Rhode Island primaries open to independent voters, but parties still exert outsized influence over elections

Governor McKee presses the flesh at a Ghana-unity World Cup event

in Providence in June.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

Yesterday I voted in a Rhode Island primary election for the first time in my 15 years here, because a new state law allows voting without party affiliation.

The Governor's Race and the Problem with Not-So-Open Primaries 

I wanted to signal my displeasure with Governor Dan McKee. I did not think McKee a worthy successor to Gina Raimondo in 2021, when she joined the Biden cabinet, and I did not support him when he won election in 2022. I thought him a political insider more interested in party politics than bettering life for Rhode Islanders, and I regard my view as exonerated. 

But before this election, my vote was near meaningless. Rhode Island is a solidly blue state. The Republican party does not even put up candidates for most state legislative offices and often puts up non-serious placeholders for executive offices. So many voters simply "pull the lever" for Democrats automatically that most elections are decided in the primaries. Though Rhode Island has had Republican and independent governors in the past, such an upset is highly unlikely when the Democrat candidate is a party insider with easy name recognition, such as McKee.

Heck, yeah, I want my sticker.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

I'm an "independent," or what Rhode Island calls "unaffiliated" voter. I always have been. I believe that America's two major parties have locked up the political system by making it almost impossible for a third party to get traction as other than a spoiler. Parties can no longer shift as they once did at pivotal moments in American history. And as they are locked in, both major parties have become unresponsive to American voters, who by and large are moderate. The parties are advantaged instead by playing to extremes. The two-party lock thus exacerbates our political and social polarization. Power in Washington shifts left or right, but congressional paralysis and executive unaccountability remain constant. I won't sign on to that. (There is a longer and more complicated explanation of why I have not affiliated with a third party, for another day. It is a proposition I have considered carefully.)

Refusal to join a major party meant that my vote in each general election was usually "thrown away" on state and federal races, because those matters were already decided. Rhode Island had more-or-less closed primaries when I moved here in 2011; unaffiliated voters were not allowed to vote in party primaries. Technically, Rhode Island had, since 1978, "semi-open" primaries, because unaffiliated voters who turned up at the primary could choose either ballot and go ahead and vote. However, the voter would then be registered as a party member for the ballot the voter chose. The voter could then file paperwork to disaffiliate from the party, but the onus was on the voter to do so. I don't consider that "open," no matter how consistently the prefix "semi" is interjected.

I'm not a political scientist, though I play one in the classroom. I have many political science friends who explain things to me. One reminded me last week that one problem with the closed primary is a counter-majoritarian effect. Suppose that, in Rhode Island, a moderate Democrat—who might incidentally, be something else that resonates with voters, such as libertarian, but would be effectively excluded from politics if so identifying—would command the majority support of the people when all voters participate. Yet that candidate never reaches all voters. Rather, the Democrat party first prefers candidates for the primary ballot who articulate more extreme differentiation from Republicans. Then party loyalists, the most fervent primary voters, prefer the more extreme of the balloted extreme. Our moderate Democrat stands no chance in this process, and the candidate who would have commanded majority support in the state never reaches the general election: yet another, and more subtle, way that our party-driven political system exacerbates polarization.

Half of R.I. registered voters are not party members.

R.I. SoS public domain

Here's a remarkable fact: Despite decades of compulsory party registration if one dared vote in a dispositive primary, roughly half of Rhode Island voters are, still are, unaffiliated. Present state data peg the count at 52%. It's 50% in Barrington, R.I., where I live. Turnout for primaries, never great, was disincentivized by the threat of compulsory party registration. And data show vigorous trading in party membership, disaffiliation and affiliation, for a few thousand who still wanted to participate.

Whether or not there is any merit to the mythology, I cannot say, but Rhode Islanders are said to be famously independently minded owing to the founding of the state by Roger Williams as a haven for church-state separationist, religious dissidents.

In 2024, the Rhode Island legislature at last passed, and Governor McKee signed into law, a bill allowing unaffiliated voters to choose and cast a party ballot in the primary without joining the party. Or otherwise stated, disaffiliation is instant and automatic. As an election supervisor put it to me, if you go in an unaffiliated voter, you come out an unaffiliated voter.

McKee loses, about 1.7:1.
R.I. SoS public domain

It is somewhat ironic that McKee signed the 2024 bill. He lost in yesterday's primary, remarkably for an incumbent and insider in Rhode Island. Voters, including me, favored his opponent, more moderate on many issues and with a corporate-boardroom origin story, by about 1.7 to 1. In advance of the election, the conservative Rhode Island Current suggested that Rhode Island Republicans ought disaffiliate to take advantage of the new primary law to vote against the lefty McKee without, now, having to become Democrats.

While strategic voting is an arguably adverse result of opening primaries to the unaffiliated, the threat is minimal relative to the widely disenfranchising alternative of alienating the unaffiliated. Anyway, in truth, McKee's record was so poor, and voters are so angry, that polls disfavored him yesterday regardless of the 2024 change.

A sign at my polling place notifies independent voters
of the 2024 law allowing voting without affiliation.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC0 1.0

The Rhode Island voting system is improved by widening the "semi-open" primary with "automatic disaffiliation." For the first time since I moved here in 2011, I feel like I got my small say in the Governor's race. But the problem of locked-party choice still overshadows the system, just as it perpetuates dysfunction in American government writ large.

The Lieutenant Governor's Race and the Problem with Plurality Rule

What should Rhode Island's next innovation be? Another ill of party politics can be seen in the lieutenant governor's race and could be cured by rank-choice voting (RCV).

An advantage of the two-party lock is that general elections usually reduce the field to two choices. Majority rule works well when there are only two choices, because one of the candidates invariably wins more than 50% of the votes. But when there are more than two choices, "majority rule," in the United States at least, usually devolves into plurality rule. The election is "one and done," and the candidate with the most votes wins—even with less than 50% of votes.

Further complicating matters, because the party is the gatekeeper to the ballot, the outcome can be manipulated by allowing fewer or more candidates to be listed. For example, if the party favors an ideological position that the party fears a majority of voters, say 60%, will not support, the party can allow, say, three candidates with an opposing ideological position to reach the ballot. Opposition voters then split over those three candidates, 20% each, and the party favorite prevails, not with a majority of votes, but with a plurality of 40%.

Run-off elections avert this problem. But a conventional run-off requires voters to trudge back to the polls, so even poorer than poor turnout severely distorts representation. RCV effects a virtual run-off, using voters' second or third choices to calculate run-off results with one-time voter preference data and generating a candidate who enjoys majority support, at least in some sense. There are many, contested variations of RCV in the operational details, but overall, political scientists, they tell me, prefer it to plurality-rules for its obviously superior democratic methodology. Further explanation may be found at Ballotpedia, along with data from Alaska and Maine, which use RCV.

In the Rhode Island lieutenant governor's race, it's safe to presume that the party favored candidate Sabina Matos. She was the incumbent and another political insider, nominated initially for the job by Governor McKee. Naturally, her voter approval has faltered, same as McKee's. 

Matos wins by plurality.

R.I. SoS public domain

But unlike McKee, Matos was in a crowded field with four other candidates. I voted for the runner-up challenger, Xaykham Khamsyvoravong, who at the time of this writing won 26.4% of votes. The three other candidates collectively won 36.1% of votes. Matos is projected to win with only 37.4% of votes.

My wife aptly observed that Matos's share of the votes, 37.4%, is strikingly close to Governor McKee's losing share of 37.6% of votes. Given the political context, one might suppose that close to a two-thirds majority of voters in the Democrat primary wished, like me, to toss out the incumbency, both governor and lieutenant governor. But because messaging among the lieutenant-governor challengers was similar, and interest in the race is low anyway, no consensus emerged among a majority of voters on which challenger should unseat Matos. Anyone else, a majority of voters said. Yet Matos overwhelmingly likely will be reelected as lieutenant governor.

Again, the need for RCV is amplified by undemocratic party influence over the ballot to begin with. RCV will help, but will not solve the problem of democratically unaccountable party machinery making choices for us, much less the political polarization that results, amplified by the technologies of the information age. 

It is clear, though, that we should and can do better.

AI breathes life into Theodore Roosevelt at new Library

A Savory Tort Photo Essay

The new Theodore Roosevelt Presidential Library opened on July 4, in Medora, North Dakota, and I visited last week.

(All photos RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0.)

I'm a Theodore Roosevelt ("TR") fan, politically, socially, and otherwise, and this summer, I've immersed myself in a torrent of books and audiovisual media about the 26th President of the United States and his remarkable life. In the weeks to come, I plan to write more about TR, and North Dakota, with relevance to contemporary life, from U.S. party politics to foreign policy.

I pose with sculptor John Lopez's bronze TR (2017) at the Old Town Hall in Medora, North Dakota.

Meanwhile, I write to share, and to laud, the new TR Presidential Library (Library), especially the artificial intelligence (AI) experience. You might have seen the Library on TV already, as Lee Cowan produced a July package on the opening for CBS Sunday Morning.

The Library itself is a physical marvel. Designed by the global, Oslo-headquartered architectural firm Snøhetta, the earth-toned buildings are melded in sweeping curves into the breathtaking landscape of the North Dakota badlands.  

The Library blends into its landscape.

 

The landscape is part of the visitor experience both outside and inside the Library.

Visitors are encouraged to explore a perimeter boardwalk, where grasslands are being restored, post-construction, and the badlands buttes of the Theodore Roosevelt National Park stretch to the horizon. 

More than mere conveyance, the boardwalk around the Library is a work of exceptional craftsmanship.

Moreover, visitors can switchback their way to the top of the organic green roof of the Library itself.

Visitors summit the Library roof.

The exhibition space features a central hall with rows of displays that, through artifacts and text panels, tell the story of TR's life, from youth to higher education, to North Dakota ranching, New York politics, Washington, the Spanish-American War, the White House, Africa, and the Amazon.

The central hall exhibits are organized chronologically.

In the manner of a presidential library, the subject matter is treated with reverence, but not with total ignorance of controversy or the fallibility of the subject. For example, one display depicts TR's meeting and correspondence with Booker T. Washington, but notes that TR distanced himself from Washington publicly after the meeting went down poorly with Republicans.

Most displayed papers are replicas or on loan, as TR artifacts are collected already at other sites.
Artful exhibits convey authenticity nonetheless; replicas of papers and objects are well made.

On both sides of the hall, large, themed rooms beckon with elaborate sets re-creating periods of TR's life, such as a log cabin in the badlands, or the 1900 Republican convention in Philadelphia.

TR escaped to remote North Dakota amid the grief of losing his (first) wife and mother both on Valentine's Day, 1884.

The themed rooms feature further artifacts and information, as well as experiences for visitors, including the use of AI.

At an activity station, visitors can develop their own campaign posters in the style of the 19-aughts.

A visitor to the Library has the option of having a photograph taken at the Library entrance and carrying a bracelet with an RFID-enabled token to scan at various stations. In one experience, for example, visitors can play President and make decisions about crises the TR Administration faced. One can then see the trade-offs required to satisfy various constituencies, as approval ratings fluctuate in the high-tech choose-your-own-adventure. The Library AI constructs a cumulative record of the visitor's experiences and expressed preferences and generates a summation by email afterward.

Visitors can assess their take on the issues and cast their own votes in the 1912 election.

A recurring delight in the experience vein is a series of stations that use the visitor's likeness to place one in an AI-generated "photograph" in the context of a setting in TR's life. Visitors of all ages, including me, giddily anticipate the images, which appear on a large screen for everyone nearby to see, sometimes eliciting "wow"s, or giggles, and always delight. (Below are my own images from the Library, emailed to me after my visit.)

The crown jewel of the AI system is in the re-created White House Cabinet Room, where a holographic TR (technically, a "life-size interactive avatar") stands behind his desk and answers questions. "TR" invites visitors to come to a lectern in front of the desk, scan their bracelets, and hold down a mic button while asking a question. Along the ceiling above, both visitor and the hologram are captioned for the room.

TR himself answers visitor questions in the White House Cabinet Room.

The AI is good. I mean, very good. Frankly, I expected that the hologram would deliver only truisms and platitudes with the faltering dexterity of an animatronic in the Disney Hall of Presidents.

Not so. This TR was ebullient and on point. He answered questions with surprising depth of knowledge and even what seemed like insight. Even when seconds were required for the AI to formulate a response, the hologram delayed with smooth conversational transitions, such as "Well, let me consider that."

While I was there, one man asked what TR's greatest challenge was as President. That was a softball; TR answered with settlement of the 1902 Coal Strike, a good call. The hologram delivered, though, more than mere encyclopedic recitation, rather an insightful and stirring summary of the experience from the man who was in the room.

A woman then asked whether any of TR's descendants settled in North Dakota. I thought that question might force the AI to dodge. TR did have to "consider" for a few more seconds than for the previous question. He then answered with a capable summary of where his children moved on to, explaining how his family in subsequent generations did fan out across the country. But none, he lamented confidently, followed the old man's tracks back to North Dakota.

A young boy then went up to the lectern—courageously, I thought, with a room full of adults looking on—and eked out a simple question, "Did you like your name?" The hologram bought some time by lauding the question. Then he answered, firmly, no. He then capably explicated his nicknames in life, including "Teedie" as a boy and "Teddy" in politics, and said that he always preferred "Theodore" or "Thee." This hologram has read his David McCullough.

I asked a question, not a hard one, but one I hoped would make the AI earn its keep: "Why do you think you lost the 1912 election?" I made "think" my main verb because I wanted to spur the AI to speculate, not merely orate. I was not disappointed.

To my surprise and delight, the hologram took little time to think and became animated. TR described for the room how, yes, forming the Bull Moose Party had split Republican voters and handed the 1912 election to Woodrow Wilson. Yet, pounding a fist, TR was adamant that he had done the right thing, standing on principle for the needs of people and against the private interests that had captured the Republican party. (Sound familiar? Then you have a sense of what I hope to write more about soon.)

Inevitably, a person in the room asked TR how he would address political division in America today. Here, the AI was programmed with brakes. TR gave an eloquent answer, a dodge at last, about how it's not his place to second-guess political decision-making in a time so different from his.

But he wasn't finished. Again to my surprise, TR went on to give an impassioned description of political rifts in his own time, and how he addressed them, with salient examples, such as negotiating the Treaty of Portsmouth to end the Russo-Japanese War in 1905. Speaking further of the higher calling to exhibit integrity in politics rather than pander to popular sentiments, his answer proved to have contemporary relevance with very little inference required. Or maybe that's just how I heard it.

I was reluctant to leave the room. AI TR was enchanting. 

I met a couple of TR impersonators while I was in Medora. Joe Wiegand's Teddy Roosevelt Show at the Town Square Showhall is superb. (Me with Wiegand's TR at left.) But on those occasions, I was always aware that I was watching and interacting with an actor, however well prepared and gifted for the role.

 

TR (Wiegand) weaved rhetoric into a brilliant portrayal at the Teddy Roosevelt Show.

At the Library, there was no actor. It was easier than I imagined to be seduced by the ghost in the machine. I left the Library feeling like I had some authentic measure of the magnetic charisma that so many of TR's contemporaries described. 

There are some other gems in the Library. There are artifacts from when TR was shot in an assassination attempt. There is a small room dedicated to the dark day when he lost his wife and mother. I don't want to say too much and spoil the adventure. The joy of visiting the Library is discovering these spaces yourself, and imagining yourself in the same historical context—with a little help from AI.

My AI Images from the Library

"Life in TR's New York"
TR was born to privilege but raised with a powerful ethic that wealth entailed an obligation of public service.

"Ranching in the Badlands"
TR sunk more than half of his liquid wealth into ranching in North Dakota. Ultimately he took a massive loss before divesting. But he never regretted the experience, saying it made him who he was, and he would not have been President but for the time he spent in North Dakota.

"Working on the Police Force"
As president of the Police Commission Board, TR walked New York City streets at night with journalist Jacob Riis to uncover and clean up dirty policing.

"Serving in the Navy"
TR did not serve in uniform in the Navy; he served as Assistant Secretary of the Navy in the first-term administration of President William McKinley. Later, as President, Roosevelt deployed "the Great White Fleet," a show of American power and deterrent to aggression, from 1907 to 1909.

"Joining the Rough Riders"
TR resigned his Washington post in 1898 to join the U.S. Volunteer Cavalry, "the Rough Riders," in the Spanish-American War. TR is the only President who has been awarded the Medal of Honor, posthumously, for his heroism in Cuba.

"Leading as President"
TR's political opponents in his own party, corporate-friendly Republicans, hoped to sideline him as President McKinley's running mate on the 1900 reelection ticket. To their dismay, TR became President when McKinley was assassinated in 1901. 

My campaign poster, 19-aughts style
TR had pledged not to seek a third term, honoring the example of President Washington. He went on safari in Africa to remove himself from the political fray. But dissatisfied with the performance of his handpicked successor, President William Taft, he threw his hat in the ring for 1912, unsuccessfully.

"Journeying Into the Amazon"
Ever seeking adventure as an antidote to loss, former President Roosevelt joined an expedition in Brazil to chart a river in the Amazon, from 1913 to 1914. Suffering from a leg injury in a portage and from malaria, he very nearly died. Certainly the wear and tear on his health did him no favors. He died at his home in Oyster Bay, New York, in 1919, of pulmonary embolism, at age 60. 

Time has come for permanent DST, but too many legislators prefer to keep Americans in the dark

Google Gemini image CC0

When the clocks turn back to standard time on the first Sunday in November, the sun will set where I live at about quarter before 5 in the evening, and it will set closer and closer to 4 p.m. thereafter.

I'm lucky because I work remotely and get to make my own hours a lot of the time. Still, I feel depression beckon. I often cannot get away from my computer during sunlight hours. There's no time to exercise outdoors, and treadmills are mind-numbing. I gain weight. The sun comes up in the six o'clock hour, but like most people, I have to get my workday going first thing.

My heart breaks to think of people—I once was one—who head off to the office first thing in the morning, an hour-plus commute requiring transit too soon after dawn to have any meaningful personal time in sunlight; who then toil all day in an office with limited windows and violet, artificial light; and who then leave work in darkness. 

And it's not necessary. We squander sunlight in unusable morning hours upon the wildly outmoded notion that we have to get our farming done before the heat of the day.

New England state legislators perennially debate shifting wholly to Atlantic Time, GMT -4, a subterfuge to accomplish permanent daylight savings time without defying federal law. Maine has been most eager for the measure; the sun sets in the 3 p.m. hour in the Bangor winter. But no one state wants to be the first to pull the trigger, an economic collective-action problem.

Congress perennially debates permanent daylight savings time. The House recently passed the bipartisan Sunshine Protection Act. History suggests the bill will fail in the less democratically representative Senate.

Nevertheless, today I sent the following letter to my Rhode Island senators, Jack Reed and Sheldon Whitehouse.

---

Letter to Senators Jack Reed (D-R.I.) and Sheldon Whitehouse (D-R.I.)

Dear Senators:

I would like to see you support permanent daylight savings time.

I am not an RI native, but in my 15 years here, I have seen, for myself and others, that a full hour of darkness, thus the full termination of twilight, at the time one finishes weekday work is an engine of depression. New Englanders working inside don't see the sun for five days a week.

The testimony of healthcare professionals that standard time is somehow best for "circadian rhythms" is ludicrous, and, I can only imagine, motivated by murky commercial interests I cannot perceive. The House rightly rejected these arguments.

Time zones are based on longitude,* Greenwich, which is arbitrary. The medical claim seems to be based on the idea of workers having to rise before the sun, which happens regardless, and meanwhile ignores the problem on the evening end. How is NO sunlight during waking hours possibly the better option for human health?

If there's a healthcare problem you want to address, let's start with food and shelter for all persons, or compulsory vacation and family leave comparable to Europe, or a shorter work week, freedom from 24/7 responsiveness, efficient public transit, and living wages. Rising before or after the sun is meaningless in comparison.

At minimum, the states should be free to decide. You must know that already there is a New England state pact in the works to move the region to Atlantic Time so as to subvert the federal scheme. The plan never gets going, because no state wants to be the one that pulls the trigger. But subterfuge should not be required anyway.

It's easy now, in summertime, to buy into the weak arguments against permanent DST. If the Senate cannot pass the House bill, I would like you to have a press conference at 5 p.m. on the first Monday in November. In the dark. Then you can explain to constituents why Congress made an arbitrary choice that they don't deserve to see their families in sunlight until the weekend.

Sincerely,
R.J. Peltz-Steele

* Word corrected from my typo in original. 

No third term for Trump upon nonconsecutive-term theory, Vyas concludes in 22nd Amendment research

Trump at CPAC 2019
Mike Licht via Flickr CC BY 2.0

The theory that the President may seek a third term because his two terms were nonconsecutive holds no water.

That's the finding of law professor and constitutional scholar, and my friend and colleague, Anoo Vyas, in a short but important new piece in Wisconsin Law Review Forward: No Third Term: Rejecting the Nonconsecutive Loophole (2026).

Speaking about Trump at the Conservative Political Action Conference in March, televangelist Franklin Graham urged the crowd "to get him reelected!"

Graham subsequently said he misspoke (Yahoo News). His cry nevertheless stoked anxiety among Trump skeptics and opponents, amplified by the March 28 No Kings rallies, about the President's sometimes clingy affection for the office. 

Commenters have spilt much ink on how the President might circumvent the two-term limit of the 22nd Amendment.

With sound interpretive methodology and inquiry into historical sources, Professor Vyas's research takes the wind out of one circumvention theory. Here is the abstract:

The text of the Twenty-Second Amendment seems clear that a president cannot be elected to a third term: "No person shall be elected to the office of the President more than twice." This Essay looks further to the history surrounding the Twenty-Second Amendment, an exercise sometimes employed by judges, particularly those who favor the constitutional interpretive method of originalism. History shows that a president cannot be elected to a third term on the theory that the previous terms were nonconsecutive.

I'm a fan of Professor Vyas's work, such as his 2025 Why Capping the House at 435 is Unconstitutional (at The Savory Tort), besides his expertise in intellectual property law. So I have full confidence in his conclusion here and am gratified that he has shared it.

Bhutan turns tourism into 'Gross National Happiness'

At the Takin Preserve: Bhutanese Prime Minister Tshering Tobgay
with me and visitors from the United Kingdom and United States.

Little more than a half century ago, the Kingdom of Bhutan was walled off to the world.

Today, tourists are welcome, but with strict controls that aim to leverage social and economic development.

Earlier this month, I traveled to Bhutan and had the privilege of meeting the prime minister, the Hon. Tshering Tobgay. The PM was visiting the Motithang Royal Takin Preserve in Bhutan, located just outside the capital, Thimphu.

Takin calf at the preserve.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

The takin, by the way, is a large mammal native to the Himalayas, a genetic relative of sheep. One subspecies of takin is specific to Bhutan and is revered as the national animal. The preserve provides a sanctuary for the massive herbivores, thus also protecting the environment from their destructive appetite.

Tobgay was not at the preserve for a refresher on Bhutanese fauna; rather, the PM was escorting the 2025-appointed American ambassador to India and special envoy for south and central Asia, Sergio Gor, on a touristic and diplomatic visit. Gor was reciprocating a Tobgay visit to the United States in December.

Tobgay and Gor, at the PM's right, feed a takin.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

A longtime Bhutanese politician, Tobgay is American educated. He earned a bachelor's in mechanical engineering at the University of Pittsburgh in the 1980s and then a master's in public administration at the Harvard Kennedy School in the 20-aughts. He published a book in English last year: Enlightened Leadership: Inside Bhutan's Inspiring Transition from Monarchy to Democracy (inset below).

Bhutan is a constitutional monarchy, though still leans heavily on the monarchy part of the description. The crown initiated a policy of democratization in 1952. A first national assembly was appointed the following year and given the power to impeach the monarch. Today, the king formally appoints the prime minister, though in practice the appointee is elected by the legislature. Similarly, final decisions of the Supreme Court formally are referred to the crown for approval.

Supreme Court of Bhutan, Thimphu.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

In modern international law, Bhutan is renowned for its commitment to "Gross National Happiness" (GNH), a national policy priority introduced in the 1970s. A holistic measure inspired by Buddhism and informed by factors such as health, education, and living standards, GNH has been embraced conceptually by the international community—Bhutan joined the United Nations in 1971—as an alternative to economic productivity, the conventional measure of a country's success. One Bhutanese host explained to me that GNH does not mean every person is happy; rather, GNH describes the aims that should justify national policy-making.

Bhutan opened to foreign tourism only in 1974 and allowed television and the internet only in 1999. It still guards its borders jealously, allowing a limited number of tourists who must book through state-authorized agents and pay a US$100-per-day sustainable development fee. When I visited, my visa was arranged wholly by the tour service I used.

However restrictive Bhutan's social and political conservatism, I could not argue with the results I saw on the ground. People I met in Bhutan expressed affection for the king and queen, often noting that the royal family lives in a modest home and champions public education. Schoolchildren I happened upon in Thimphu were uniformed and polite, while also cheerful and playful, and they spoke English confidently.

Buddha Dordenma, visible from Thimphu center.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

The sustainable development fee seems to be well reinvested in infrastructure, such as paved roads, and touristic sites, such as the 177-foot Buddha Dordenma statue, completed in 2015, that towers over Thimphu. A travel companion told me that the winding rural roads we traveled were unpaved when he visited a couple of decades ago. In literacy and life expectancy, Bhutan significantly outpaces its cohort in the "medium" range of the U.N. human development scale.

Thimphu, capital of Bhutan.

RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

Insofar as I heard any gripe about government policy from the Bhutanese, it was that high-quality healthcare remains elusive, especially in the countryside. Nevertheless, when an American travel companion asked my guide about the cost of treatment after the guide mentioned a family member's cancer, the guide narrowed her brow in puzzlement. Then she shook her head, understanding the question, and said, "free, of course."

Rinpung Dzong, or "Paro Fort," a 15th-century monastery
and top tourist destination, in Paro, Bhutan's third-largest city.
Owned by RJ Peltz-Steele CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

Thinking over what we had seen, some of my travel companions wondered aloud whether monarchy might not be so undemocratic after all. That struck me as curious after what I heard about some Nepali youth protestors speaking wistfully of monarchy there. Invariably upon such musings, an American, sometimes me, would say that the efficacy of monarchy might depend a bit too much on who is wearing the crown.

The United States does not have formal diplomatic relations with the Kingdom of Bhutan, thus Ambassador Gor's visit as special regional envoy. Gor has some personal connection to, well, at least the Asian continent. He was born in Uzbekistan—"Gor" is a chosen truncation of Gorokhovsky—and migrated with his family to the United States, via Malta. He graduated from secondary school in Los Angeles.

Amb. Gor

How did an L.A. immigrant wind up with an ambassadorship in the Trump administration? Gor has been involved in Republican politics since his post-secondary days at George Washington University. His recent ambassadorial qualifications include fundraising for President Trump and starting a Trump-reverent book publishing company with Donald Trump, Jr.

After the 2024 election, the President appointed Gor to head personnel appointments. President Trump later credited his "great friend" Gor with "nearly 4,000" party-loyal hires in the new administration. Presumably Gor himself included.

Did Donald Trump go to prep school with Citizen Kane?

I just re-watched the masterpiece Citizen Kane (1941), and a line I'd never noticed before dropped my jaw.

I'm teaching a seminar on freedom of the press in film this semester with the superb new book by friends and colleagues, Helen J. Knowles-Gardner, Bruce E. Altschuler, and Brandon T. Metroka, Filming the First: Cinematic Portrayals of Freedom of the Press (2025). I wrote about the book here in 2024.

The second film featured in the book is the Orson Welles classic Citizen Kane. It raises for consideration a host of issues around the meaning of the First Amendment, whether as law or ideal, and the role of the press in a democracy. A key issue arises from the central character, Charlie Kane, a fictional analog to the real-life William Randolph Hearst.

Hearst was a media mogul in his time, the late 19th century and early 20th, a central figure in the yellow journalism era. Hearst and Kane alike prompt consideration of the very contemporary problem of media consolidation. My class considered data from a recent Roosevelt Institute report (inset), which described the economics of the news business over the course of American history, culminating in a deeply worrisome status quo.

Prof. Altschuler, who joined my class via Zoom for part of our discussion, wrote in the book that President Donald Trump has twice in interviews identified Citizen Kane as his favorite movie. As Prof. Altschuler remarked to my class, President Trump might not have gotten the message Welles intended.

Quoting an anecdote told by Ruth Warrick, the actress who played Kane's first wife in the movie, Prof. Altschuler reported, "Welles told the cast that the movie 'is about the kind of man that Americans tend to make their heroes, when actually they are the despoilers of their country.'"

I knew all of that, having just read up on the film in anticipation of re-watching it after decades. Yet I was caught off guard by something completely unexpected.

In the film, there is a scene (cued in video below) in which Kane is courting the woman who would become his second wife—the real-life Hearst separated from his wife, who would not grant him a divorce, and lived his later years with a second partner—and to amuse her, Kane, played by writer-director Orson Welles himself, wiggled his ears. 

Kane explained to his romantic interest: "It took me two solid years in the best boys' school in the world to learn that trick. The fellow who taught it to me is now the President of Venezuela" (USA Today).

Rescission of law dean offer prompts valid angst, but political ire over higher ed impunity is long time coming

Waterman Hall, University of Arkansas
Larry Miller via Flickr CC BY-NC 2.0

Legal academics is aflutter over the rescinding of an offer of the deanship at the law school of the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville, to Emily Suski, a law professor at the University of South Carolina, upon pressure from conservative politicians.

I've lately been cited and quoted on the matter, partly because I lived and worked as a law professor in Arkansas for thirteen and a half years, until 2011. I'll say a bit more here.

The Suski story has been much in the news, from The Arkansas Times to The New York Times, and has been framed by our present era of political strife. The rescission was motivated by conservative state lawmakers apparently unhappy over leftward leanings in Suski's record as an academic and a lawyer.

I am not opining, and have not opined, on the rescission in sum, because I don't know what was in the minds of lawmakers and the university president. I have made no study of the record. I said as much to Arkansas Democract-Gazette (ADG) reporter Neal Earley late last week. If you want a view from the ground, my colleague Robert Steinbuch, law professor and columnist, talked about the matter toward the end of this interview with KATV (cue to about 2:05).

I did tell the ADG, where I was fairly represented in a story Monday, to which Earley contributed, that I have First Amendment concerns if, and insofar as, the political decision was motivated by retaliation for viewpoints expressed in litigation or academic work. I agree with a statement of the president of the Arkansas Bar Association that a lawyer should not be discriminated against by a public entity for employment based on positions taken in prior litigation.

But the matter is not that straightforward.

Some Arkansas politicians are vexed by Suski's sign-on to an amicus brief in the SCOTUS-bound transgender athlete case, on the side of the athlete challenging West Virginia law. Some might be displeased with her support for the U.S. Supreme Court nomination of now-Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson. A single, clear rationale for rescinding has not been articulated, and likely, motivations are varied.

I have authored, contributed to, and signed amicus briefs myself, I told Earley, in support of principles notwithstanding the position of litigants. For example, my amicus positions on the freedom of information have aligned me with affirmative action skeptics and animal rights activists. Whether, or to what extent, I agreed with the litigants' many public positions was immaterial to my advocacy for transparency, accountability, or civil liberties in the matters at hand.

I'm not shy with my opinions. But if you want them, the responsible thing is to ask, not assume. The world is gray. My own views have nuance. I'm sure Suski's do too.

At the same time, this story ought not be framed merely in terms of contemporary partisanship. I told the ADG that I understand lawmakers' reaction in "a broader context of long-time suppression of (the conservative) viewpoint in legal academics."

That's true. Earley asked for examples, and I gave him several. I've done work with the Federalist Society and with the Heritage Foundation. I supported law students at the University of Massachusetts Law School in establishing a Christian Legal Society (as yet not an official chapter).

That doesn't mean I agree with every position taken by those organizations. (I'm not alone.) It does mean that I have over the years left those groups off my CV when applying for this or that in legal academics, because their mention would have killed my application. At the same time, I have never felt compelled in legal academics to conceal association with the AAUP or the ACLU. Those alignments are badges of achievement.

I didn't make the rules, and I don't approve of them. This is the world as I found it. Having had some privileges and not others while trying to advance my academic career, I have not buried my head in the sand about unjustified biases. For legal academics now to be wringing their hands over censorship of left-leaning causes might be justified in the instant case, but implicates more than a little hypocrisy.

One quote of mine in the ADG story was right, but could benefit from context: "I feel almost a bit of relief to say that thank heavens someone is paying attention." That sounds, erroneously, like approval of the politics of the Arkansas legislators in the Suski case, contrary to my refusal only a sentence earlier in the story to state approval or disapproval.

Rather, I made that statement in discussion with Earley of a different point, namely, that legislators in Arkansas, in other states, and in Washington, D.C., have abdicated their responsibility for the accountability of public institutions, especially in higher education. Regardless of the merits of the decision in Arkansas, the idea is refreshing that Arkansas legislators would hold the University of Arkansas to any standard at all. 

In my experience in Arkansas, the university, a political behemoth, did not hesitate to throw its weight around at the capitol. And legislators kowtowed to its will. For example, legislators, with few noteworthy exceptions, happily parrot the fiction that the filthy-rich university foundation is a private entity properly immune from the state freedom of information act, though in fact, public officials dictate how the money is spent.

When I spoke to Earley, I was not thinking about Arkansas legislative accountability in any matter of my personal interest. But maybe I should have been.

For The Arkansas Times blog, Dr. Walter Kimbrough opened an opinion piece with reference to a lawsuit I brought almost 20 years ago when working in Arkansas. Kimbrough is a former president of two HBCUs and now an executive vice president of the UNCF (the "United Negro College Fund," though the organization usually uses just its initials nowadays). 

I'm flattered that Kimbrough, whom I greatly respect, remembers my case, the best account of which was penned by the great Scott Jaschik, who retired in 2023, and can be read still at Inside Higher Ed.

Kimbrough's headline highlights the "cancel culture" angle in the Suski story. Invocation of my case shows that what happened to Suski is not new, because it happened to me—even if the shoe was on the other foot, from a conventional political perspective.

At least my takeaway from Kimbrough's comparison is be careful what tactics you use, because it won't feel good when they're turned against you. If abstracted to politics, it's basically the same logic justifying humane treatment of war prisoners, not because you're worried about the enemy, but because you're worried about your own. Regardless of who fired first, conservatives who once lamented the victimization of cancel culture now look hypocritical when they engage in it.

Not necessary to his thesis (and maybe undercutting it?), but salient to me, Kimbrough observed that no Arkansas legislator cared to intervene when I was "canceled." Don't I know it. The same can be said for organizations from the AAUP and ACLU to FIRE and the National Association of Scholars. Crickets for an embattled professor in flyover country. Again, this is not what I was thinking about when I talked with Earley, but it does bolster my point about accountability.

Kimbrough mentioned that I dropped that Arkansas lawsuit. He might have added that I received, as Jaschik reported (same article), a complete exoneration of any wrongdoing by the law school in Little Rock—which is what I had asked for all along.

Some people have asked me privately, don't I feel bad for Emily Suski?

Of course I do. Everyone should. She was a victim in all of this. Yes, the law school's offer letter did say the offer was contingent on university approval. But offer letters contain all kinds of boilerplate qualifiers. For all intents and purposes, Suski was instructed, publicly, to pack her bags. And then she had the rug pulled out from under her.

But while we feel bad for her, let's also place blame where it belongs. That's not just with politically motivated legislators, but with leaders in public academic institutions, who have long acted with impunity, abusing legislative deference and elevating their own agendas and preferences above their responsibility to the taxpayer.