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There is no textbook template for leadership in difficult times. Lincoln, we are told, suffered through doubt and depression throughout the years of the Civil War, walking the nighttime White House halls like a lanky wraith, agonizing over every decision and adverse turn of events. Truman, on the other hand, reportedly gathered all his facts in front of him, made up his mind, gave his orders, and slept in peace. Eisenhower, we are told, wrote in advance two short speeches to announce the events of the D-Day invasion of the French coast, to cover both possible outcomes. One of them—accepting personal responsibility for the defeat of the Allied forces at Normandy and the deaths of thousands of brave men—stayed in his pocket. Nixon sent Henry Kissinger in secret to China, ending the Cold War world as we heretofore knew it, breaking all our old assumptions with one swift blow like a hammer striking—cracking—shattering rock. Whether we agree with all of their actions or not, these men are remembered as firm, resolute American leaders when the time came for action, guideposts by which all future leaders might be measured. When told by one of his generals following the fall of Richmond that Lee was fleeing west with his command and “if the thing be pressed” the Army of Northern Virginia might be overrun and the long national nightmare brought to an end, Lincoln wrote back a simple, one-line note: “Let the thing be pressed.” One can almost hear the taking of the long breath, see the sad hounds-eyes’ slow blink, before the scratch of pen on paper. 

Idle thoughts in the aftermath of the president’s recent press conference, and the bubbling chatter of his public supporters—backed, apparently, by the polls—how Americans admire Mr. Bush because of his qualities of strong leadership. “Where have all the flowers gone?” the old Vietnam-era song began. Substitute “standards” for “flowers,” and there might be a point to be made here, somewhere. In our haste—to get where, one wonders—we seem to be abandoning our standards willy-nilly, shedding them like a goose dropping feathers as we fly through the air. 

Our young soldiers must die—and others along with them—we are told, in order to bring democracy to the people of Iraq. If so, it is not Halliburton our Iraqi friends must beware, so much as the folks at Diebold. 

In the early days of the nation, we took this democracy thing seriously—argued over it, fought over it, gave it up grudgingly, even to our own fellow citizens. We saw it as something of value, the foundation of our society. Now we see it merely as something to do, or a slogan to be broadcast in Arabic and other exotic languages. Doubt me? The Supreme Court halts the counting of the presidential ballot, deeming inconvenient the taking of the time to complete the actual tally. “You seem more yourself,” an aide says to the British King George, of madness fame. “I have always been myself,” the king replies. “But now I seem more myself. It is the seeming that is important.” Yes. 

Oakland recently divided over the issue of how we ought to attack crime and the social causes thereof. The vote of Measure R was so close that it came down to the absentee paper ballots which, being noted on paper, had to be counted by hand. It is the way of count—the elders might remember—that served us well from the beginning of the republic. Days passed, then weeks, as the election workers went through the count, ballot by ballot. No chaos ensued. No charges of dirty tricks. Only a steady, dignified, patient public wait as we determined what was our will. 

Why, then, one wonders, have we decided to turn our democracy over to Diebold? Why go ye that way, America? (to paraphrase the Revolution-era ditty) What madness your mind fills? Haste and greed, one supposes. The greed of profiteers, figuring out a way to make a buck by filling a “need” where no known “need” actually exists. Playing upon our haste. We have become a hasty people. We must have electronic vote tallying because we must know how the election came out within seconds after the closing of the polls because—goodness—one forgets exactly why we must know how the election came out within seconds after the closing of the polls. We just know that someone told us it is important, and it must be so. And so, the Diebold debacle, with the downcast glance, the embarrassed scratching at the side of the cheek, the shuffling of the feet, the sad, “Well, yes, we miscounted a thousand votes, here and there, but?” and here the fleeting smile, the hopeful rise in tone—“but didn’t we get it wrong so awfully fast, don’t you think?—” And rather than chucking the whole nonsense, we muddle on. 

The modern American, we are told by the media analysts, want a leader who makes up his or her mind quickly, and sticks to it. God help us, if that is all. 

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