White House, nor does it merely alternate from pole to pole, from president to opposition, from Republicans to Democrats. It floats. It shifts. It wriggles elusively, like mercury in the palm of one’s hand, passing from one competingpower center to another, with the driving leadership on major policies—from the budget to tax reform to military spending and the MX missile—gravitating to whoever is daring enough to grab it and smart enough to figure out the quickest way to make a political score.
Even our high school catechisms about the division of powers in government, among the executive branch, the legislature, and the courts, miss the elusive fluidity of power these days. The old notion of separation of powers implies, for many people, a seesaw power struggle for primacy, principally between the president and Congress—essentially a variation of the John Wayne metaphor: President wins, Congress loses, or vice versa. Actually, the power float is more like water polo, where the ball is tossed among players trying to keep their heads above water, or fast-action basketball, where anyone can steal the ball, change the flow of the game, and then score from practically anywhere around the basket.
The old-fashioned seesaw image omits powerful institutions such as the Federal Reserve Board, the primary influence on interest rates, monetary policy, and inflation. The simple notion of Congress versus President overlooks the fact that often, presidents are not challenged frontally by Congress but rather by powerful political alliances that bridge across the executive and legislative branches to alter, outflank, or subvert presidential policy. Jimmy Carter was forced to build an aircraft carrier he did not want—not by Congress alone, but by an alliance between his own admirals and pro-Navy members of Congress. Ronald Reagan had to bow to combined pressures from some officials within his administration and from most of Congress for some sanctions against South Africa. The simple seesaw idea also ignores the fact that the powers of Congress and president often mesh and can only be wielded jointly. As the Harvard University presidential scholar Richard Nuestadt observed, we have not so much a government of separated powers as “a government of separated institutions sharing powers.” 11
Case in point: Ronald Reagan built a reputation as a strong president, and at times he clearly took charge: ordering the invasion of Grenada and air strikes against Libya, pressing budget and tax cuts through Congress in 1981, naming justices to the Supreme Court, or suddenly announcing plans for a space-based defense that few others thought wise or realistic. At these times, especially when dealing with foreign policy, Reagan clearly combined the functions of chief of state and prime minister, both of which are inherent in our presidency. His early legislative victories restored the vigor of the presidency andrevived public confidence in the nation’s highest office. Unquestionably, he rekindled the ceremonial majesty of the presidency.
But for other long stretches of time—not just as a late-second-term, lame-duck president, but even in his first term—the power of political initiative floated away from Reagan, despite popularity ratings on a par with Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Dwight Eisenhower. During Reagan’s passive periods, policy has been driven not by the president but by others.
This is not unique to Reagan. Eisenhower had to bargain with Democrats Sam Rayburn and Lyndon Johnson. Nixon, Ford, and Carter all found it impossible to grasp and exercise continuous control and deliver on their pet programs. Each wound up on the defensive, with declining popularity. What is so striking and instructive about the Reagan presidency is the peculiar combination of his overwhelming personal popularity and his frequent lack of matching political leverage. It is as if we had unknowingly slipped into operating like a European parliamentary
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley