Former Presidents and Speaking Fees

I’m going to try wrangling some ideas that came up in a recent Twitter discussion/debate with the leading Jefferson scholar Annette Gordon-Reed, in hopes of arriving at greater clarity than the 140-character back-and-forth allowed, or allowed me, anyway. I’d been watching social-media reaction to President Obama’s accepting a big speaking fee backed by a well-known Wall Street firm and considering my reactions, going back to the end of the 1980’s, to what has become accepted practice for former presidents: embarking on new careers that involve making significant income for having served the office. Since Gerald Ford pioneered that practice — until the other day, I’d always thought it was Ronald Reagan — every former president with the exception of Jimmy Carter has engaged in it. I’d taken Reagan to be the first because his $2M for two speeches was memorable at the time. And yet with Reagan it seemed unhappily characteristic of the man and the nature of his presidency, so I recall also being (naively) startled when learning of Bill Clinton’s speaking fees.

It’s thus not, to me, Obama who personally errs here. Yes, we have the Carter example, but what I call wrong with the practice has to do with what I think is a fundamentally ill effect on the body politic. That nowadays such fees will most often come from some segment now shorthanded as “Wall Street” underscores the issue, in this time of scarifying inequality between the richest and poorest, and of the pervasive, now militant public opinion that government is rigged on behalf of the richest and most powerful. It’s an opinion that, while it often seems fully justified, is having a frighteningly destructive effect on our politics and public discourse.

I posted this on Twitter: “It’s never been OK that former presidents make that kind of $ giving talks to people who can pay that kind of $ to hear those talks.”  And “That presidents spend their terms knowing such affirmation and inclusion await makes the office itself a bad joke.” And “Everyone compromises for money, but there are limits. No serious person would want this kind of inclusion unless it spoke to something deep.”

Crudely put, those are my longstanding reactions to the practice of parlaying having been president into a high-income career making personal appearances.

Annette Gordon-Reed responded with this question: “How much should they make?” And then we’re off to the races, because while what I think I’m objecting to is the career itself — having served as president as a way of making money — it’s true that exact amounts play a big role in public discussion. If former presidents were catching a bit of beer money, here and there and every so often, the issue wouldn’t have legs. Reaction to Reagan’s 2M was like “What?! Two? Million? Dollars?” And given the current sense, directly affecting the last election, that government is a revolving door inside-job for bringing wealth to members of elites, both sources and amounts of money play a natural role.

That’s why there’s no answer to AG-R’s question. Of course I don’t know how much former presidents should make for giving speeches, and I don’t think anyone else does either. The “what’s the big deal” element in reactions to the reactions — and to my wandering speculations about what, beyond sheer financial gain, might inspire former presidents to leap with such brio onto this train — is for me the real problem, far more than the exact amounts, which are always going to sound high to ordinary people. And their sources are always going to lie in concentrations of power. AG-R looks at the choice to engage in the career, or not, as purely personal, with possible reasons behind doing so no more significant than the (admittedly inexplicable) habit of eating licorice, unrevealing of anything structurally problematic. I just can’t see it that way, so I try to figure out what the difference is.

In that context, it emerged in the ensuing Twitter back-and-forth that my recoil from the practice may involve something puritanical, which AG-R defines as “an instinct to regulate others’ behavior even if it d/not affect one personally on basis of supposed higher good.” I don’t think I have that instinct any more than the next guy, but this idea just feels so off-point: I’m asserting (can’t prove!) that the practice does affect, not me personally, but all of us in a negative way; and I’m certainly not proposing regulating it! I’m pursuing what it may mean, not so much about Obama, or about any of the others, but about the office itself, and the relationship between the public and the office.

This gets into novelty. The fact is, the big-fee thing is new. That doesn’t make it bad. The pension is newish, and I’m for that. AG-R points out that presidents didn’t used to do comedy skits on TV shows either. Further exposing my priggishness regarding the office, I wish they wouldn’t do skits now (I live in a world in which many ships have sailed); still, the first president gave constant attention to his personal commercial business while in office and saw his western-land portfolio rise in value after suppressing unrest in western Pennslyvania with military force. Nobody thinks less than I do that our past offers good models of lean, clean, republican virtue. The fact that money has always been in government — this thing Ford started being only the most modern iteration — doesn’t make it any less corrupting, to me. Corrupting, that is, of the relationship of citizens and government. That view probably does reflect — despite or even because of my personal interest in financial gain and the things money can buy — some Puritan influence. (“Puritanical may nevertheless be defined as AG-R defines it. I don’t know.)

Then there’s the issue of of viewing “Wall Street” as a conglomerate evil. Another Twitter user, Tosh Meston, suggested during the exchange that people criticizing the Obama speaking fee must simply find it “icky,” given the source — feeling revolted rather than thinking the matter through.

But construing criticism as nothing but a collapse to the fainting couch doesn’t magically make the criticism itself legless. I take AG-R’s point that, if we have retirement accounts, they’re of course invested by Wall Street and managed by Wall Street people. I’d never said anything about Wall Street people being bad — that presumption is why I’m trying to get a handle on the issues here. Questioning former presidents’ making nice with and taking fees from “Wall Street” doesn’t to me have to do with the quality of the people. I like my financial advisor OK too. The objection has to do with the fact — at this point, I admit, probably ineluctable, because evidently so readily defensible — that the office has become an avenue to such fees, and to the elite celebration they reflect. Because of political decisions we’re making all the time, the money and the celebration are located in the greatest concentrations of power: institutions “too big to fail,” etc.

Some people really do think Obama made a personal financial calculation in not prosecuting Wall Street offenders. I doubt it works that way.

Meston also asked, rhetorically, and evidently referring to Obama, “Is he not a private citizen?” Well, no, he’s not, because they’re all not. They’re sustained financially and made secure at public expense; they’re addressed and referred to by the public title of the office they held. But AG-R also pointed out a specific issue facing this president — as a private citizen. For generations, government policies have barred African Americans from building up the ownership and investment widely seen as critical to the basics of the American Dream. I should underscore the point: it’s not that the Clintons, say, were somehow always rich because they were white; lots of white people haven’t achieved wealth or even security; the Clintons got rich, in exactly the ways that most presidents who aren’t already rich now will, after Bill Clinton served.

Yet government efforts, going back to the beginning of the country, and prevailing throughout New Deal and Great Society and other federal housing and other policies, explicitly and deliberately shifted wealth away from African Americans. And those effects, even if they were being effectively remedied, wouldn’t be remedied fast, because real accumulation of wealth and security, where it happens at all, is a multi-generational process. (There’s a lot out there now on this issue; the story is dramatically distilled in Bob Herbert’s recent PBS documentary Against All Odds.)

So if there’s some particular disappointment in Obama personally, maybe particularly among some white people, based on an idea that might go something like “how could he, of all people, do such a thing as take Wall Street money, when he was supposed to be the one to deliver us from evil?” then that needs a lot of unpacking. Any sense that of all people, this president should join Jimmy Carter and nobody else in eschewing any of the benefits that others have had no compunction about enjoying reflects on longstanding expectations, even demands, that seem to place a condition on African American presidency. I sensed this for eight years. This presidency had to be holier than all others and thus redeem the nation. Whenever it obviously wasn’t — all the time, really, since that stuff doesn’t exist– man, did some people ever turn on the president.

As longtime readers of this blog know, I’ve always been skeptical of Obama’s approach to history, to law, to the presidency. I still don’t like this money-making and reward-garnering tradition in the presidency, and I still think it’s part and parcel of the immediate crisis we face. But if people think there’s a special responsibility placed on Obama, in particular, to fix this thing — that by doing what all the others, except Carter, now routinely do, he’s betraying something elemental — well, that’s just part of an age-old racial fantasy, which has affected his historic presidency strangely, and that we still aren’t looking at.

What “Autumn of the Black Snake” is About

We’re about six weeks away from the publication date of May 17 May 16! — and the launch event, at 7:00 PM that same day, at the new Greenlight branch on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn (all are welcome) — so I’m thinking aloud here about what my forthcoming book might be about.

You’d think I’d already know what it’s about. But I find I don’t know what I’m doing until I’m done, and this story is now truly finished, written and edited and copyedited and ready to appear. So until I decide that I think otherwise, here is the first-draft attempt at a full-blown, nonnegotiable manifesto for Autumn of the Black Snake.

The book will, I think, engage the history buff. But that’s not all I think it does.

Here goes:

In Autumn of the Black Snake, from Farrar, Straus and Giroux, I tell the startling story of the formation of the U.S. Army, from absolute scratch, and against fervent political opposition, in response to the worst military defeat the U.S. would ever suffer at the hands of indigenous North Americans — or, to look at it another way, the greatest victory that indigenous North Americans have ever enjoyed against U.S. expansion. This is a war that nobody talks about, or even has a good name for, despite its being the most important war the United States has ever fought — no, I mean because it’s the most important war the United States has ever fought.

When I tell people about it, they say “Oh, like Tecumseh?” (Well, some do.) No. Tecumseh never won a battle against the United States. Yet we’ve heard of Tecumseh. We’ve heard of the Battle of the Little Big Horn, and that was nothing, in scale, in historical importance, in sheer drama, to what I’m talking about here. Why is that?

We don’t deal with this one. Because it’s amazing.

Without this first war of expansionist conquest, nothing. Establishing not only the first regular U.S. military force, which would go on to became the most powerful military entity on earth, but also U.S. possession of what would become, astonishingly quickly, the booming, stinking industrial heartland that made America the most productive nation on earth (Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, now largely boarded up and shut down), this is the war where American dreams of commercial and military empire, which had been resisted so well and so long by the nations that actually lived there, were first made real.

The rest is history. And because, in 2017, we have urgent need to consider where our troubled history of national greatness may now be turning, I want to bring back to life the weird and painful things we’ve forgotten when it comes to how that history actually began. It happened in a country totally other than the one we have in our minds.

The book frames those origins in a multifacted dramatic action — “character-driven,” as they say. This all happened between 1791 and 1795. So, yes, rest assured your pal Alexander will make an appearance; so of course will Washington and Jefferson. So will all-important people who, I’ll say politely, are just a bit less well-known: the enigmatic Miami war leader Little Turtle, in tense partnership with the flamboyant Shawnee war leader Blue Jacket; the high British official Alexander McKee, also Shawnee; John Simcoe, the Governor of Upper Canada, eager to redress British defeat by the colonies; James Wilkinson, a double agent, at once a Spanish spy and second-in-command of the U.S. Army; and the dogged, irascible commander, General Anthony Wayne. Nobody talks much about Mad Anthony these days. Without him, no Grant and Lee, no Patton. The global power that the United States would go on to become — militarily, industrially, commercially — started not in 1776 with independence, not in 1789 with nationhood, and not in 1900 with expansion beyond the continent, but in the turbulent events that I’m relating in this book. It was a startup that required conquest.

Jefferson's West

Jefferson’s West — too bad other nations already held it.

Autumn of the Black Snake thus questions the tendency of books like Rachel Maddow’s Drift, which casts the rise of the national-security state as a departure from founding American values. It questions preconceptions of Steven Kinzer’s recent The True Flag, which casts U.S. imperialism — and dissent from imperialist policies — as a turn-of-the-20th-century phenomenon. It questions trenchant critiques by foreign-policy thinkers — Chris Hedges, Andrew Bacevich — who suggest that like Rome, the U.S. lost touch with its republican precepts when it became imperialist and expansionist. The action I’m relating makes it impossible to imagine an American republic without expansionism. The drive to “open” what was then the American West to real-estate investment and development served as an explicit cause of the Revolution and an explicit cause of forming a constitutional nation; both Hamilton and Jefferson used the term “empire” for their differing visions of the West. Any effort to criticize U.S. aggression would have to begin with criticizing founding values themselves. We can’t do that, because we’ve decided to not know what happened.

Well, now it’s 2017. Donald Trump is in the presidency, and all that that entails when it comes to Americans’ revivalist ideas about nationalism, white and male supremacy, wealth, resources, power, strength. On the flipside, students and others are struggling against the prevalence of racist/imperialist statues and demanding changing renaming buildings named for racist/imperialists. I’m eager to usher readers into the wild world and the harsh action that really formed us — us, the terribly divided people we so clearly are. I think this story truly is as gripping as the early trade reviews have said (despite the fact that standard flap copy calls a lot of stuff “gripping” that just isn’t!); I know it challenges historical preconceptions, all along our bitterly segmented political spectrum. What I wish is that it would spark some public dialogue, not only about the past but also about the future, and not only about the American past and future but also, in this perilous moment, about the past and future of humanity.

Another Good Trade Review for “Autumn of the Black Snake”

Kirkus Reviews, March 15, 2017:

The history of the founding of the U.S. Army in response to indigenous push back against the takeover of their territory.

According to this tightly focused account by Hogeland (Founding Finance: How Debt, Speculation, Foreclosures, Protests, and Crackdowns Made Us a Nation, 2012, etc.), American “existence, purpose, and future” were first clarified by the need to make military incursions into hostile Indian territory. The state-supported militias that had sustained the early republic and largely won the War of Independence against the British were no longer enough in conquering new territory westward. George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and other nationalists fervently believed that this land belonged to Americans by native right and indeed had been ceded as a “gigantic mishmash” by Britain in the 1783 Treaty of Paris. However, the Indian confederation, made up of the Miami, Shawnee, Delaware, and other western tribes who lived and hunted west of the Ohio River and led by Blue Jacket and Little Turtle, successfully resisted American incursion into their territory, climaxing in the utter rout of Gen. Arthur St. Clair’s troops in the Battle of the Wabash in November 1791. Hogeland points to this battle, which resulted in the deaths of some 650 American troops, including Gen. Richard Butler and many civilians, as the moment that galvanized “Americans’ real emergence as a national people.” The author also highlights Washington’s efforts to use St. Clair’s ignominious defeat to gain support for a standing army; this was not an easy task in the face of popular resistance led by “state sovereigntists” like Patrick Henry, in spite of the newly ratified Constitution’s assertion that Congress had the power to create an army. Hogeland vividly delineates these seminal personalities, such as the first commander of Washington’s Western army, “Mad Anthony” Wayne; the Indian leaders Blue Jacket and Little Turtle as well as the half-white Indian ally, Alexander McKee, angling for British aid in the next American-Indian clash.

An enlightening history of American westward expansion.

New Events Scheduled

Check out Autumn of the Black Snake events for May and June.

For those in the NYC area, I especially hope you’ll mark down the May 16 book launch, at the new branch of Brooklyn’s excellent Greenlight Bookstore, Flatbush Avenue in Prospect Lefferts Gardens. (Details to follow — but as I recall, we’ve always had a pretty good time at these things.) Events also scheduled for Philly, D.C., Chicago, and more.

Autumn of the Black Snake: Advance Endorsements

cover(Otherwise known as blurbs.)

“Like all great non-fiction, Autumn of the Black Snake takes the familiar and turns it upside-down and inside-out. With clear, muscular prose, Mr. Hogeland sets the record straight on badly neglected early American history. He knows his stuff and his point of view is fresh and sure-footed. My notion of the Republic’s narrative has been forever altered.” ―Eric Bogosian, actor, Pulitzer Prize-nominated playwright, and author of Operation Nemesis: The Assassination Plot that Avenged the Armenian Genocide

“William Hogeland is one of the best historians of early America. His books are pulsating and thought provoking, and in Autumn of the Black Snake he marshals his skills to recount the sweeping story of frontier turbulence that culminated in Mad Anthony Wayne’s victory over the Indians at Fallen Timbers. Relating this saga would have been sufficient for some historians, but Hogeland goes further and lays bare President Washington’s hidden motives behind this military campaign. This is history at its best. The gripping account Hogeland provides is must reading.” ―John Ferling, author of Whirlwind: The American Revolution and the War That Won It and Jefferson and Hamilton: The Rivalry That Forged A Nation

Autumn of the Black Snake is an elegantly written and scrupulously balanced account of what is sometimes called President George Washington’s Indian War, enhanced with a nuanced and intriguing recounting of the often dirty politics behind the formation of the United States Army. I highly recommend this important―and thoroughly enjoyable―book on these overlooked but crucial episodes in the early days of the American Republic.” ―Peter Cozzens, author of The Earth Is Weeping: The Epic Story of the Indian Wars for the American West

“Some wars America remembers, some wars we work to forget. William Hogeland gives a dramatic telling of the war that we have never really talked about, despite being the war that made us the global military power we are today. The Shawnee, Miami, and Delaware communities were robbed and devastated by a conflict they in no way provoked―and defeated by an American general named Mad Anthony, conquering land that President George Washington had long coveted. It’s a harrowing story, brilliantly told, and a radical re-look at the ragged collective of colonies who fought for their own liberty and then, once getting it, set out on the warpath, an empire bent on taking its neighbors’ liberty away.” ―Robert Sullivan, author of My American Revolution and Rats

“In this page-turner, the bigger-than-life characters of Little Turtle, George Washington, Blue Jacket, and ‘Mad’ Anthony Wayne clash over the future of the continent, at a time when any of them might have prevailed. A rich and important book.” ―Kathleen DuVal, author of Independence Lost: Lives on the Edge of the American Revolution

“History as if it just happened, written by someone who saw everything and missed nothing. Hogeland’s rare talent is turning books into conversation, and bloodless, impenetrable histories into compelling and strange narratives. Icons become flawed people who did all sorts of things for contradictory reasons. The author is a skeptic, political analyst, and truth teller. Which is all fine, but not nearly as important as being a brilliant and amusing story teller.” ―Paul Chaat Smith, author of Everything You Know about Indians Is Wrong

“If you think Custer’s Last Stand was the biggest defeat inflicted on an American army by Native American forces, you should read William Hogeland’s Autumn of the Black Snake. This book describes one of America’s least-known but most important conflicts: the so-called Northwest Indian War. Hogeland shows how the annihilation of a large American force by a confederation of tribes caused the stoic George Washington to cry out in rage and led to the formation of the Legion of the United States which became the foundation of the American Army. He argues that this struggle is an ominous prequel to Imperial America, as greed, nationalism, and ambition swirl through a cast of amazing characters. In Autumn of the Black Snake, Hogeland once again manages to write rigorous, original history in wonderfully colloquial prose.” ―John Dolan, aka Gary Brecher, The War Nerd

Lin-Manuel Miranda and William Shakespeare

At least twice now I’ve been exposed to the notion that criticizing the musical “Hamilton” for its historical tendentiousness is like criticizing Shakespeare’s history plays for their historical inaccuracy, with the presumption — so obvious, the implication goes, that it’s not even worth stating, let alone arguing — that only a cluck would attempt to criticize Shakespeare on that basis, because, well, Shakespeare. The historian R.B. Bernstein invoked the Bard in this context when moderating a panel discussion at a conference of historians. Martha C. Nussbaum, the scholar of philosophy, law, and government, did so too when declining to respond to my argument, editorially solicited, that an uncritical participation in emphasizing the American founders’ reading and thinking, at the expense of examining their action, leads ironically yet ineluctably to acceptance and even celebration, in Nussbaum’s Boston Review essay “Hamilton’s Choice,” of the hagiographic history that served as inspiration for the musical.

This Miranda-Shakespeare comparison seems a natural hook when Miranda’s fans are defending the musical against what they take to be criticism of the show’s historical inaccuracy, because Shakespeare’s famous history plays, from Julius Caesar to the Wars of the Roses cycle and beyond, aren’t history either. Nussbaum puts the comparison in this strange way:

. . . literal veracity matters rather little [in the Hamilton musical], no more than it matters to a just appreciation of Shakespeare’s political ideas that he may have based too much on Plutarch and not studied a wider range of historical sources for ancient Rome. There are flaws in Shakespeare’s political understanding of monarchy and its relationship to the populace, and sometimes these do show up in a one-sided use of his source materials, particularly in Julius Caesar, where he gives Cicero and the republicans short shrift. But one could have seen those flaws had the play been a total fiction, since his disturbing ideas about the inevitable venality of the people are evident from the play alone.

Nussbaum seems to be saying that, in an alternate universe in which the play Julius Caesar lacks any reference to specific historical events (so probably isn’t titled Julius Caesar?), we’d still be able to see the flaws, as Nussbaum calls them, in the view of monarchy and populace presented, back here in our universe, by the play called Julius Caesar. I think that assertion achieves, in a revealing way, meaninglessness. It’s absurd to imagine a Shakespearean view of monarchy and populace, flawed or otherwise, independent of actual Shakespeare works; it’s absurd to imagine any Shakespeare history play independent of that play’s relationship to specific historical narratives. In considering how such issues develop in Julius Caesar, a handy place to look would be the events involving the death of Julius Caesar. That’s where Shakespeare looked, and it seems to me that it actually is important, if not, necessarily, to enjoying a production of one of the plays, then to any critically informed appreciation of Shakespeare, to reflect on his biases regarding democracy and monarchy — I lack the apodictic certainty to label them flaws — in part by considering his relationship to sources.

Nussbaum, for one, has done exactly that. Her close consideration of Shakespeare’s sources is reflected in the quotation above.  Yet regarding the Hamilton musical, she hasn’t considered sources, as I tried to point out. That difference between Shakespeare and Miranda, in the context of scholarly thinkers’ defense of the musical, points to a larger and more important difference. Continue reading