"Without the Cold War," Rabbit Angstrom asks in John Updike's
Rabbit at Rest, "what's the point of being an American?" Rabbit's question, which he posed in 1990, anticipated something in the national mood during the decade that followed. In 1995, social critic Christopher Lasch wrote that the United States had descended into a "democratic malaise," the most telling symptom of which, Harvard public policy scholar Robert Putnam wrote, was a decline in civic engagement. In his famous essay and then book, Putnam amassed a mountain of evidence--measuring everything from rates of church attendance to participation in bowling leagues--and pronounced that Americans were "bowling alone." A survey conducted by pollster Daniel Yankelovich in 1995 reported that Americans felt "a sickness in the very soul of society to which they cannot give a name." For conservatives especially, the '90s were wasted years, the decade's signature traits being narcissism, cultural rot, and sheer purposelessness. The coarseness of the public square "has shattered America's traditional confidence about itself, its mission, its place in the world," morality czar William Bennett wrote in
Commentary.*
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Weekly Standard writer David Brooks diagnosed the condition, too. And, in 1997, he came up with a cure. In a cover story titled "a return to national greatness," Brooks echoed concerns raised by Alexis de Tocqueville nearly two centuries before. "Democracy has a tendency to slide into nihilistic mediocrity if its citizens are not inspired by some larger national goal," Brooks cautioned. More than anything else, his essay took aim at the trend toward civic disengagement that had been encouraged, in his telling, by the twin failures of cultural liberalism and Newt Gingrich-era conservatism. If it is to reverse this trend, Brooks elaborated, "the first task of government is to convey a spirit of confidence and vigor that can then spill across the life of the nation." The means to this end were largely beside the point. "It almost doesn't matter what great task government sets for itself," he concluded, "as long as it does some tangible thing with energy and effectiveness."
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The significance of national greatness was never the movement it spawned, but rather the moment it encapsulated--a minute, really, in which it was hoped that something good might come from bad. What its adherents anticipated after September 11 was really less a return to national greatness than a return to basic national goodness, a civic quality the excesses of the '90s seemed to have corroded. Civic attachments, a sense of shared purpose, a propensity to sacrifice for the common good--if historical precedent offers any guide, all of these
should have been renewed in the aftermath of September 11. As Harvard's Theda Skocpol noted in her 2001 study, "Patriotic Partnerships: Why Great Wars Nourished American Civil Voluntarism," "America's civic vigor was greatly enhanced, both following the national fratricide of the 1860s and amidst the plunge into global conflict between 1917 and 1919." The pattern held during World War II and the cold war, conflicts that boosted everything from membership in voluntary associations to the fortunes of the civil rights movement.
And, yet, not only has everything not changed since September 11; nothing has. According to a mountain of attitudinal and behavioral data collected in the past four years, the post- September 11 mood that former Homeland Security Secretary Tom Ridge dubbed "the new normalcy" resembles nothing so much as the old normalcy.
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Beginning with the ultimate gesture of sacrifice--enlisting in the Armed Forces--all the anecdotes about young Americans rushing down to their local recruiting offices in the aftermath of the September 11 add up to nothing more than a myth. In fact, military recruitment numbers during the months following September 11 actually dipped from where they were at the same time the previous year. According to Pentagon figures, between October 1, 2001, and October 1, 2002, the number of entry-level Army recruits actually shrank by 32 percent. Defense Department surveys of young Americans found that, by early 2002, even the propensity to enlist had declined to summer 2001 levels. Meanwhile, a poll by Harvard's Institute of Politics reported that, even in the immediate aftermath of September 11, large pluralities of undergraduates would evade military service if asked to serve. "There was an eagerness to punish the enemy, but it wasn't enough of a factor to motivate people who had other plans in the lives," says National Defense University's Alan Gropman. As for less exalted endeavors, the University of California's annual survey of American freshmen found that the percentage of students who either volunteered or performed community service remained static from 2000 to 2002.*
Nor did the country as a whole stir itself to much greater heights than its children did. According to Tom Smith, director of the National Opinion Research Center's General Social Survey, "Virtually every measure that shot up after 9/11 declined within three to six months as it became a historical remembrance." Rates of regular volunteering never budged at all. Neither, as a survey Putnam conducted after September 11 finds, did attendance at public meetings or membership in organizations. Charitable giving, according to the annual survey Giving USA, rose slightly in 2001 before declining again in 2002. As for the popular notion that September 11 had stimulated "one of the greatest spiritual revivals in the history of America," as Pat Robertson put it, by November 2001, according to Gallup, rates of weekly church attendance had returned to exactly their pre-September 11 levels.*
Attitudes about government followed the same trend lines. Gallup found that the percentage of poll respondents who trust the government to "do what is right" dropped to pre-September 11 levels in 2002. Similarly, it reported that the percentage of Americans saying the government was doing too much, which declined after September 11, had returned to its libertarian norm by 2002. A
Los Angeles Times poll found that the percentage of Americans willing to surrender some civil liberties to curb terrorism, which stood at 49 percent in 1995 and skyrocketed to 63 percent in 2001, had settled back to 49 percent in 2002--just as other polls showed that Americans' willingness to endure airport security screenings and random ID checks had declined as well. In a September 2002 article in the academic journal
PS, Skocpol, relying on data compiled by Putnam, compared changes in civic attitudes just after September 11 with changes in civic behavior. She found that "Americans suddenly displayed new attitudes of social solidarity and trust in government, while barely changing their patterns of civic participation."*
As for predictions by national greatness theorists that America's new sense of purpose would express itself through cultural sobriety, a glimpse at the most telling barometer of all reveals that they have gotten things exactly backward. A generation's worth of survey data has demonstrated a causal link between levels of TV viewing and civic disengagement. But
what we watch matters nearly as much as how much we watch. During the '90s, the DDB Needham Life Style survey, which tracks viewer preferences alongside civic habits, showed that viewers who imbibed the trashiest fare were the least likely to be engaged in their communities, while those who watched the news were the most involved. Alas, while the amount of television that Americans watched increased after September 11, a Pew survey released in 2002 found that the "public's news habits have been largely unaffected by the Sept. 11 attacks and subsequent war on terrorism." So what have Americans been watching since September 11? Garbage. And, to judge by the Nielsen ratings of the past four years, more of it than ever before. "As long as you eliminate that two months after September 11," says Robert Thompson, professor of television and popular culture at Syracuse University, "we were back to 'Fear Factor'; after six months, we had a celebrity boxing match between Tonya Harding and Paula Jones." True, Americans have been indulging in wartime escapism ever since the proliferation of carnivals during the Civil War. But "Fear Factor" isn't escapism. It's the hallmark of a society that feels it has nothing from which to escape.*
If hopes for national greatness were never realized after September 11, they were decisively put to rest in Iraq. The extent to which greatness abroad can be transmitted to the home front depends, needless to say, on actually achieving something like greatness abroad. Who, after all, has ever heard of military defeat giving way to national renewal? The French experience in Algeria, the Soviet experience in Afghanistan, the U.S. experience in Vietnam--what these wars brought home was something else altogether. And, while the Iraq war, if only because of the small numbers of Americans fighting it, seems unlikely to introduce anything like the poison that Vietnam injected into the body politic, it certainly has done nothing to arrest the pre-September 11 trends that alarmed national greatness types in the first place. From levels of trust in the government and trust in fellow citizens to measures of public spiritedness, civic pride, and social cohesion--far from enhancing any of these metrics, post-2003 polls show that Iraq has eroded them even more.