A few days after the presidential election, as Barack Obama’s senior staff went into post-campaign hibernation, I logged onto my AOL Instant Messenger account at about 7:30 a.m. to find that David Axelrod, Obama’s chief strategist, was one of the few live names on my buddy list.
Over the telephone, Axelrod can be opaque and cautious; online, he’s a little more direct. So I asked him about something I had noticed while reviewing the election results. Why had the Democratic presidential candidate underperformed relative to white Democratic statewide candidates in states such as North Carolina, Georgia, and Missouri? Why had a crescent of counties throughout the South and up through Appalachia blushed quite red?
“Do you think,” I typed to Axelrod, “when all is said and done, that racism was responsible for some of the states being as close as they were?”
Axelrod was unruffled.
“Marc, we won NC, VA, FLA, OHIO, IN and ran away with PA!”
“OK, fair enough,” I typed back.
Axelrod continued: “If there were one state where we underperformed Gore and Kerry, it would be a fair question.” Obama’s victory, in other words, had made the question irrelevant.
During the campaign, Axelrod and Obama’s campaign manager, David Plouffe, as well as other members of the senior staff, had routinely fended off questions about race. It didn’t matter, they insisted. “At the end of the day, I mean honestly, we just never were that concerned,” Plouffe told me shortly before the election.
But some of them were concerned.
One was Cornell Belcher, a top Obama pollster who had conducted some of the campaign’s earliest research on race. In the fall, when some Obama advisers began predicting a landslide, Belcher would have none of it. “No one with any real post-civil-rights understanding of our national political contours could with a straight face predicate a Democratic national landslide,” he told me in September. Over the summer, two Pennsylvania congressmen, Tim Holden and Jack Murtha, had sparked anxiety in the Obama campaign when they reported that racial resistance to the Democrat’s candidacy was hardening in their state. Earlier, the AFL-CIO, which spent $53.4 million to elect Obama, had noticed that older white men in Ohio and Pennsylvania were unreceptive to the campaign’s economic messages. The AFL-CIO’s secretary-treasurer, Richard Trumka, responded by giving an extraordinary but little-noticed speech in Las Vegas, in which he told steelworkers, “There’s only one really, really bad reason to vote against Barack Obama, and that’s because he’s not white.”
Trumka spoke about an encounter he’d had during the Democratic primaries. “I went back to my hometown in Nemacolin [Pennsylvania], and I ran into a woman that I’ve … known for years. She was active in Democratic politics when I was still in grade school.” The woman told Trumka that she was voting for Hillary Clinton. “‘There’s no way that I’d ever vote for Obama.’ I said, ‘Why is that?’ She said, ‘Well, he’s Muslim.’ And I said, ‘Well, actually, he’s Christian, just like you and I. But so what if he’s Muslim?’ Then she shook her head and said, ‘Well, he won’t wear that American-flag pin on his lapel.’” Trumka told her that Obama did, indeed, wear a flag pin. Then she said, “‘Well, I just don’t trust him.’ … She drops her voice a bit. And she says, ‘Because he’s black.’ And I says: ‘Look around this town. Nemacolin’s a dying town. There’s no jobs here. Our kids are moving away because there’s no future here. And here is a man, Barack Obama, who’s gonna fight for people like us, and you wanna tell me that you won’t vote for him because of the color of his skin? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?’”
The Obama campaign faced a fundamental challenge: it had to make those pilsners of the Democratic electorate—true independents, Reagan Democrats, and working-class whites—culturally comfortable with Obama while simultaneously increasing African American participation. To do this, Obama would have to decouple a century’s worth of political antagonisms. Because whenever the political engagement and intensity of African American voters have grown, so has racial polarity among voters.
Even during the 2008 primaries, a discomfiting pattern had emerged: Barack Obama did his best overall in the states with the largest or the smallest percentages of African American voters—think of South Carolina, where blacks made up 55 percent of the Democratic-primary vote, and Vermont, where they made up less than 2 percent. Obama won in states where black Democrats had already attained a measure of political power, or where whites had never competed with blacks. In states where black voters made up more than 20 percent of the general-election vote, the political scientist Charles Franklin found an inverse relationship between the proportion of black voters and the share of Obama’s vote among whites. The greater the proportion of blacks in a state’s population, the smaller Obama’s share of the white vote.
Obama refused to accept this late-20th-century model of racial politics, and he had no intention of fighting the general election with the same bolo punches and taunts that had stopped working decades ago. He had written a memoir about the labyrinthine complexities of racial difference. He wasn’t afraid to acknowledge the psychological effects of, say, race-based affirmative action on poorer whites. He had an exotic name. He was new. He was young. Most of his advisers weren’t black.