incompetent stories are played out, at least for the next few months. More would be overkill. The good thing about having been killed is nobody expects anything from you because you’re dead. Expectations are low. Ms. Harris can use the time of her deadness to focus on why she’s failing. Those who know her doubt she is capable of deep change, and a reset would have to deal not with surface matters but those more fundamental. Still, she’d be staring into the abyss right now, and perhaps seeing this is her last chance to correct a bad impression.

I trace her decline to when she went to Guatemala and Mexico in June for meetings on immigration. Near the end in what should have been a highly prepared meeting with the press, she launched into a sort of mindless ramble in which she kept saying we have to find out the “root causes” of illegal immigration. She said it over and over. “My trip . . . was about addressing the root causes. The stories that I heard and the interactions we had today reinforce the nature of these root causes. . . . So the work that we have to do is the work of addressing the cause—the root causes.”

There is no one in America, including immigrants, who doesn’t know the root causes of illegal immigration. They’re coming for a better life. America has jobs, a social safety net, public sympathy for the underdog. Something good might happen to you here. Nothing good was going to happen at home.

That’s why immigrants have always come. Studying “root causes” is a way of saying you want to look busy while you do nothing.

She seemed unprepared, unfocused—unserious.

Her supporters grouse that she is criticized because she is a woman of color. Axios’ Jonathan Swann quoted some in August. They see “sexist overtones” and “gendered dynamics in press coverage.” This was echoed in this week’s Washington Post piece: Her defenders say criticism is steeped in “racism and sexism”; she faces a double standard “for women who are ambitious, powerful or simply unafraid to appear strong in public.”

But she doesn’t seem strong in public; she seems scattered and unprepared. And as Mr. Duran wrote in the Examiner, what prejudice there is, is “baked into our politics,” and a competent politician doesn’t blame bigotry but beats it.

Her real problems look more like this: She loves the politics of politics too much, and not the meaning. When people meet with her they come away saying that what she cares about is the politics of the issue, not the issue itself. But even as she’s obsessed with the game of national politics she’s not so far particularly good at it. When she sought the Democratic presidential nomination in 2020, she spectacularly flamed out.

She came from a generation of California Democrats who never even had to meet a Republican, so great was their electoral dominance. It was too easy for them. She only had to speak Democrat, only had to know how they think and put together party coalitions. But half or more of the country is conservative or Republican. She never had to develop the broad political talents to talk to them too.

What can be done? First she must come to terms with her job. John Adams, the first vice president, called it “the most insignificant office that ever the invention of man contrived or his imagination conceived.” Every cliché about it is true. Including: Today you are nothing, but tomorrow you could be everything.

The reason people watch Ms. Harris so closely isn’t that she’s a woman of color or a breakthrough figure, but that she could become president at any moment the next three years.

They want to have some confidence. They don’t want to have to worry about it.

We face grave challenges—China, Russia, the endurance of the American economy. Who leads us matters. Ms. Harris should set her mind primarily on the deep and profound responsibilities of the job she may have to fill. She should do this as an act of will. Only secondarily should she be thinking about her political prospects.

She seems to have the order confused. And when that is true everybody can tell.

Second, she must make herself useful. She’s there to help the president. Recent vice presidents who were good at their job and evaded this kind of criticism were longtime Washington hands who made their experience useful to the president, helping him navigate the town, find old levers, forge new relationships. George H.W. Bush did this for Californian Ronald Reagan ; Al Gore knew things that benefited Bill Clinton, former governor of Arkansas.

The Washington insider path is closed to Ms. Harris because she’s relatively new to town and her president’s experience dwarfs hers.

But here’s something she could do for Mr. Biden to be useful to his larger project. She could lend what skills she has to the public presentation of the administration’s stands. Mr. Biden isn’t strong there; he’s uneven in his attempts to explain and advance policy thinking.

To do this Ms. Harris would have to decide to become serious—to inform and immerse herself, meet with party thinkers, study her briefing books. Her current strategy, to the extent it exists, appears to rely on her sense of her own personal charisma—delighted laughter, attempts to connect personally, to convey zest.

She should speak instead with sincerity and depth. She shouldn’t confuse Happy Warrior with Hungry Operative.

Ms. Harris has never seemed especially earnest. This would be a good time for earnestness.

Would a new and serious Kamala Harris be spoofed? Yes, but it would be a better kind of spoofing. Let them say you look chastened: People would be relieved to see you look chastened. Let them snidely suggest you had previously hidden your serious side. You did. Let them say you’ve been humbled. You should be. So far you’ve got a lot to be humble about.

Get your mind off yourself, give America a break, get this thing turned around.

The Supreme Court heard oral arguments Wednesday in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization. On Friday, under the court’s usual procedure, the justices would meet to hold a preliminary vote on their decision. A member of the majority will be assigned to write it. The court will review and amend that document and is expected to hand down its decision at the end of its term, in late June or early July.

This will be an intense and dramatic time for the court, which will likely decide one of two things. It may overturn 1973’s Roe v. Wade decision. That wouldn’t make abortion illegal in the U.S. but would revert the question to each state legislature. Some, through legislation designed to be triggered at the overturning of Roe, will guarantee full abortion on demand, as New York and California already have. Some will apply limits—15 weeks in the case of the Mississippi law the justices are considering. Some will likely ban all or nearly all abortions within their boundaries.

Overturning Roe would mean returning a furiously contested national issue of almost 50 years standing to the democratic process. This wouldn’t “solve” the problem or “end” the struggle. It would bring the responsibility for solving and ending it closer to the people. In the short term it would cause new disruption and renewed argument, as Roe itself did when it negated abortion statutes in 46 states and the District of Columbia. Deep-blue states will go deep blue, red ones will go red, and purple states will tend toward more moderate laws. It will take time to play out. Politicians who stray too far from true public opinion, as opposed to whatever got burped up in a recent poll, will fairly quickly face backlash at the polls.

It won’t be settled for a few years. But then it will settle. This path—overturning—is the closest America will get to justice and democratic satisfaction on this issue.

Or the court may vote not to overturn Roe but in effect to pare it back, allowing state limits such as Mississippi’s while letting stand some constitutional right to abortion. The court would be saying, in effect: We cannot end the national abortion argument, but we can manage it. This decision would be, in a court maintaining a conservative majority, a gradualist approach that will guarantee future cases.

I believe there is a general view among the conservative justices that Roe was wrongly decided, a bad decision that should be overturned. But they will be under pressure to hold to precedent, based on the understandable argument that it is a very big thing to overturn such a momentous decision—especially in a divided country, especially in a time of wavering faith in institutions and especially with a case as famous as Roe. They will be tempted to choose narrower and less dramatic path.

It is not unrealistic for the court to fear undermining its image. Every overturning of precedent involves at least some hypothetical damage to the court’s credibility: You got it wrong last time, maybe you’re wrong now too. On the other hand, as the justices well know, precedent has been overturned before in important and dramatic cases, and one could as well argue that a serious, well-ordered decision grounded in law and history might leave a significant portion of the country—half of it, which disapproves of abortion—with renewed respect for the court. They would see it correct a decision that has been faulted by stalwart legal minds of left as well as the right. Archibald Cox wrote in 1976 that it had failed to consider “the most compelling interest of the State in prohibiting abortion: the interest in maintaining that respect for the paramount sanctity of human life.” Ruth Bader Ginsburg also questioned its reasoning and observed in 1985 that Roe appeared “to have provoked, not resolved conflict.”

Some would experience overturning as aggressive and extreme, but to others it will look like an honest grappling with error that is long overdue.

Foes of overturning make the argument that such a decision would make the court look hopelessly political. Justice Sonia Sotomayor made that charge during oral arguments: the court might not “survive the stench” of a ruling perceived as “political.”

But the court is a political body, because it is a human body that inevitably reflects reigning political currents. Roe too reflected them: Justices wanted a thing to happen in the name of justice for women and found a way to do so by spying previously unseen “penumbras, formed by emanations” (a clause from an earlier case) from the law.

It can be argued that it would increase our faith in our institutions to see that serious objections that lasted half a century, and would have lasted longer, were finally heard.

Here it is good to ask: Why has abortion so roiled this country for half a century? In other cases, when courts saw a new constitutional right or liberalized the social order in some way, the public acclimated. Brown v. Board of Education was accepted over the years, gay marriage was followed by public acceptance—the court had spoken. When the court took prayer out of the public schools in 1962 and held that interracial couples had a right to marry in 1967, high public disapproval on those issues immediately began to decline. “But abortion was different. Opposition to Roe became more hostile after its issuance,” writes Joshua Prager in his history of Roe v. Wade, “The Family Roe.”

There are many reasons, but I think the biggest is that all those other rulings are about how to live. Roe involved death, inescapably and at its heart. We have spent 40 years looking at sonograms and carrying in our wallets or phones the black-and-white copy of the ultrasound that, when you first saw it, you thought: “This is real.” “She’s already got my feet.” It’s hard to ignore the meaning of that: She’s there.

It speaks well of America that Roe was the struggle that wouldn’t end.

Mr. Prager’s book is stupendous, a masterwork of reporting. Over 11 years he tracked down almost everyone involved in the case, and tells how it came about.

We can’t shake the picture of the wholesome 1950s and ’60s as a time of American innocence. But no country is “innocent,” and so many of the central players in the drama came from some kind of deep dysfunction—sadness, family chaos, sirens in the night. Norma McCorvey, the Roe in the case, was a remorseless, compulsive liar who variously claimed to have been raped, gang-raped, beaten, shot at, preyed on by lesbian nuns. As I read her she was a sometimes charming, often funny sociopath, always uninterested in the effect on others of her decisions.

There is the brilliant lawyer who brought the first case and wound up destitute in a heatless house in East Texas; the prickly, eloquent pro-life leader who wound up unappreciated, alone and a hoarder. There is the writing of the Roe decision itself. And there is the idealism of many on both sides who were actually trying to make life more just.

Mr. Prager is pro-choice, and some of his analysis reflects that, but the power of his reporting overwhelms any bias.

If you want to understand Roe more deeply before the coming decision, read it.

On this family holiday weekend, a look at a study of the American family. It’s called “The Divided State of Our Unions: Family Formation in (Post-)Covid America” and comes from the Institute for Family Studies, the American Enterprise Institute and the Wheatley Foundation. It’s based on two surveys conducted by YouGov for IFS and Wheatley.

When the pandemic came, marriage and fertility rates in America had already been falling steadily. Last year the marriage rate fell to 33 per 1,000 of the unmarried population, and the lifetime fertility rate to 1.64 per woman—“levels never seen before in American history,” as per the study. (Fertility has been below the “replacement rate” of 2.1 for more than a decade.)

The authors considered three possibilities. One was that marriage and fertility would simply continue downward. Another was a “renaissance scenario”—the loneliness, dislocation and existential questioning of the past year and a half would produce a new appreciation for the idea of family, a longing for and desire to make them. The third was that “economic, religious, and partisan divides in family formation” would “deepen” in Covid-19’s wake.

The report found most evidence for the third scenario. The desire to marry among single Americans ticked up 2 points since the pandemic, but 17% of Americans 18 to 55 reported their desire to have children had decreased, while only 10% said it had increased. And Covid might have “poured fuel” on the fissures. Interest in family formation varies by income, religion, even partisan affiliation. The rich, the religious and Republicans have a “relatively greater propensity” to marry.

There was one area of convergence. Historically the poor and less educated have been more likely to have children. “But childlessness is rising among less-educated, lower-income men and women, a trend that COVID seems likely to amplify. This would bring childbearing trends among the poor closer to those of more educated and affluent Americans.”

The conclusion: “As the pandemic lifts, the nation is likely to see a deepening divide between the affluent and everybody else, between the religious and the secular, and between Republicans and Democrats in their propensity to marry and have children.”

Interest in family formation is higher among the religious. This has been true for a while, and the pandemic sharpened the divide. The desire to marry increased by 8 points overall among unmarried Americans who regularly attend religious services. The desire to have children fell a little among those who attend religious services at least once a month and by a net 11 points among those who never or seldom attend services.

The desire to marry increased by 5 points among unmarried Republicans and 3 for Democrats—but it fell by 4 points for independents. The net desire to have children rose 1 point overall among Republicans but fell 11 for independents and 12 for Democrats. (The study includes data from Gallup indicating that religious Americans navigated the trauma and challenges of the pandemic better than those with no ties to organized religion. For many, faith was a lifeline.)

Yuval Levin, director of social, cultural and constitutional studies at AEI, wrote of the study this week in the Dispatch, focusing on the larger picture of declining family formation. He believes we haven’t fully come to terms with a deeper meaning of the long-term data. In the past when we thought of social disorder, we approached the subject in terms of restraining passions. Humans have appetites for pleasure, status, power; when these things aren’t well-directed and joined to human commitments they can leave lives deformed. Maybe now we must begin to see a different kind of disorder, one that looks less like ungoverned human desire and more like desire’s diminishment—“an absence of energy and drive leaving people languishing.”

Many bad things in our society are abating. The divorce rate last year hit a 50-year low; teen pregnancies are at their lowest rate since the 1930s; out-of-wedlock births reached their height in 2008 and are declining. The abortion rate may be lower than it was when the Supreme Court decided Roe v. Wade in 1973. But, Mr. Levin notes, positive behaviors are also declining: “There are fewer divorces because there are fewer marriages.” “Fewer teenagers are dying in car accidents because fewer teenagers are getting driver’s licenses.” It isn’t only teen sex that’s declining, it’s teen dating. “There is less social disorder, we might say, because there is less social life.”

Normal human misbehavior hasn’t gone anywhere, but it’s being joined by a more profound and fundamental problem: “disordered passivity—a failure to launch, which leaves too many Americans on the sidelines of life.” Restraint and self-discipline chip away at wildness, “but what if we fail to act on our longings to begin with?”

Are many of the young failing to “get on with life”? If so, why?

The new passivity is global, and further along in parts of Europe and Asia. “Social inertness,” Mr. Levin writes, is surely a response in part to the breakdown of the traditional social order itself: the waning of “life scripts” provided by family, religion and traditional norms. Younger Americans are “less sure of where to step and how to build their lives.” They have probably received, too, an exaggerated sense of the material challenges presented by marriage and parenthood: “Many younger Americans now think it was much easier than it really was for their parents to live on one income or have that additional child.”

We are seeing “a rising generation acutely averse to risk, and so to every form of dynamism,” and this trend isn’t confined to the young. “Excessive risk aversion” is deforming other areas of American life, from child rearing to work and public leadership. And it seems intertwined with a more general tendency toward inhibition and constriction—we see this in speech and conduct codes, which leave Americans “walking on eggshells around each other in many of our major institutions.” This new ethos “stifles the public arena while denying us recourse to private arenas and tells us how not to behave without showing us how to thrive.”

And of course the internet, which turns a personal life into performance, “where we display ourselves without really connecting.” More people are “functional loners.” Erotic energies are dissipated into substitutes, such as pornography, which has grown into “a hideous, colossal scourge that our society has inexplicably decided to pretend it can do nothing about.” That part should be underlined.

A change in the character of social breakdown doesn’t require arguments for self-discipline but a case for exertion and activity—for gambling on life and joining it. “We have to make a deeper, warmer argument—a case against giving up that is rooted in what we have to gain not just by living but by living well.”

It would be an argument “for the good of life.” We must “persuade human beings to overcome passivity and paralysis and jump into life.”

This is all true.

We are all pilgrims. At some point you must trust life, trust God, and push off.

This is offered just in case you run out of things to talk about at the table.

We’re in a funny place with the Covid pandemic. It feels like it’s ending. Its ability to govern our lives is, certainly. Lockdowns and shutdowns ran out of steam; people have returned to life or are returning. At the same time we know we’re not at the end. We read the headlines—infections flare here, hospitals suddenly overwhelmed there. Covid isn’t leaving, it’s sticking around. The subject of mandates is an ever-changing blur; no one knows exactly what’s officially allowed, and where.

Great books will be filled with all we learned and how the pandemic changed us and our society. We’ll grapple with it for decades.

If you watched the state directives and rebellions, the arguments over treatments, the vaccine wars, you know in a whole new way what a wild country we are—rascally, oppositional and full of fight. Contradictory too: anarchic and hungry for order, zealous of our rights and suddenly careless with them, resentful of authority and flying to the courts.

But for that country, the wild, contradictory one, we’ve kind of done OK. One hundred ninety-six million Americans, and 71% of adults, have been fully vaccinated; 228 million and 82% partly. That’s impressive.

Most of us also came to realize that the Covid shot is far less effective than many vaccines, such as those for polio and measles. It doesn’t completely protect you from infection.

What it does is crucial: It seriously reduces the chance you will become ill, and if you do, it dramatically reduces the chance you will be hospitalized or die. That is an achievement, and a blessing for the aged, who’d been slaughtered by the illness. If you don’t get the shot you are, in my judgment, foolish, and if you don’t fear long Covid and its effects, you are not paying attention.

But the number of breakthrough cases is something most of us have begun to factor in. A few months ago such cases were surprising—“Joe got the virus and he was vaccinated twice!” Now it’s a fairly common occurrence. ABC News this week reported that Vermont, which has the highest vaccination rate in the country, is seeing a surge in new cases. Breakthrough cases among vaccinated residents were up 31% in a week.

The state health commissioner said there was no single answer to why. The Delta variant is hardy and ever on the prowl for new people to infect. People are gathering again. And we are seeing waning immunity among those who were vaccinated early in the year.

I think people are coming to terms with the realization that the Covid vaccine is similar to the flu shot. That shot offers a moderate to high degree of protection against influenza. You have to get it every year. It doesn’t eliminate the chance you’ll get the flu; it lowers it.

Nobody calls it the flu vaccination, though technically that’s what it is. It’s the flu shot. And what we call things matters because it reflect our understanding and expectations. People and institutions are already signaling without saying that they understand the limits of the Covid shot. At the theater in New York they closely, carefully check everyone’s vaccinated cards and phone apps, and then underscore that everyone must wear a mask. If you have a roomful of people you know are vaccinated, and vaccination means they are immune from Covid, masks would be irrelevant. At two recent shows, one on Broadway, the other Off-, they reminded you of the rules charmingly. An usher would tap her nose once, softly, while showing the crinkled eyes of a smile when he or she saw you accidentally-on-purpose let the mask fall below your nose. At a recent wedding the hosts required two vaccinations plus proof of a Covid test within three days. It was a prudent and realistic request, but you wouldn’t do the latter if you had full confidence in the former. Which none of us at this point do.

Where does wisdom lie the next few months? In this space we’re not in love with federal mandates on vaccines and masking. Such powers are best held by those governmental entities closest to citizens. Let businesses, schools and institutions make their decisions and carry them out; let states fight things out within themselves.

The federal government would be better off using its endless resources to persuade, persuade and persuade people to get the shots and boosters. Mandating from that level will only prove more divisive in an already divided country, and be experienced by people as Washington pushing them around. Don’t force the moment to its crisis. Be patient and make the case.

People who don’t want the shots are often painted as right-wing nuts, but they are a various and broad swathe of the population. Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is a leading anti-vaxxer. His latest book, released this week, “The Real Anthony Fauci,” accuses Dr. Fauci, Bill Gates and big Pharma of being partners in a $60 billion global vaccine scheme that flooded the world with propaganda exaggerating Covid’s dangers. It was an instant Amazon bestseller. When I checked Wednesday it was outselling books by Jordan Peterson, Jonathan Karl and Dale Carnegie. It may be nut stuff, but anti-vaxxers are a movement, and they are dug in.

The federal government should put its emphasis not on restriction but creation. Continue to focus on the availability and production of the therapeutics that already exist, such as monoclonal antibody treatments, and those that are coming. Every drug company in America is trying to create new therapies, antiviral drugs that keep viruses from multiplying, and immunomodulators that attempt to tamp down the body’s immune reaction so it doesn’t turn on itself. It’s exciting when you read about them. Pfizer just announced it’s racing to develop an antiviral pill. Weeks before, Merck said its experimental antiviral might cut in half the chance of those infected dying or being hospitalized. The federal government should be leaning hard into therapeutics.

Nurses in hospitals work brutal shifts, and many are burned out after the past 20 months. A lot of them are leaving. All medical professionals are burning out. It would be good if the federal government focused on ideas for public policy that might ease the situation—more time off, or shorter shifts with higher wages. (Maybe prioritize English-speaking foreign-national medical professionals who are trying to immigrate?)

*   *   *

There are so many domestic troubles America has to work on, it just doesn’t feel right to focus on those most guaranteed to divide. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported this week that between April 2020 and April 2021, 100,000 Americans died of opioids. It was a record high, up 29% from the previous year. There are many reasons—isolation, limited services, fentanyl mixed into everything. And Americans like drugs. We have a deep and profound addiction crisis in our country and we’ve had it so long we forget to see it.

It is hitting every family in the country. We see it in homeless encampments and in the mentally ill on the streets. And nobody’s talking about it because nobody has a plan. Not everything is Covid.

I want to look at the woke education agenda and the Democrats. They can still push away from the woke regime and improve their prospects for survival in the next election, but they must move quickly and be clear. Our bias in this column is that it’s good for America if there are two strong parties duking it out—they may not mean to but they function as a unifying, stabilizing force in this broken-up country—and it would be a great national good if the woke regime were disrupted. Nobody likes it but the extreme cultural left, including the teachers unions. It did famous harm to the Democrats in the latest election.

The debate over nomenclature—why, critical race theory isn’t even taught in third grade!—is mischievous and meant to obscure. The woke regime rests primarily on a charge that racial evil was systemically and deliberately embedded long ago, by the white patriarchy, in the heart of all American life, and that this ugliness thrives undiminished, which justifies all present attempts at eradication. We are not individual persons with souls; we are part of identity groups marked by specific traits. We hate each other and must fight each other. This regime is variously compared to China’s Cultural Revolution, the French Revolution’s Terror and Puritanism. It is an ideology. A philosophy bubbles up from lived experience and emerges in time; an ideology is forced down into people’s heads from above, and its demands are always urgent.

An important piece appeared in the Washington Post this week by Virginia public school mothers Tiffany Justice and Tina Descovich. They wrote that the antiwoke movement among parents is driven by many things—mask mandates, reading materials, critical race theory—but is about something “more profound.” When parents “were suddenly within earshot” of online classes, they became alarmed that children were “being fed lessons on highly divisive topics of questionable academic benefit.” But when parents began to push back, they discovered who really runs the schools: unions, school boards whose members are often handpicked by unions, and businesses that sell curriculums and textbooks. “None of them put students’ interests first.”

The public-education system is a cartel. It’s a big thing when people discover this, and the movement against it will continue, powered by two other dynamics. One is that when parents heard indoctrination during the kids’ Zoom classes, they’d heard it before. They knew it from work, from endless human-resources antiracism and gender-bias sessions. They didn’t know the kids were getting it too, and didn’t like it. Second, when parents were home they had time to master the arduous process by which government documents are requested. That’s how a parent in Loudoun County, Va., found out the system was paying consultants to instruct teachers, among many other things, in the difference between “white individualism” and “color group collectivism.”

I’ve been meaning for a long time to mention the seminal piece on this subject, the one that pierced through and made liberal parents in my liberal town sit up and take notice: “When the Culture War Comes for the Kids,” by George Packer, published in October 2019 in the Atlantic. “The organized pathologies of adults—sometimes known as politics—find a way to infect the world of children,” he begins.

“Around 2014, a new mood germinated in America,” then rapidly spread. “This new mood was progressive but not hopeful.” It came to take on “the substance and hard edges of a radically egalitarian ideology.” In New York City’s public schools, which Mr. Packer’s children attended, the battleground was “identity.” Grade-school “affinity” groups were formed “to discuss issues based on identity—race, sexuality, disability.” The city was spending millions in “antibias” training for school employees. One slide was titled “White Supremacy Culture” and included such traits as “individualism,” “objectivity” and “worship of the written word.”

It’s a brilliant, early piece, full of arguments on why one should have reservations about the new regime.

It didn’t start during the pandemic; it continued during the pandemic and accelerated after the murder of George Floyd. Almost as if ideological opportunists coolly observed an opening—a nation in paroxysms of grief and shock—and exploited it.

Back to the Democrats. This ideology is of the left. You are the party of the left, not the right. If you do not kick away from the woke educational agenda you will own it. Republican operatives who don’t have a clue about the implications of woke ideology, or why it is so damaging, or how to answer it in the schools, will deftly hang it around your neck. Parents will demand you take a stand, for or against, and if against what will you do about it—tell the unions that fund and support you to knock it off?

Do that. You’ll look like you have some seriousness, some guts. You’ll look like you care about parents. And it would actually be sincere: I’ve never, ever met a moderate Democrat who personally approved of the woke education regime.

Moderate Democratic officeholders fear party progressives, who might challenge them in a primary. But the fight between the party’s energetic extreme and the majority of moderate Democrats can’t be managed or dodged anymore. The election of Joe Biden papered it over. Three months ago the battle was engaged in Washington, over economic issues. It will spread back home.

It won’t work to deny there is a problem in the schools. That is what Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez did this week, denying there was any “woke problem.” It’s all made up, she insisted: “‘Woke’ is a term pundits are now using as a derogatory euphemism for civil rights & justice.”

It was classic AOC. Deny a thing exists, accuse those who say it does of using racial coding, then come up with new ways to define the thing. Some progressives are trying: We’re just trying to make sure the reality of slavery is taught in the schools! It worked for Terry McAuliffe!

She’s foundering on this issue. She is not a stupid woman; she does not, as they say on social media, think Daylight Saving is a bank. She is cunning, with a naturally political spirit. A former Democratic lawmaker said dismissively of her that she’s not a congresswoman, she’s a social influencer. True enough, but in the current moment that’s a powerful thing to be. Yet she and other progressive politicians are out of touch.

One indicator: Jacobin, the American socialist magazine, this week issued a study done with YouGov saying the socialist project needs the working class and can get those voters by focusing “on bread-and-butter economic issues.” Then, carefully: “Certain identity-focused rhetoric is a liability.” In the study, “candidates who framed [opposition to racism] in highly specialized, identity-focused language fared significantly worse than candidates who embraced either populist or mainstream language.”

They shade the problem as a rhetorical one as opposed to what it is, a substantive one. But they admit there’s a problem.

Even socialists are telling progressives to knock it off. If they can, a moderate Democrat can.

‘Took my first DC trip yesterday since pre-COVID. Union Station mostly deserted, hardly any stores/restaurants open. 2 homeless guys hanging out & begging in the seating area at Sbarro’s. Real ‘decline of the republic’ vibe in the building. The election results didn’t surprise me.”—the Week columnist Damon Linker on Twitter Wednesday

“What a weird thing it will be if Donald Trump has done less harm to the Republican brand than Robin DiAngelo has done to the Democratic brand.”—the Atlantic’s David Frum on Twitter Tuesday

“Nobody elected him to be FDR, they elected him to be normal and stop the chaos.”— Rep. Abigail Spanberger (D., Va.) on Joe Biden, quoted in Thursday’s New York Times

These quotes leapt out in a week of listening and reading. A widespread sense of national deterioration, increasing resistance to the woke cultural regime, and Democratic leadership’s misreading of the nation’s mood and needs yielded Tuesday’s remarkable returns.

Some big pushback is going on. It’s not over and might only have begun. In the broadest sense it was propelled by a desire to reclaim the nation’s footing, to push away from disorder and things worse than disorder, and to regain our poise as a nation. Sometimes elections begin things; less frequently do they end them, but I think Tuesday marked a kind of psychic endpoint to the past terrible two years—an end to pandemic dominance, to pandemic thinking and all that came with it, from lockdowns to social and cultural unrest.

To some degree it was a pushback against smugness, too, which has become a primary behavioral tic of many, not all, on the progressive left. I am thinking of unions and school boards that act as if they own the schools and you little mommies had better pipe down, and those in the professional classes who say, “I believe in science” to dismiss critics and alternative arguments. There is the smugness of the woke regime itself. On PBS James Carville, after the election, blamed “stupid wokeness” for the party’s losses. It went beyond Virginia and New Jersey: “I mean, this ‘defund the police’ lunacy, this ‘take Abraham Lincoln’s name off of schools,’ . . . People see that.” It had a “suppressive effect all across the country on Democrats. Some of these people need to go to a woke detox center or something.”

A consideration of Tuesday’s context must include the shock of Afghanistan. There was already plenty of political and cultural uneasiness, the administration was new, and this sudden and dramatic failure seemed to reveal three terrible words: no baseline competence. It shook certitudes: Maybe it wasn’t good enough not to be Donald Trump. And when President Biden didn’t follow the example of JFK after the Bay of Pigs, taking the fault on himself, but instead was consistently defiant and defensive, his numbers went down and never came up. It was too telling. It was damaging.

“The Blob” is what they call the foreign-policy establishment, but it might also be used as a name for the Democratic domestic-policy establishment. The Blob rarely does anything helpful culturally because it’s blithely unaware of the country’s cultural problems. It tends to turn a blind eye when its constituent groups become extreme.

It likes to spend and doesn’t worry about raising taxes. I take the current American feeling on spending to be an Italian mother’s response when I was a child when her husband informed her she was spending too much on the family. “It takes money to live,” she said, silencing him. It does. A lot of people need a lot of help; a nation needs public works. But when the spending reaches multitrillions and almost nobody seems to bother keeping an eye on it, seeing it isn’t wasted or abused or wrongly funneled, applying limits to moderate it, or admitting any potential downside, such as inflation, then people get anxious. And when they get anxious they get mad, and push back.

Terry McAuliffe had one kind of race in Virginia, Phil Murphy had another in Jersey, but neither seemed to have a program beyond: The Blob continues.

When Republican Glenn Youngkin mentioned trouble in the public schools, Mr. McAuliffe called it a “racist dog whistle.” But the trouble in the schools is real. Two months ago an education activist told a small group in Virginia that people don’t yet understand that Americans’ relationship with public schools changed during the pandemic. For the first time ever, on Zoom, parents overheard what is being taught, how, and what’s not taught, and they didn’t like what they heard. The schools had been affected by, maybe captured by, woke cultural assumptions that had filtered down from higher-ed institutions and the education establishment. The parents were home in the pandemic and not distracted. They didn’t want their children taught harmful nonsense, especially at the expense of the basics. The education activist said: None of this is fully appreciated, but it will have profound implications.

On Tuesday it did. The pollster Kristen Soltis Anderson, in the Washington Examiner, backed up the argument. Her polling had Mr. Youngkin ahead by 15 points among parents of K-12 children. “Those saying ‘education’ is simply a proxy for racism, and that this result is proof that white or conservative parents really don’t want schools to teach about topics like slavery or give a complete picture of American history, have misread the full picture of parents’ anxieties.” She found 77% of Republicans and 96% of Democrats alike agreed “we should acknowledge the terrible things that have happened in our nation’s history regarding race so students can learn from them and make the future better.” But parents were “alarmed” by “anything that seems to be deterministic about race, such as telling children their skin color will shape their future.” They are uncomfortable “with anything that feels like it is separating children by race.” They’re “also alarmed” by the learning loss that happened during the pandemic, and “upset” over efforts to gut gifted-and-talented education in the name of equity.

Democrats have allowed themselves to be associated with—to become the political home of—progressive thinking. They thought they had to—progressives would beat them to a pulp if they didn’t get with the program. They thought it would play itself out. This was a mistake. You can’t associate a great party with cultural extremism and not eventually pay a price.

Were voters, Tuesday, saying, “Gee, we’re all Republicans now!” No, and it would be foolish for Republicans to think so. It means more voters than usual saw Republicans as an alternative, and took it. It means what a crusty political operative told me decades ago. He had no patience for high-class analyses featuring trends and contexts. When voters moved sharply against a party he’d say, “The dogs don’t like the dog food.” Tuesday they vomited it up.

For Democrats everything depends on how they understand the reasons Tuesday happened, and whether they are agile, supple and humble enough to admit and readjust.

For Republicans the challenge is to prove that they are worthy of the bounty that came and may be coming their way—that they can do something with it.

In a way Republicans have already won in Virginia. Democrat Terry McAuliffe, a former governor and longtime party mover, has been forced to fight for his life in a state Joe Biden won by 10 points. If Mr. McAuliffe pulls it out Tuesday, his not-so-Trumpy challenger, Glenn Youngkin, will still have come close in the age of Trump, and his campaign will have provided a rough pathway for how future party candidates can make their way through: 1. Be a respectable, capable-seeming person who focuses on legitimate local issues (schools, taxes). 2. Don’t say crazy things. 3. Don’t insult Donald Trump but do everything to keep him away.

If forced to wager I’d bet on Mr. Youngkin. I think he’s done something remarkable. But whatever happens Democrats should stay nervous and Republicans can feel some degree of relief: a template is emerging, at least as to states like bluish-purple Virginia.

This, with the anniversary of his election almost upon us has me thinking again about the president’s bad poll numbers.

Presidents get bad polls and columnists reflect on the reasons, there’s nothing new there. But there’s something different about this moment.

It’s early in the administration, and if the president can’t turn his position around America will likely know three more years of mess, murk and drift. At the same time it’s hard to imagine how he turns it around.

In the past, presidents in trouble always seemed at least potentially able to dig their way out. You were a fool if you wrote off Bill Clinton after missteps and scandals. That gifted and politically ruthless man would always find a way. You were foolish to write off Barack Obama after the tea-party uprising, the ObamaCare backlash and the drubbing of 2010. He too had extraordinary talent, and technological sophistication.

But Mr. Biden isn’t looking like a politician of deep natural gifts. He doesn’t show a lot of signs of the capability of turning his circumstances around. He’ll be 79 in November; he loses his train of thought and mistakenly sees big policy speeches as yet another opportunity to feed America’s hunger for more renditions of his personal story. His public persona is scattered, foggy. “Saturday Night Live” captured it last week. Current Biden looks at Past Biden and says, “How can you be me, you seem so happy . . . so, so, uh, what’s the word I’m looking for?” “Lucid,” says Past Biden. It got a big laugh.

His own people famously hide him from the press, which is not, early on in a presidency, reassuring.

Before Afghanistan people would see him and muse: Who’s in charge behind the scenes? Since Afghanistan they ask: What incompetents are in charge?

In the past when presidents floundered, at some point their supporters would say OK, we ride it out, and their gaze would turn toward the vice president. During Mr. Clinton’s doldrums there was Al Gore, who was perceived not to have Clinton’s gifts but not his problems, either. The party would rally around him or could be made to rally around him. But that is not Kamala Harris’s position. She commands no broad fealty. Her primary candidacy collapsed before the first votes. A Los Angeles Times poll this month had her favorable rating at 42%, unfavorable 51%. She’s polling lower than her four most recent predecessors at the same time in their terms. I have never heard a Democrat in my Democratic donor town say, “Wait a few years, Kamala will come in.” This adds to a brittle, unsettled feeling in the party. Nobody knows who’s in charge or in the ascendant.

To regain popularity politicians have to be agile. They have to be like the old pol who is supposed to have said: “I have many firm principles and the first is flexibility.” Mr. Clinton could read a poll, knew where the center was, and when he got in trouble he chased it.

Does Mr. Biden right now know where the center is? The White House gives no indication of adopting policies that will ease their problems. Illegal immigration is a daily and growing crisis, but what remedies can they seize on? As a party, during the 2020 primary, the Democrats came out for functionally open borders. They’re stuck unless they change.

Normally issues come and go but illegal immigration isn’t going to get better. When people hear on the news that they’ll be allowed to stay if they get here, they come. There’s no reason to think inflation won’t get worse. After Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen talked up Mr. Biden’s economic plans on CNN, former Treasury Secretary Larry Summers tweeted, “I began my career when Paul Volker [sic] was taking over at the Fed and not since then have I been more worried. I am curious at what point in the last forty years Treasury thinks the risk of an inflation spiral are greater than they are now?” (The tweet was later deleted.) Jason Furman, head of Mr. Obama’s Council of Economic Advisers, seemed to give him backup the next day in comments to the New York Times. Mr. Biden’s first spending bill, the American Rescue Plan, was “oversized” and “contributed to both higher output but also higher prices.”

The supply-chain crisis is in part an employment crisis connected to pandemic-era funding of broader benefits for those not working. You can look at this problem and try to solve it, or you can prattle on like Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg about how Americans are buying a lot and that’s the reason the ports are clotted. He then tried to switch the story into a debate on whether he should be on home leave with two new babies. But in a policy crisis no one cares about the personal struggles of a cabinet member; they just want to see the supply chain unscrewed.

The White House could still—still, even now!—reverse itself, take the big infrastructure deal that passed with 19 Republican votes in the Senate, and celebrate the win. This would produce something big and bipartisan, demonstrate baseline competence, reap establishment praise, and arguably benefit the country. Who doesn’t want stronger bridges and tunnels?

Instead, under pressure from progressives, he tied the infrastructure bill to the huge other spending bill, the famous formerly $3.5 trillion one. It was like tying something healthy to an obese corpse, throwing it into the sea and telling it to swim. The spending bill may well end up at a more modest number—Mr. Biden offered $1.85 trillion Thursday—but will that be a victory? There was too much mess around it, too much struggle, and the face of that struggle was the progressive caucus. The headline won’t be “Joe Biden got what we needed,” it will be “Biden’s huge and controversial plan had to be blocked and remodeled by moderate senators in order to make the final product seem even remotely sensible.”

The progressives of the Democratic Party have the only social-media voice, but centrists, moderates and independents have the greater numbers and their support is more crucial. The Biden White House should gain some distance from progressives and use them as a foil.

I know they’re not going to do this. They must have another plan. But what is it? Do they know they’re running out of time? They have to prove they can do something that works.

Condoleezza Rice tells a story that she wrote about this week in the Washington Post after the death of Colin Powell. We spoke about it by phone.

It was 2003, President George W. Bush’s first state visit to Britain, and there was a dinner in Buckingham Palace given by the queen. Ms. Rice, then White House national security adviser, found herself in a sitting room off the banquet hall with Secretary of State Powell and his wife, Alma Johnson Powell. It was very grand, the women in gowns, Colin in white tie and tails. Talk turned to the past. Condi and Mrs. Powell were daughters of the segregated South, raised in Birmingham, Ala. In 1963, when the 16th Street Baptist Church was bombed by white supremacists, Condi, blocks away in her home, heard the blast and learned that a little girl she played dolls with had been murdered, along with three others. Alma’s father had been principal of the largest black high school in Birmingham, and her uncle principal at the second-largest, where Condi’s father had been a guidance counselor. Colin, raised in the South Bronx, had served in the South in the 1950s, and knew Birmingham from courting Alma.

Now here they were in a palace. They drank a toast to their ancestors. “They never would have believed it,” Condi said. No, said Colin, “but they are smiling right now.” The Powells and Ms. Rice joined the procession into dinner.

“It was such an American moment,” Ms. Rice remembered.

Colin Powell lived a big life and was a great man. His accomplishments have been widely celebrated, but I find myself thinking of the world that made him, and the question we ask when we look at his life.

He was born in Harlem in 1937 and moved to the South Bronx before kindergarten. His father, Luther Powell, had immigrated to America from Jamaica and found work in Manhattan’s Garment District, rising from clerk to foreman. Powell’s mother, also a Jamaican immigrant, worked as a seamstress.

Colin grew up in Hunts Point, a neighborhood full of European immigrants, blacks and Hispanics. He didn’t know he was a member of a minority group, because “there was no majority. Everybody was either a Jew, an Italian, a Pole, a Greek, a Puerto Rican or, as we said in those days, a Negro,” he wrote in his 1995 autobiography, “My American Journey.”

He had nothing and everything: hardworking parents who loved him, extended family nearby, a church in whose life the family took part, ethnic pride—West Indians, he noted, are a highly self-regarding people. And there were the schools of New York City in the 1940s and ’50s, a jewel in the crown of American public education, and then City College of New York. “I typified the students that CCNY was created to serve, the sons and daughters of the inner city, the poor, the immigrant. Many of my classmates had the brainpower to attend Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. What they lacked was money and influential connections.” Yet they went on to “compete with and surpass alumni of the most prestigious private campuses in this country.”

As he grew, he found that race is complicated and race is real. When his sister fell in love with a white boy, there was disapproval—from Luther. The white boy’s parents were accepting—it turned out they were “a little more tolerant than the Powells.” The couple married, happily. Years later when Colin met the refined and self-possessed Alma, it was her father who protested. He didn’t think much of West Indians and now his daughter was bringing one into the family.

At CCNY Powell joined ROTC and found a second home. “The discipline, the structure, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging” lit him up. He became a soldier.

Fort Bragg, N.C., was a revelation to him: He met whites who were not Poles, Jews or Greeks—“virtually my first WASPs.” When he was sent to Fort Benning, his ROTC colonel warned him he must be careful, Georgia was not New York.

It was the 1950s, before civil rights. What he saw shocked him. “I could go into Woolworth’s in Columbus, Georgia, and buy anything I wanted, as long as I did not try to eat there. I could go into a department store and they would take my money, as long as I did not try to use the men’s room.”

All his life he was protective of the U.S. military. Soldiering was the toughest, most dangerous profession, the one in which you swear to the Constitution and pledge your life to protect it. It was also a haven. Everyone lived the same; it was integrated. “Except for the rare couple with inherited wealth, there was scant room for snobbery, since most of us were bringing home the same paycheck and living the same standard.” It was “the most democratic institution in America.”

He came to regard military installations in the South as “healthy cells in an otherwise sick body.” One night in Fort Benning he drove off-post to a hamburger joint. He knew that as a black man he wouldn’t be served inside, so he went to the window to give his order. When the waitress finally arrived she looked at him uneasily.

“Are you a Puerto Rican?” she asked. “No.” “Are you an African student?”

“No,” he said. “I’m a Negro. I’m an American. And I’m an Army officer.”

“Look, I’m from New Jersey,” the waitress said, “and I don’t understand any of this. But they won’t let me serve you.” She offered to pass him a burger out the back window. He said no, he wasn’t that hungry.

He thought white supremacism a “lunatic code,” but he wouldn’t let it wreck him. “Nothing that happened off-post, none of the indignities, none of the injustices, was going to inhibit my performance,” he wrote. “I did not feel inferior, and I was not going to let anybody make me believe I was. . . . Racism was not just a black problem. It was America’s problem. And until the country solved it, I was not going to let bigotry make me a victim instead of a full human being.”

And of course he didn’t, and went on to everything. You gather that throughout his rise he had to balance two outside forces. One didn’t wish to see and celebrate his success because it undercut the urgency of their demands and damaged their business model. The other would seize on his rise as evidence there’s no real racial problem, it’s all exaggerated. He wouldn’t let anyone steal his life to make their point. He’d stick with the truth: America has a race problem but it is a slander that it is irredeemably racist, that progress is impossible.

Here is the question you ask as you look at his life, the question always in the back of your mind now as you consider the great ones who’ve passed: Are we still making their kind? Or have we got so many things wrong we aren’t quite producing them anymore? That’s what our fights about the schools are about: Are we still making these astonishing individuals built along classic American lines? Can we get back to the best parts of the lost world that made Colin Powell?

Captain Kirk was in space. “I hope I never recover from this,” William Shatner said after the capsule set down in scrub near Van Horn, Texas. He’d seen the blueness, the thin ribbon of earth’s atmosphere, the delicacy and majesty. “I hope I can maintain what I feel now, I don’t want to lose it,” he told Blue Origin founder Jeff Bezos. What a triumph at age 90 to be still so hungry for life, to yearn to be in its thick, even its uncertainty. What a great man. I watched the launch and touchdown on TV, was surprised to be moved, and near the end walked toward the screen to miss nothing. “I got a little choked,” I said to a friend that afternoon. “I got choked,” she said.

The night before, in the theater for the first time in two years with a friend whose hand I hadn’t touched in 22 months, I saw “The Lehman Trilogy,” which surpassed all praise thrown its way. So spare and modest in its presentation—three actors, one set—and yet so theatrical and transporting. Over 3½ hours I checked my watch only once, at 10:05, hoping there was more time and it wasn’t about to end. I used to do that when “The Sopranos” first aired, hoping there were 20 minutes left and not eight. It’s a masterpiece when you don’t want it to end.

Art and human aspiration abide: autumn 2021.

Maybe this mood is having an impact on my thinking on what is actually my topic. But I think I see something good happening in the woke wars.

The past few years I’ve held two different and opposing thoughts in my head. One is that the woke regime cannot continue forever, it is unsustainable, it will fall of attrition and exhaustion. The suppression of thought and speech, the insistence on ideology when minds and souls aren’t ideological—all this is against human nature. So it will end. The other is that I cannot think out how it ends: I can’t explain to myself what that looks like, can’t translate what I believe to be inevitable into a story I can believe.

But the past week left me wondering if we aren’t inching toward Thermidor.

Thermidor was the moment France began to turn away from the violence and mayhem of the Terror that followed the French Revolution. (In this space the woke regime is the Terror; the French Revolution is something that’s been rolling over us and attempting to gain electoral traction since 2008. We have mixed feelings on the Revolution, but we hate the Terror.)

Dave Chappelle’s latest Netflix special debuted Oct. 5. In it he was, as is his way, avowedly antiwoke, especially on gender issues including the LGBTQ movement, which he has called “the Alphabet people.” He knew he’d get in trouble. He has in the past. “They dragged me on Twitter. I don’t give a [blank] because Twitter’s not a real place.” The special is a hit, and he seemed comfortable because he knows he is talking to regular people, not ideologues. The past week he has been castigated by LGBTQ activists inside and outside the company, and by social-media mobs.

Netflix CEO Ted Sarandos pushed back. The special won’t be pulled: “Chappelle is one of the most popular standup comedians today,” Mr. Sarandos wrote in a memo. “His last special . . ., also controversial, is our most watched, stickiest and most award-winning standup special to date.” The mob pushed back: Mr. Chappelle makes them feel unsafe. Mr. Sarandos doubled down. Next week Netflix employees and their allies plan a walkout.

It would have been more powerful and certainly less crass if Mr. Sarandos had hit harder, had hit solely, on the issue of artistic freedom, and not profit.

But he did push back. If he stands firm it will be progress: Free speech won and the mob lost.

In truth some people are probably too big to cancel—Mr. Chappelle is one, J.K. Rowling another. But standing firm helps those who aren’t too big—who know, for instance, that they’d be sacrificed by their employer in a nanosecond if trouble starts and the Twitter mobs come. But if the too-big-to-cancel grow in number and regularly start to avoid the guillotine, that becomes a story. Maybe in time the crowds that show up to cheer the blood being spilled (in the Place de la Concorde then, on Twitter now) will become less interested in that than in seeing who wins, the woke executioners or the swift prisoner who leaps from the tumbrel and escapes into the crowd. The whole event changes from the fun of a death to the fun of a race. Progress!

There was last week’s Ezra Klein column in the New York Times on the data analyst David Shor, who warns the Democratic Party it faces long-term disaster if it continues to press its progressive agenda. In Mr. Klein’s paraphrasing of Mr. Shor, the party is trapped in an echo chamber of Twitter activists and woke staff and consultants. None of this is precisely new, but this iteration of Mr. Shor’s argument carried an electoral charge and spread through the political class. Its relevance here is that Mr. Shor’s work allows Democratic politicians and operatives to work with their friends in media, the academy and the activist world to send the word: Cool it, you’re hurting the larger project. Robespierre, there’s too much blood, put the guillotines aside. Or we’ll kill you.

Bill Maher is still speaking truth through comedy and continues uncanceled on HBO; Substack brims with brilliant antiregime talent.

We have written in this space of how much people in the arts and entertainment hate the regime and its rigid and capriciously imposed censorship. They know a new McCarthyism when they see it; they know a new Hays Office when they see that too. But they have to be careful, and they tell their writers and artists to be careful. They’re all walking on eggshells because they can’t always anticipate what will be Bad Thought next month. Have you noticed a strange repetition in story lines and themes in what you watch, an over-rotation of material and subject matter? This is because executives and artists are hoping what was safe last time is safe this time, so they do it again.

The whole woke project changes artistic decisions and misshapes art.

They know it. But people in entertainment have the best jobs in America—they’re well-paid, work with creative people and invent what’s on the screens in a nation of screens. They don’t want to jeopardize their positions. They know no one really has their back. So they’re pliant.

And the woke brigades know, and push.

If I am right, if we are inching toward Thermidor, it will be a partial Thermidor, as Thermidor itself was not a wholesale renunciation of all that preceded it but a corrective. It signaled a new popular resistance to the excesses of the Revolution, but the general principles of the Revolution maintained. They entered France’s bloodstream in ways constructive and not. In the same way the revolution we’re living through will not fully disappear; it has entered the bloodstream. But it can be knocked from its most brutal phase, the Terror. And that would be good.

This is a good time to be brave, to be hungry for life and its uncertainties, like Captain Kirk.

Washington

Our capital is greatly diminished compared with its old crackling pre-pandemic, pre-George Floyd self. It is quieter, less bustling, drabber. A lot of government employees are still working at home, and you can feel it in the air, the sense that the federal government is coming out of everyone’s dining room.

It was my first visit since January. Things look better than they did then, but Washington has grown worn and less authentically itself. The bronze statue of Andrew Jackson in Lafayette Square, once brazenly heroic, has an air of retreat. There is a homeless encampment in a little copse of wood where Georgetown starts. Big buildings looked empty.

One place that seemed to retain its old mystique was the U.S. Senate, which still has the shine of the old marble and brass. The Facebook hearings were down the hall in the Russell Office Building, the press in full gaggle. Senators and staff were dressed as adults, suits and ties, heels and hose. I mentioned it to a staffer. “Yeah, today was like the old days,” he said.

Leaving my hotel one morning I saw security men hustle a man in a sharply cut suit into the back seat of a gleaming black SUV. He looked like a European diplomat. The world is still coming to Washington, still having its meetings, and making its calculations based in part on what it sees on the street.

Washington needs a new coat of paint. Stand up, feel your stature. “Remember who you are.” You are the capital of a great nation. Look like it, act like it.

We segue with the idea that Washington’s outer reality reflects its inner political life, where things are a murk, but not the usual one.

I’m not a huge respecter of polls (only snapshots, not a measure of greatness or consequence) but when polls put numbers on what you’re sensing you pay attention. And so the Quinnipiac poll this week on the president. Joe Biden had a 38% overall approval rating, with 53% disapproval. Those are Trump numbers. On the issue of the border, 23% approve of the job Mr. Biden is doing and 67% disapprove. The economy: 39% approve, 55% disapprove. Asked if the administration “has been competent in running the government,” 42% said yes and 55% no.

Democrats, this “I’m a big ol’ progressive and we’re rewriting spending and taxing along left-wing ideological priorities and isn’t this dynamic and exciting?” thing isn’t working. The whole “You think I’m Joe Biden but if you squint you can see I’m really Lyndon Johnson ” thing isn’t working. Ideological aggression isn’t working.

Mr. Biden is showing a lot of it. “Get out of the way,” he tells Republicans, on the debt limit. “If you don’t want to help save the country, get out of the way so you don’t destroy it.” He’s more rhetorically hostile to the unvaccinated than he is to the Taliban: “We’ve been patient, but our patience is wearing thin. And your refusal has cost all of us.” His statement on Sen. Kyrsten Sinema being harassed in a ladies’ room by activists who hissed like the devil’s imps was wan and passive-aggressive: “I don’t think they’re appropriate tactics, but it happens to everybody. . . . It’s part of the process.” It doesn’t happen to everybody and to announce it is part of the process is to make it part of the process. It was as if he were saying: Yeah, she’s got me mad. Hound her some more.

This is not the sound of bring-us-together; it’s not forbearance and grace. The tone is off in the White House, and the strategy on the Hill is off. I don’t think they understand who their progressives are.

People compare the progressives to the tea party and the Freedom Caucus, which drove successive Republican House speakers mad, but that’s not right, they’re not alike. The tea party and Freedom Caucus weren’t about getting something done, they were about portraying a mood: conservative resistance. They made a great show of fighting those compromised lackeys in the GOP leadership, but they never got anything done. They didn’t have a serious legislative strategy. They threw snares and did cable TV hits.

The progressives are serious. They are ideologues. They know what they want; they have serious legislative aims and worked-through strategies; they are socialists and mean to change America in its fundamentals.

They are not the usual politician driven by traditional exigencies, the usual “I need this” of politics. They are playing a different game.

And I think this has not been fully understood. You look at the infrastructure bill and how they are stopping it. You say, “They wouldn’t thwart the speaker in the culminating achievement of her political career.” They would. “They wouldn’t humiliate their new president in his first year, on his signal domestic effort, as his poll numbers wobble.” But they would.

I don’t understand why the speaker and the White House didn’t play hardball, put the infrastructure bill on the floor and get it passed with moderate Democrats, Republicans, and some frightened progressives who’d cave because they didn’t want to face the 2022 election after tanking it.

The infrastructure isn’t solely a Democratic drama. It affects the whole country. It got 19 Republican votes when it passed the Senate. Lawmakers want to say it made our roads and bridges stronger, our electrical grid fortified. Both parties could and should pass it. And the president would still get credit: “My God, something big got passed, he brought us together.” It was crazy to put this bill’s future in the hands of AOC and friends.

Democratic leaders are letting progressives push them around. Mr. Biden may want to create LBJ-sized history but he lacks LBJ’s electoral mandate and his tactical brutality. Would LBJ have allowed a caucus within his caucus to keep him from passing a popular, bipartisan bill that would have won him greatly needed praise? I don’t think so. He didn’t just know how to count, he knew how to kill.

The president and the speaker look as if they’re caught in the same dynamic that has seized almost every major institution in American life, including mainstream journalism and corporations. Progressives, who trend young, are pushing around moderates, who tend to be older. They’ve pushed to change the mission of the institution, to make it more woke, more reflective of the ideology of racial and gender identity, of social-justice wars. The older professionals, mostly longtime liberals, disagree with the progressives yet steadily lose. The progressive are winning, the institutions changing.

Are people seeing some of this same dynamic in Congress, with the young progressives knocking off the more moderate liberals? A lot of American voters who feel pushed around by the same forces might be seeing the parallels. And not liking what they see.

It is now almost a year since the election. America saw Joe Biden as a moderate liberal who, as his party went left, and its center went left, also went left, as a practical pol would. But not that far.

Or maybe that far. Maybe he was more to the left than he always let people think, more ferocious in his aims than he portrayed. I suspect America is coming to see this. And not liking it. Thus the polls.