(Composite / Photos: Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images / Shutterstock)
FOR THE PAST TWO MONTHS, I’ve been watching focus groups organized by The Bulwark’s publisher, Sarah Longwell. In these conversations—twenty-one so far, conducted from early July to late August—scores of voters, ranging from solid Democrats to two-time Donald Trump supporters, have talked about their options in 2024.
You can hear excerpts from these conversations every week on Sarah’s podcast, The Focus Group. But as I watched the groups, one theme came through clearly: anxiety and skepticism, particularly among women, about America’s willingness to elect a woman.
At first, I was dismayed. In one conversation after another, women argued against nominating Kamala Harris for president (some of the focus groups took place before Joe Biden dropped out) or predicted that she would lose, specifically because she’s a woman.
But as the discussions went on, I saw signs that their pessimism was fragile. It was based on weak or flawed assumptions. And it was starting to crack.
Harris could lose for a host of reasons. But the barrier to electing a woman president—the ultimate glass ceiling—is ready to break.
Sexism in politics certainly isn’t gone. It showed up in the focus groups, most notably in two sessions that took place before Biden left the race. In one conversation, Zuli, a hijab-wearing “flipper” in Pennsylvania (flippers, in this context, are people who voted for Trump in 2016 but switched to Biden in 2020), said she felt that the presidency wasn’t “a woman’s job.” In another conversation, Melena, a disenchanted two-time Trump voter in Kentucky (disenchanted Trump voters are those who indicate that they’re unlikely to vote for him again in 2024), called Harris “seductive” and “trashy” as if she were “ready to go to the bar with a bunch of men and drink them under the table.”
But these were the exceptions. By and large, the gender-based arguments against Harris weren’t about promiscuity or a woman’s place. They were about political calculations. I sorted their arguments into five categories.
In focus groups conducted before Harris replaced Biden on the ticket, many women—particularly Clinton-Biden voters (those who supported Hillary Clinton in 2016 and Biden in 2020)—said that because she was female, it was unwise to nominate her. They attributed this sexism to others, and they stipulated that they didn’t share it. Many said they liked her.
“We live in a country that’s governed by a lot [of] religions,” said Carrie, a black Clinton-Biden voter in Georgia. “The Catholic community, it’s not ready to have a woman in charge.” Wendy, a white flipper in Pennsylvania, worried that people would vote for Trump over Harris because they’d ask “what happens if, you know, she has a bad day and she gets really emotional.”
Nicole, a flipper in Arizona, argued against Harris based on sexism in other countries:
Please don’t hate me for my comments, but I do not feel a female should run the state, run the president. Some countries do not respect women. And so it’s just—to have a female running the United States, I’m, I’m just—I’m all for females, just not as a president. Sorry, ladies.
As Nicole spoke, other women in the group laughed or smiled ruefully. They seemed to recognize that she wasn’t the source of the prejudice; she was just describing, in her eyes, the world as it is.
In one group after another, women resigned themselves to gender bias, even as they disowned it. Stacey, a middle-aged black Clinton-Biden voter in Georgia, said of Harris: “She’s more than qualified. I would love to see her as a president. But unfortunately, the country is not ready for that.” Elizabeth, a young black Clinton-Biden voter in Pennsylvania, made a similar point about Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer: “I don’t think America is ready for a female face to be president. . . . She’s great, she sounds great on paper, and I believe that she would be an awesome person to run against Trump. I just don’t believe she could beat him. Not right now.”
Despite these concerns, the focus groups produced no sign that male flippers—the voters who in theory would do the most damage to Harris, by flipping back to Trump—actually objected to a female president. In fact, several said just the opposite.
In a July 16 session, Todd, a flipper in Michigan, speculated that because Whitmer was a woman, most people wouldn’t vote for her as president. But he said he would. On July 22—the day after Biden dropped out and endorsed Harris—Tom, a flipper in Pennsylvania, declared, “America’s ready to elect a woman. I think it’d be a good thing.” On July 24, Dennis, another Pennsylvania flipper, cited his mother as a model of competence. He asked: “So why would I say a woman can’t do the job?”
As Harris secured the nomination and campaigned around the country, there was still no sign of a backlash. “I think it’s good for America to have a female president, to have another minority president,” said Jonathan, a young white flipper in Georgia, in a focus group on August 20.
Maybe all these men were hiding their sexism. Or maybe sexism is less pervasive—or less lethal in a presidential election—than defeatists imagine.
The people most skeptical of Harris’s viability, in focus groups that took place before Biden dropped out, were black women. Overwhelmingly, they preferred him as the nominee—even after his dismal debate performance—on the theory that a white man would get more votes than a black woman would. Some argued that too many white voters preferred a white candidate, or that too many male voters preferred a man. But others said the sexism extended to the black community and to women themselves.
“I feel that Kamala wouldn’t win . . . because just in the black community, there’s still a struggle with men want[ing] to see women as leaders,” said Tasheria, a middle-aged black Clinton-Biden voter in Georgia. “I face that every day.” As she spoke, four other black women in the group nodded.
In another session, Stacey, one of the Clinton-Biden voters who said America wasn’t ready for Harris, explained some of the reasons for her gloomy assessment. “People hate women, especially black women,” she said. “Even black women hate black women.” Again, other black women in the group nodded. “Mmm-hmm,” said one.
“Women, period, don’t want to see another woman in office,” said Syreeta, a young black Clinton-Biden voter who also lived in Georgia. “Nobody would vote for her but black women. And half of black women probably wouldn’t vote.” Again, several women in the group signaled their agreement.
Nobody knows a demographic group better than the people who live in it. But at some point, the pessimism becomes so self-referential that it cries out for defiance. To the extent that women have become carriers of sexism, why be fatalistic about it? Why not do everything possible to break the cycle?
In fact, since Harris replaced Biden, many women have rallied to her. That’s why the Democratic ticket went from trailing to leading in the polls. In the late August focus groups, the only references to Harris’s gender were positive. “The fact that she’s a female and she might be elected president is fantastic,” said Sheila, an older white woman and disenchanted Trump voter in Texas, during an August 23 discussion. “It’s women’s rights, you know?”
In several focus groups in early July, women cited Clinton’s 2016 loss as evidence that the country wouldn’t accept a female president. “If there was ever a woman that was prepared for the presidency, it would have been Hillary Clinton,” said Loretta, a middle-aged black Clinton-Biden voter in Pennsylvania. “And yet she didn’t get the votes.”
Some pointed to unsuccessful campaigns by other women. “I liked Elizabeth Warren,” recalled Nikki, a black Clinton-Biden voter in Georgia. “But I knew that she wasn’t going to win, because nobody likes a smart woman who has solutions.”
It’s true that sexism played a role in 2016. But in the focus groups, people who had voted for Trump over Clinton emphasized that they found her distinctively noxious.
“She just wasn’t a very likable personality,” said Tom, the Pennsylvania flipper. He expressed more interest in Harris, saying, “I think America’s ready to elect a woman.”
Diane, a white disenchanted Trump voter in Virginia, likewise distinguished Harris from Clinton. “I don’t like Clinton for many other reasons,” she explained.
Maybe these people are lying, and it really was Clinton’s gender that bothered them. Or maybe people who think Clinton’s loss was just about sexism should listen to some of the moderate voters who rejected her.
In July, when Biden stepped aside and endorsed Harris, some Republican politicians and right-wing commentators derided her as a “DEI hire.” By this, they meant that (1) Biden chose her as his running mate in 2020 to promote diversity, equity, and inclusion (which Biden has acknowledged with respect to her gender) and (2) therefore she wasn’t competent or qualified.
The latter inference—that DEI entails a lack of merit—is a form of prejudice, and it showed up in the focus groups. Several people who had previously voted for Trump raised the “DEI” accusation or agreed with it as a characterization of Harris. Even a few black, female, or left-leaning voters confessed to wondering what she would bring to the presidency, beyond her race and gender.
But these conversations also exposed the weakness of the “DEI” label: It’s inherently superficial, and it’s easily peeled off when you supply voters with deeper information about the candidate. In the focus groups, most people who bought the “DEI” argument against Harris said they didn’t know much about her. But they knew she was black and female, and that’s why they bought the argument. It filled the vacuum.
As people learn more about Harris, “DEI” loses its power to explain and minimize her. I watched this process play out in a focus group of two-time Trump voters. The discussion took place on August 1, just a week after Harris emerged as the likely Democratic nominee. At first, when a male participant called her a DEI hire, three of the four women in the group raised their hands to signal that they agreed. But when the moderator asked why—“What makes you think she’s a DEI hire?”—they struggled to answer.
“Up until she was announced as vice president, I’d never heard of her,” said Courtney, a middle-aged white woman in Arizona. “And so I guess I just don’t have a super strong opinion.”
Another participant in the August 1 session—Cailyn, a younger white woman in Arizona—likewise came up empty:
Having a woman in that position . . . kind of gives the American people this idea that we’re progressing now that we have a woman in office in the vice president position. But I don’t really know exactly what she has brought to the table. I feel like I didn’t really see her a lot during Biden’s presidency.
Cailyn noted that in the week before the focus group—the week after Biden stepped aside—things had begun to change. “I feel like ever since she became the Democratic nominee, I’ve seen her way more than I have in the past four years,” she said.
In the same group, Carol, an older white woman in Michigan, initially signaled that she agreed with the DEI critique of Harris. But as the discussion went on, she acknowledged that “lately she’s been a little bit more eloquent in her speaking.”
That’s what often happens when a vice president emerges from the president’s shadow. The impression that she’s not up to the job begins to fade away.
In focus groups conducted before Biden bowed out, I heard this warning repeatedly from Democrats, particularly black women. They liked Harris but said they had to set aside those feelings because the fundamental imperative was to beat Trump, and nominating a woman might jeopardize that. Ataesia, a young black Clinton-Biden voter in Georgia, put the point bluntly:
We don’t need to have someone who’s different. And it sucks to say that. You know, it sucks to say I’d rather vote for a white man than a black woman. But at this point, we’re not getting into . . . who’s better, who do I identify with the most. It’s who’s going to make sure I can get my medicine without paying $500 a pop? Who’s going to make sure my student loan payment doesn’t jump to $1,000 a month?
That makes sense: When urgent needs are at stake, you have to be practical. But doesn’t that line of reasoning also apply to people who, according to the pessimists, might vote for Trump just because his opponent is a black woman? Can those voters afford identity politics?
For many, the answer is no. That’s why in 2008, a lot of people who had never voted for a black president got over it and elected Barack Obama. And that’s why Harris might win, too.
Racial and gender barriers are real, but they’re not unbreakable. Sometimes people who didn’t like one female candidate are willing to vote for another. Sometimes people who think you’re just a “DEI hire” are open to learning more about you. And sometimes voters want change enough to set aside their prejudices.
So don’t give up on that glass ceiling. Eventually, it will shatter. But only if we keep trying.
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Publish date : 2024-09-04 20:38:00
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