Guest Essayist: Phillip Bunn

Our Commissioners | Office of the Texas Governor | Greg Abbott
Essay Read by Constituting America Founder, Actress Janine Turner

 

In 1944, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed into law the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944, commonly called the G.I. Bill. The bill made provision for a variety of economic and educational benefits for almost all veterans of World War II. Among other provisions, the bill provided tuition and a living stipend for veterans returning to school, unemployment benefits for veterans unable to secure employment, and subsidized loans for home building and business ownership. 

The World War II American military was largely a volunteer force, not a long-term professional one, and huge swaths of people serving would be rotating out of their military careers in short order as the war reached its end. The American people and the policymakers representing them were rightly concerned about how those former servicemembers might best be integrated back into civilian life. In short, the bill was designed to secure the educational and economic well-being of millions of veterans at a pivotal juncture in American history broadly and American military history specifically. 

The G.I. Bill in its original form was conceived of as a payment of a debt owed to servicemembers whose civic virtue was exemplary and admirable. In his signing statement in 1944, FDR declared that the bill and associated legislation “provide the special benefits which are due to the members of our armed forces—for they have been compelled to make greater economic sacrifice and every other kind of sacrifice than the rest of us and are entitled to definite action to help take care of their special problems.” That those same servicemembers who made those definite sacrifices should have the opportunity to receive a suitable education, pursue entrepreneurship, or own a home seemed like common sense at the time and has seemed so to multiple generations of legislators who have passed subsequent bills providing similar benefits to veterans. 

The Constitution’s lofty goals are announced as a joint project of “We the People of the United States,” coming together to form a government aiming at all the things described in the preamble. But who constitutes the “people?” In one sense, it is all citizens, of course, but the intuition of many is that it is more properly those with some demonstrated stake or engagement in their community. In the colonial and Founding eras, this sometimes took the form of property requirements for citizenship. On his father’s passing, for example, John Adams inherited a plot of family land and became a “freeholder,” and by virtue of that ownership was both able to participate in town council meetings and actually obligated to hold some sort of office of public service. 

Though we have, for perhaps good reasons, moved away from land ownership or other similar requirements as prerequisites to an equal voice in our political process, there are many reasons to still value the concept of “buy-in” in a democratic republic. When we imagine an ideal citizen, we might conceive of someone like a G.I. Bill beneficiary: someone who voluntarily served their country and put themselves at risk. We might also think of broader concepts of citizenship and imagine someone integrated in their local community, engaged in public service, volunteer work, community organizations, and the like. 

Someone who is well educated and economically secure is by leaps and bounds more likely to be able to pursue these time-consuming activities. If this sort of civic engagement constitutes at least one part of “good citizenship,” and voluntary service constitutes another component, the G.I. Bill and its later counterparts ought to be quite directly shaping better citizens. It would, in other words, be taking the people we might most expect to demonstrate some selfless and civic virtues and giving them the opportunity to develop and apply those to civilian life. 

Indeed, the effects of the G.I. Bill on this sort of civic engagement are, by some accounts, measurable. Political scientist Suzanne Mettler’s 2007 book Soldiers to Citizens: The GI Bill and the Making of the Greatest Generation argues that one of the greatest benefits of the G.I. Bill was creating what we think of as the “Greatest Generation.” Those who took advantage of its benefits and thereby received an education and economic advantages after their military service were far more likely to engage in those things we traditionally associate with “civic life”: volunteering, associational memberships, and community work. In other words, by Mettler’s account, the G.I. Bill was a success. 

While one can certainly imagine other causal explanations for the surge in civic activity undertaken by the “Greatest Generation,” such as the camaraderie developed through the process of training, shipping out, fighting, and returning, generations of Americans have shared FDR’s belief that those who undertake definite sacrifice deserve definite benefits. But those benefits are not limited to beneficiaries of the bill and their children, for all Americans benefit when more Americans are civically engaged.

 

Philip D. Bunn is an assistant professor of political science at Covenant College in Lookout Mountain, Georgia. His research has been published in Political Research Quarterly and American Political Thought, and his reviews and essays have appeared in The Review of Politics, Plough Quarterly, Current, and The University Bookman, among other publications.

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Guest Essayist: Philip Bunn

Our Commissioners | Office of the Texas Governor | Greg Abbott
Essay Read by Constituting America Founder, Actress Janine Turner

The essays in our study reference the following edition of Democracy In America: University of Chicago Press – 1st edition translated by Harvey Mansfield and Delba Winthrop. Today’s essay references pages 666 – 673 of this edition of Democracy in America.

In Chapter 7 of Part 4 of the Second Volume of Democracy in America, Tocqueville rounds out a thought he has been developing in preceding chapters. In Chapter 6, De Tocqueville has told us that democracies have to fear a particular kind of despotism. While the language of “despot” and “despotism” recalls the Caesars and oppressive tyrants, De Tocqueville says that “if despotism came to be established in the democratic nations of our day… it would be more extensive and milder, and it would degrade men without tormenting them” (662). In other words, in a democracy, the despotism most likely to emerge is one of a schoolmaster-like despot, exercising “tutelary power” over a mass of people “who revolve on themselves without repose, procuring the small and vulgar pleasures with which they fill their souls” (663). The democratic spirit risks creating a mass of disconnected individuals, each pursuing petty pleasures, and in so doing opening the door for a “paternal power” that “seeks only to keep them fixed irrevocably in childhood” (663). 

It is important to retread this ground going into chapter 7, because as De Tocqueville tells us, “I believe it is easier to establish an absolute and despotic government in a people where conditions are equal than in any other, and I think that if such a government were once established in a people like this, not only would it oppress men, but in the long term it would rob each of them of several principle attributes of humanity” (666). This introduces two questions: Why are democratic societies particularly vulnerable to despotism? And what are these “principal attributes of humanity” that are lost under such a thoroughgoing despotism? 

Chapter 6, as a preface to Chapter 7, helps us understand the vulnerability of democracies, where conditions are equal: the mass of people are incentivized to pursue petty pleasures at the expense of civic engagement. A political leader in such a circumstance can make his people happy simply by efficiently providing those petty pleasures that they desire, while slowly taking over the reigns of civic life from the people. “So it is,” De Tocqueville says, “that every day it renders the employment of free will less useful and more rare; it confines the action of the will in a smaller space and little by little steals the very use of free will from each citizen” (663). This “free will,” then, seems to be part of the “principal attributes of humanity” that De Tocqueville fears democratic citizens will be robbed of, echoing his earlier concerns from Volume two, Part Two, Chapter 20 on the mental harms done to industrial laborers. 

This process of encroachment by a democratic despot, described in Chapter 6, illuminates De Tocqueville’s concern over a centralized political leadership described in Chapter 7: “It results from the very constitution of democratic nations and their needs that the power of the sovereign must be more uniform, more centralized, more extended, more penetrating, and more powerful in them than elsewhere” (666). In the absence of great persons taking up civic leadership, such as De Tocqueville expects aristocracies to produce, the government takes a more heavy and thoroughgoing administrative hand to ensure the peace and safety of the people. This naturally opens the door for the “absolute and despotic government” that De Tocqueville fears. 

What can be done to both resist tyranny and preserve the “principal attributes of humanity” in such a condition? If hereditary aristocrats are anathema to the democratic condition, perhaps, De Tocqueville reasons, one could “artificially create something analogous” to an aristocratic person (667). Perhaps a pseudo-aristocratic person could be constructed through voluntary association of democratic individuals. De Tocqueville writes, “I firmly believe that one cannot found an aristocracy anew in the world; but I think that when plain citizens associate, they can constitute very opulent, very influential, very strong beings—in a word, aristocratic persons” (668). 

De Tocqueville’s reasoning here mirrors the reasoning Aristotle employs in the Politics when discussing the advantages of rule by the many. True, Aristotle and De Tocqueville together concede, any one person chosen at random may lack the high virtues we might hope for from an educated aristocrat. However, in combination, the weaknesses of any given individual may be buoyed up by the strengths of the many, and the advantages of combined resources will become evident, like everyone pitching in financially for a dinner party better than any one person could purchase. These voluntary associations bring with them a kind of political strength: “A political, industrial, commercial, or even scientific and literary association is an enlightened and powerful citizen whom one can neither bend at will nor oppress in the dark, and who, in defending its particular rights against the exigencies of power, saves common freedoms” (668). This is thus some ground of hope for readers in a generally pessimistic section of the text: associations act as bulwarks against democratic despots, replicating the “greatest political advantages of aristocracy without its injustices or dangers” (668). 

Philip D. Bunn is an assistant professor of political science at Covenant College in Lookout Mountain, Georgia. His research has been published in Political Research Quarterly and American Political Thought, and his reviews and essays have appeared in The Review of Politics, Plough Quarterly, Current, and The University Bookman, among other publications.

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Click here for the essay schedule with today’s essay and previously published essays hyperlinked.