Contributor

While President Trump is busy working through his checklist for sabotaging the midterm elections, Republicans are already concocting the political equivalent of a shady insurance policy — the kind someone takes out the day before the house catches fire.

I’ll save you some time and explain that the drubbing Republicans are about to endure won’t be the result of Trump or his policies. Instead, it will be because the midterm elections were rigged for the Democrats. Or at least these claims are the GOP spin that’s already in progress.

The predicate is being laid. “They want illegals to vote,” House Speaker Mike Johnson recently declared. “That’s why they opened the border wide for four years under Biden and Harris and allowed in all these dangerous people. It was a means to an end. The end is maintaining their own power,” Johnson continued.

To prevent this, Republicans have invented a MacGuffin: the SAVE America Act — a plot device Republicans have introduced primarily to drive the story forward.

That’s not to say the legislation would be meaningless. The SAVE America act would require proof of citizenship to register to vote, eliminate mail-only registrations, mandate photo ID nationwide and force states to send voter lists to the Department of Homeland Security.

Some of these things (like requiring voter ID) are popular and even arguably salutary. But in light of recent events — say, Trump’s attempt to overturn the 2020 presidential election results — any effort by Trump to nationalize or otherwise meddle in our election process should be met with immediate alarm.

Still, it is highly unlikely that any of these new tools would actually stem the tide of the rising blue wave that is poised to devour Republicans this November.

The notion that any substantial number of undocumented immigrants is voting is a farce. There are scant few examples of election fraud by anyone, and the examples that do surface often involve Republicans.

And to the degree there would be impediments to voter registration (there is worry that women who changed their names after getting married would be disenfranchised), the electoral results of making it harder to register to vote would largely affect future elections after this year — and these provisions wouldn’t solely hurt Democratic voters.

Regardless, this is all likely a moot point. Despite passing the House, it’s hard to imagine this bill can garner the 60-vote threshold needed to pass the Senate (and it doesn’t seem likely there’d be enough votes to nuke the filibuster).

This raises an interesting question: Why invest so much time and energy in a bill that seems destined to fail — and that, even if it did pass, would likely not alter even the closest of November’s midterm elections?

Because the bill isn’t really about passing policy. It’s about narrative control.

The SAVE America Act serves three strategic purposes for Republicans:

It’s a comforting but false diagnosis for the midterms. Let’s face it: Trump isn’t going to admit that his policies have backfired or that his approval ratings are in the tank, and Republicans aren’t about to lay that at his feet. As Trump declared in 2020 (before a single vote was cast), “The only way we’re going to lose this election is if the election is rigged.” Trumpism cannot fail; it can only be failed.

Base mobilization through grievance. Just as caravans of migrants always seem to miraculously appear just before an election, threats of election rigging at least give Republicans something to scare Fox News voters about — a way to motivate via fear and outrage in an otherwise moribund midterm electorate.

Blame insurance. Despite being the establishment and controlling the entire federal government, Trump still gets to cast himself as the victim. And it won’t just be Democrats who get blamed for a midterm loss; there will also be a “stabbed in the back” excuse.

Scott Presler, a prominent right-wing activist championing this bill on Fox News, has already declared that unless the SAVE America Act passes, Republicans will lose both chambers of Congress. In a veiled threat to Sen. John Thune (R-S.D.), he recently asked, “Do you want to be remembered as the Senate Majority Leader that was responsible for ushering in the decline of the United States?”

They’re clearly playing a game, but is this game good for Republicans?

While it might seem shrewd to construct a boogeyman, Republicans risk eliminating the feedback loop on which healthy political parties rely.

When losses are blamed on cheating rather than voter sentiment, there’s no incentive to change your behavior, your policies or your candidates. So a party that voters have rejected will keep repeating the same dumb things, all while voters scratch their heads and wonder why they still haven’t gotten to the promised land.

Republicans might well reflect on Trump’s Republican Party as a party that had “learned nothing and forgotten nothing.”

And a party that cannot learn or adapt is a party that shouldn’t count on winning many elections in the future.

Matt K. Lewis is the author of “Filthy Rich Politicians” and “Too Dumb to Fail.”

President Trump’s aura of invincibility is starting to vanish. Three new polls — including the usually Trump-hospitable Rasmussen — suggest that Joe Biden did a better job as president.

Worse still (for Trump), he’s underwater on immigration, foreign policy and the economy — the very trifecta that powered his return. An incumbent taking on water like that is no longer steering the ship of state, he’s bobbing in the deep end, reaching for a Mar-a-Lago pool noodle.

To be fair, Democrats have a proud tradition of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. But suppose — purely hypothetically — that this sticks. Suppose Democrats win the midterms. And suppose a Democrat captures the White House in 2028.

Then what?

Trumpism isn’t a political movement so much as a recurring event. You don’t defeat it; you board up the windows and wait.

Even if Trump does not attempt a third term (a gambit the Constitution frowns upon), he will remain the dominant gravitational force in Republican politics for as long as he is sentient and within Wi-Fi range.

Which means any Democratic administration that follows would be well-advised to consider it is governing on borrowed time. In American politics, you are always one scandal, one recession or one deepfake video away from packing your belongings into a cardboard box.

Trump’s MAGA successor (whoever he or she might be) will inherit millions of ardent believers, now seasoned by experience, backed by tech billionaires and steeped in an authoritarian worldview.

So how exactly does the country “move on” when a sizable slice of its elite class appears to regard liberal democracy as more of an anachronism than a governing philosophy?

This is not an entirely new dilemma. After the Civil War, Americans had to decide whether to reconcile with the rebels or punish them or some mix of the two — and the path chosen by federal leaders shaped the next century through Reconstruction, Jim Crow and the long struggle for civil rights.

At Nuremberg, the Allies opted for trials instead of firing squads. Later, South Africa’s post-apartheid government attempted to achieve reconciliation via truth.

Each moment wrestled with the same problem: How do you impose consequences without becoming the very thing you were fighting in the first place — possibly sparking a never-ending cycle of revenge?

Which brings us to even more specific questions, such as where does Trumpism fit into this historical context — and should there be any accountability after MAGA?

Start with Trump himself. Even if he is legally immune regarding official acts, what about allegations of corruption? Trump and his family have amassed billions since returning to office.

It is difficult to picture a future Democratic administration hauling him into court, especially if Trump grants himself broad pardons and preemptive clemency on his way out of office.

So if accountability comes, it would probably target figures in his orbit — lieutenants, enablers, assorted capos not covered by pardons. But is even this level of accountability wise?

On one hand, it is about incentives and deterrence. If bad actors get to keep the money and their freedom, despite committing crimes, they (and imitators) will absolutely return for an encore.

On the other hand, a Democratic president might reasonably decide that voters would prefer lower grocery bills to more drama.

Trump himself offers a cautionary tale. He devoted enormous energy to retribution, grievance and settling scores. It is at least conceivable that he might have been in stronger political shape had he devoted comparable attention to, say, affordability.

There is also the uncomfortable fact that the past Trump indictments strengthened him politically. Nothing energizes a base like the words “They’re coming for me,” especially when followed by the words “and you’ll be next,” next to a fundraising link. Do Democrats want to create new martyrs and make rank-and-file Americans feel like “deplorables” who are being persecuted for their political beliefs?

So perhaps the answer is surgical. Focus on ringleaders. Spare the small fry. Proceed in sober legal tones. Make it about the law, not the spectacle.

Even this compromise would invite a backlash. Democrats, it seems, are damned if they do and damned if they don’t.

The good news is that smart people are actively debating this topic — far better than trying to improvise a solution on Inauguration Day — just as similar questions were asked after Trump lost in 2020. A few weeks ago, for example, David Brooks and David Frum discussed this topic on Frum’s podcast.

Unfortunately, there is no tidy answer. Too much punishment risks looking like vengeance. Too little risks sparking another sequel.

It may sound melodramatic to say this might be the most important question of our time. But while this republic has endured a lot, it might not survive the extremes of amnesia or revenge.

Choosing the narrow path in between will require something rarer than a landslide victory: justice with restraint.

But do we have what it takes?

Matt K. Lewis is the author of “Filthy Rich Politicians” and “Too Dumb to Fail.”

Voting is fundamental to democracy, but here in the U.S. people don’t vote very much. In December, Miami held a runoff election for mayor, and all of 37,000 voters turned out. This was 2,000 fewer people than voted in comparable off-cycle elections in Apizaco, a small city in the mountains of central Mexico. It was no blip: The median turnout in U.S. city elections is 26% of the voting age population. In Mexico, by contrast, turnout rarely dips below 50%, and unglamorous small-town elections attract higher numbers, often more than 70% of the citizenry.

Nevertheless, the United States disdains Mexico as a pale shadow of its own democracy. Mexican elections are written off as corrupt, violent and unrepresentative. This was part-true for much of the last century, when versions of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional ruled without interruption for 71 years. Mexicans were “oriented” to vote by party managers, fined if they didn’t, violently dissuaded from voting for dissidents, disenfranchised with stuffed ballot boxes. Impressive turnouts were coerced. Even today, decades after the arrival of a competitive democracy, the violence persists. Thirty-four candidates were murdered in the 2024 elections.

Yet Mexicans also vote in impressive numbers because they have always cared profoundly about representative politics, and particularly at a local level. Many of those large turnouts in authoritarian Mexico were crowds of everyday people struggling to elect legitimate authorities in the teeth of a rigged system. Those struggles meant that sometimes they won.

Historical outcomes are revealing. More than 200 years of elections in Mexico have given results significantly more diverse and representative than those of the United States. In 2024 Mexicans elected the first female president in North American history, climate scientist Claudia Sheinbaum. In 1829 Mexicans elected the first Black president in North American history, mule driver Vicente Guerrero. In 1856 they elected lawyer Benito Juárez as the only Indigenous president in North American history.

The United States was born committed to rule by freely elected representatives. “We the people” is a good start to a piece of political writing and a good start to a country. When the French sociologist Aléxis de Tocqueville visited New England in the 1820s he was struck by how the citizens of small towns argued out their differences and came up with solutions together. The federal republic was a scaling up of those habits. The sum of those people’s beliefs, institutions and bloody-mindedness, Tocqueville wrote, was democracy in America.

The peoples of the United Mexican States, founded in 1824 after gaining independence from Spain, shared those ambitions. Mexico was likewise a federal republic, its rulers elected, its powers divided among executive, legislature and judiciary. As in the U.S., the female half of the population was excluded. But Mexico’s founders were ahead of ours in one sine qua non of genuine democracy: racial equality. In the Federalist Papers, Alexander Hamilton claimed that “to all general purposes we have uniformly been one people; each individual citizen everywhere enjoying the same national rights, privileges, and protection.” That was a self-evident untruth, because Black and Indigenous peoples were not included.

In Mexico, people of color had some standing from the founding onward. Mexican history has its own wrenching tragedies of race: the slavery of West Africans, the ethnocides of the North, the systematic impoverishment of peoples like the Maya of Chiapas, a eugenic hunger for white migration. But from the colonial outset Black people were acknowledged to be fully human, their enslavers’ abuses punished, their lynching unknown. Many Indigenous peoples preserved their language, lands and governments over centuries. Asians joined them; the first Japanese ambassador arrived in 1614. Mexico was the world’s first great melting pot.

So the founders of the United Mexican States made no formal distinction among the multitudes they contained. Their leaders in the War of Independence abolished slavery. Their post-independence congress mandated “the equality of civil rights to all free inhabitants of the empire, whatever their origin.” The 1824 Constitution extended the vote to every adult male. All would be free, all equal under law and all voters with a stake in the outcome.

In 1917 Mexicans passed the most progressive constitution in the world following their own revolution. It mandated an eight-hour working day, a minimum wage, equal salaries for men and women, and paid maternity leave. While women didn’t get the vote until the 1950s, they exercised notable power behind the scenes; even the most conservative parties had female organizers and supporters. Progressive social policies inspired leaders across the hemisphere, including Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Three core beliefs inspire Mexicans to vote. They believe that face-to-face freedom, embedded in the power and autonomy of the municipio libre, the free county, is sacrosanct. And they believe that to preserve communal freedom, whether from federal abuse or oligarchs, requires two things, sufragio efectivo y no reelección; in historian John Womack’s translation, “a real vote and no boss rule.”

Historically enough Mexicans — of all political stripes, from conservatives to anarchists — cared about those three beliefs to fight in elections tooth and nail.

Alongside the belief that voting is a duty comes clear-eyed rejection of boss rule. While Mexican Mayor Daleys are historically ubiquitous — they sparked the Mexican Revolution — there are none of the national dynasties that beset U.S. politics. The great dictator Porfirio Díaz left his ambitious nephew struggling to make army captain for eighteen years. Dynastic power befits monarchies, not democracies, and Mexicans know it.

Neither do Mexican politicians enjoy the unfettered power of their American counterparts to buy elections. Parties are publicly funded, under a system designed to promote fairness. Each party gets a certain amount from the state: 30% of that amount is the same for all, the remaining 70% proportional to their success in the previous elections. Private donations are transparent, regulated and capped at a very low level, on paper at least. The system unduly favors incumbents, and illegal, off-books funding is rife. Yet the need for sizable contributions to be covert keeps election results out of the hands of the likes of Elon Musk. A national watchdog and a diverse and competent press ensure it.

Sheinbaum spent $18 million winning her presidential election. In losing New York City’s mayoral election, Andrew Cuomo spent three times as much. A single oligarch, Michael Bloomberg, chipped in $13 million. Mexican elections are sometimes bought and sold, but never with the obscene unconcern prevalent in the U.S. since the Supreme Court’s Citizens United ruling.

Republics that endure rely on egalitarian beliefs, hard-nosed pragmatism, unwritten rules of decency and written rules of institutions — and unrelenting struggle against all who break those rules. Democracy relies on people of all races being recognized as fully human and guaranteed access to the ballot. It then relies on those people turning up to vote whenever given the chance. Mexicans have repeatedly demonstrated how deeply they know that across their history, against sometimes heavy odds. Their government documents come stamped with the revolutionary slogan sufragio efectivo y no reelección, a real vote and no boss rule, as a reminder. We could use one ourselves.

Paul Gillingham, a professor of history at Northwestern University, is the author of “Mexico: A 500-Year History.”

Gov. Gavin Newsom’s recently proposed 2026-27 state budget included a pleasant surprise: a deficit of about $3 billion — significantly less than analysts had estimated. But when it comes to California state budgets, good news rarely lasts. Newsom’s own estimates warn that the deficit may reach $22 billion in the following fiscal year.

It is all too common for California’s budget to careen from year to year. Between 2022 and 2024 the state experienced a $175-billion swing from surplus to deficit. This time the crunch came because spending fueled by the post-pandemic economic recovery was not sustainable when revenue plummeted just a few years later — but the state budget has long gone through similar boom-and-bust cycles.

Although California’s leaders deserve their fair share of the blame for putting the state on this budgetary roller coaster, there are three underlying factors that make effective fiscal management in California uniquely challenging: an overreliance on the state’s personal income tax; mandatory spending commitments that limit policymakers’ discretion to address challenges; and a lack of accountability for the taxpayer money that is spent.

First, California has an outdated tax system. In the 2025-26 budget, for example, the personal income tax made up nearly 70% of general fund revenue. By comparison, personal income taxes account for 38% of total state tax collections nationally. The Golden State’s extreme reliance on the personal income tax means that when incomes are high in California, revenue collections are strong, but when the economy slows and incomes fall, state revenue weakens drastically too.

The outsize role that capital gains — income from certain investments — play in revenue makes the volatility worse. High earners tend to earn a larger share of their total income this way. In fact, the unexpectedly narrow deficit in Newsom’s 2026 budget was due to what California’s Legislative Analyst Office identified as a $42-billion tailwind created by a robust stock market, which led more Californians to earn more capital gains and pay more taxes on those earnings. But when equity markets aren’t performing well, collections take a major hit. Consider this contrast: In 2021, capital gains accounted for almost a quarter of the personal income tax liability in the state, compared with just 10% in 2023.

The reliance on personal income taxes means that as the highest earners leave, so does California’s revenue. In the 20 years leading up to 2023, the top 1% of income earners in the state were responsible for an average of 45% of total personal income tax liability. That’s why policies like the recently discussed “billionaires tax” could lead to capital flight from California, jeopardizing the state’s ability to fund basic services.

The second complicating factor in California’s budget process is the amount of money tied up in spending commitments over which policymakers have little discretion. Many of these restrictions have been imposed by voters over the last several decades in ballot initiatives that have passed with significant margins. Together, these provisions — while well-meaning and politically popular in many cases — create limitations that make budgeting a challenge in California.

For example, funding for the state’s public schools is largely guaranteed by Proposition 98, a state constitutional amendment approved by voters in 1988 that establishes an annual minimum funding amount for public K-12 schools and community colleges. About 40% of the general fund budget in California, or nearly $90 billion in 2026, is committed without exception to K-14 schools through Proposition 98.

California voters have also approved tens of billions of dollars in borrowing over the last 20 years that the state’s constitution requires be paid back from the general fund. These bond authorizations create obligations to repay borrowing for priorities as wide-ranging as health facilities, water infrastructure and wildfire prevention. Repaying these “IOUs” requires policymakers to trim spending in other areas. Also, the state’s rainy-day fund, which is designed to insulate the budget from economic downturns, requires an annual set-aside of 1.5% of estimated general fund revenue.

Finally, California has no systematic way of providing accountability for and assessing whether any of its spending is producing promised outcomes. Governments at every level struggle with the concept of detailing what the “return on investment” is for public spending. But the situation in California is particularly dire. Thus, taxpayers are often stuck financing underperforming government programs riddled with waste and outright fraud, as was the case in the recent $30-billion scandal that afflicted the state’s unemployment insurance program.

In the mid-2000s, California commissioned a unified financial accounting and transparency system known as Fi$Cal that was supposed to replace several outdated systems. Over a billion dollars and several blown deadlines later, the platform still isn’t complete and won’t be fully operational until July 1, 2032. While the state auditor, an official appointed by the governor, does a credible job of analyzing state spending, recommendations for improvements are often not implemented. And the state controller — the elected chief fiscal officer who is responsible to voters for financial oversight of state spending — hasn’t produced California’s annual financial audit on time since 2017.

It’s hard for a state to properly manage its finances when there’s confusion over how much it’s really spending, or whether that money is achieving its intended purpose. But that’s become business as usual here.

Policymakers will have a tough time addressing California’s budget and fiscal challenges unless each of these three underlying factors is addressed. Our antiquated tax code should be reformed to reduce reliance on the personal income tax and raise revenue in a more predictable way. Californians must understand that there are long-term implications of borrowing to address challenges and warily approach future bond measures and other initiatives that tie the hands of policymakers today. And voters should elect politicians willing to provide them with the oversight that’s needed for the taxpayer money that Sacramento spends.

Without these changes, Californians are probably headed for more fiscal follies in the years ahead.

Lanhee J. Chen is a fellow at the Hoover Institution at Stanford University and was a candidate for California state controller in 2022.