President Gerald Ford speaks as Jimmy Carter listens during the first of three debates in 1976
In this election cycle there is a common misperception that it is the moderator’s job to comment on a debater’s lies or false claims. But that’s the job of the other debater. In a true debate the participants aren’t responding to reporters, but fact-checking each other.
The political season always brings out a cycle of “debates” finally agreed to by cautious candidates, news organizations, and the Commission on Presidential Debates. Though everyone involved has different motives, the one most commonly expressed is that debates offer the public the chance to compare candidates side by side. In the unfettered give-and-take of a debate we are supposed to learn about issues that divide and sometimes unify those running for the same office.
In their current form, however, debates are fettered; they can’t achieve the lofty goals we have for the form. The usual “debate” format devised by campaigns and participating media amounts to little more than a joint press conference.
A debate done correctly should deliver a purposeful clash of views, where claims and evidence are tested against a series of counter-arguments. Among others, Aristotle was certain that acts of public advocacy had a cleansing effect on the body politic. He believed we are wiser for subjecting our ideas to the scrutiny of others. This may sound lofty and abstract, but most of us do a form of this when we talk through an important decision. We often want friends to help us see potential problems to our proposed course of action.
The problem is that candidates usually fear unmediated and extended exchanges. They and their staffs believe that a serious gaff can sink an entire campaign. So they hedge their bets. They agree to “debates” if they are moderated by a panel, or at least a single journalist. This is when the process begins to go south. It’s further doomed when each side is given only a minute or two to respond to statements from the other side.
There is also a widespread perception that it is the moderator’s job to comment on lies, half truths or false claims. But that’s the job of the other debater. In a good debate the participants aren’t answering reporter’s questions, but fact-checking each other. The advocates directly address the claims and arguments of their opposites on what are usually several broad but important subject areas. When one issue seems to have been exhausted, a moderator may steer the pair to a related issue, and then get out of the way.
Perhaps one the purest political debate available on video dates back to 1992. Talk show host Phil Donahue invited Democratic Party primary contenders Bill Clinton and Jerry Brown to debate on his show. After a brief introduction and commercial Donahue simply introduced the two men and moved out of the way. The debate at a single round table was direct and mostly uninterrupted.
Lincoln and Douglas debated for hours by themselves without the assistance of others. Indeed, a prime form of Saturday night entertainment in the 19th Century was a formal debate in a town’s biggest venue. The whole process of seeing two leaders explain their ideas under the scrutiny of an interested audience could be invigorating. By contrast, the short question-based formats commonly in American political debates generally ruin the chance to see how much a candidate actually knows beyond their memorized campaign sound bites.
Our system conspires to protect candidates and allowing them to stay in a comfort zone of clichés and bumper sticker retorts. Debates should expose relevant facts and hard truths that are initially hidden by glib statements of resolve. We rarely let the candidates follow a single thread long enough to see if they really understand those truths.
An only child who had to oversee the passage of his parents through their final “vale of tears,” Christopher Buckley also bore the role of keeper of their legacies.
Many of us who struggle with the task of finding ways to give heat to ideas can usually point to favorites: cases where a writer has put the perfect image together to make his or her point. These passages are moments of rhetorical grace, sometimes represented by economy of style or an evocative image. Writers read partly to experience these moments. They add more fuel for the long slog of putting words on the page.
One personal favorite is from an unlikely source on an unlikely subject. Christopher Buckley’s 2009 memoir of the last year of his celebrity parents is funny and wise on the demands of coping with the inevitable. In Losing Mum and Pup we see the conservative gadfly William F. Buckley Jr. and his socialite wife struggle to the end. An only child who had to oversee their passage through what his father often described as “this vale of tears,” Christopher also bore the role of keeper of the flame for their outsized legacies.
That the book could be characterized as a pleasure to read is a credit to his dry wit and effective storytelling. Humor and melancholy merge seamlessly. Among other things, his dad’s ability to cope with the death of his mother produces the kinds of serio comic episodes that any caregiver with a sense of humor would recognize.
This is not just a memoir about wheelchairs and vacant faces. The younger Buckley has the good sense to understand the end of his parents lives mostly in terms of the consequential work done in their most productive years: Bill in publishing and politics; Pat, in the upper stratosphere of New York museums and philanthropies.
“Great men have too much canvas up.”
Here’s a favorite passage seemingly about his father’s love of sailing, but also much more. It contains a wonderful image.
Pup was an avid sailor. He had learned to sail as a child in upstate Connecticut, on a not very large lake. Now we live on the Connecticut shore of Long Island Sound and kept a thirty-eight-foot wooden sloop. It was named Panic, a name my mother found all too apt. . . I now get that Pup’s greatness was of a piece with the way he conducted himself at sea. Great men always have too much canvas up. Great men take great risks. It’s the timorous soul—souls like myself—who err on the side of caution; who take in sail when they see a storm approaching and look for a snug harbor. Not my old man. Or as Mum used to put it, “Bill why are you trying to kill us?”Great men are also impatient. This particular aspect showed up most vividly in my father’s manner of docking his boats. Most people, when guiding, say a ten or twenty ton vessel toward a dock, approach slowly. Not my old man. His technique was to go straight at it, full speed. Why waste time? This made for memorable episodes.1
“Great men have too much canvas up.” It’s an apt image that seems completely faithful to the person who published the National Review. Anyone who had observed Buckley on his Firing Line broadcasts or his work as a conservative essayist could also see the literal extended to the behavioral. Fearless sailing was typical of who the father was, even when he was heading in the wrong direction.
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1Christopher Buckley, Losing Mum and Pup, Emblem Books, 2010., pp. 121-22.
