When President Donald Trump takes the rostrum next week for his first address to a joint session of Congress, will he train his rhetorical firepower on what he asserts is “the enemy of the American people”?
As he assumes the presidency, will Donald Trump be able to govern the way he campaigned for the nation’s highest office? And what impact could such an approach have on the broken relationships between the legislative and executive branches that so many observers identify today?
When they went to bed on election night, most Americans — even in GOP quarters — thought the outcome of 2016 was a foregone conclusion. But by the time the presidential and other electoral results became known, it was the Democrats who were left wondering what their party’s fortunes might be.
At age 70, the president-elect faces a new reality that couldn’t be more different from his decades as a developer or even his nearly 18 months as a political candidate. Showing up at the Oval Office each morning to “just see what develops,” in a phrase taken from his 1987 bestseller, The Art of the Deal, probably won’t suffice as a strategy for serving as president of the United States.
Election Day, like commencement at Notre Dame or any other school, marks both an end and a beginning. After all the votes are cast and counted, questions about the future collect like starlings in a stand of trees, noisily making themselves heard.
Being an American abroad these days provides someone with a perplexing yet recurring experience. Wherever you go, people beyond our shores want to know why the American presidential campaign is approaching its conclusion as a political popularity contest between two historically unpopular candidates.
Did Joe Biden start a trend? Since Biden’s election as the first Catholic vice president eight years ago, the Democratic and Republican parties in 2012 and this year have nominated running mates born and raised as Catholics in Irish American households.
LBJ knew that getting the Civil Rights Act passed would cost the Democratic Party for decades to come, but — according to Father Hesburgh — he resorted to strong-arm tactics anyway.
As horse-race polls — nationally and in battleground states — tighten between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, two other numerical findings in recent days shouldn’t gallop by without our taking notice.
At the beginning of class the other day, I circulated a questionnaire for the 26 duly-enrolled Millennial Domers in my course on American Political and Media Culture. Besides wanting to know their partisan and ideological preferences, their pushing-70 teacher wanted to gauge student opinion about contemporary political figures and this year’s presidential free-for-all from the anonymous surveys.
Every four years Americans learn anew that a presidential election is less a national fencing match than an array of brass-knuckle fistfights in a few select states.
When historians write their accounts of the 2016 presidential campaign, they will be able to rely on adjectives with the prefix “un” to explain what happened during the hurly-burly nominating and general election seasons.
Now that the Republican and Democratic national conventions are history, one common denominator of the 2016 presidential campaign stands out in bold relief. Both major parties this fall will be united by high-decibel hatred of the nominee of the other party.
This election year is particularly fascinating because the primary season between February and June appeared at times to be a two-front war against the Republican and Democratic establishments. But larger and potentially more profound problems confront each party this fall and in the future.
It’s impossible to use the past to predict the future, but electoral trends can often provide context for understanding the present. By almost any measure, 2016 should be a change election rather than one of continuity.
You know you’re nearing the finish line of what’s seemed to be several geologic periods in a Notre Dame classroom when you begin to remember the past in generations rather than years.
Even though he left the University presidency in 1987, there was nothing retiring about the home stretch of a life always lived to the fullest.
The bloody fighting between combative Irish nationalists and the British military didn’t escape the attention of students and faculty on the Notre Dame campus.
Whenever it’s possible, Father Theodore Hesburgh, CSC, likes to make a short stop on Holy Cross Drive near Saint Mary’s Lake if he’s traveling around the Notre Dame campus.
Whenever it was possible, Father Theodore Hesburgh, CSC, liked to make a short stop on Holy Cross Drive near Saint Mary’s Lake if he was traveling around the Notre Dame campus.
The middle ground vanishes as America goes to the poles. And that’s a dangerous thing.
From the air, on the descent into Dublin Airport, the Irish landscape shows off a multitude of its numerically suspect yet popularly promoted 40 shades of green. The country’s roller-coaster ride over hte past two decades has produced, if not 40 competing emotions, at least a baker’s dozen of separate responses.
Conway Hall opens in London — and for the first time Notre Dame has a student residence beyond campus it can call its own.
Drilling for oil and doing archival research share similarities. Both pursuits involve targeting a location, probing the territory for what you’re hoping to find, and either making a strike or moving on to another place to drill.
When I finished taping up the last box, it was similar to closing the cover on the last book of a multivolume series and saying farewell to the saga’s hero.
Americans face an uncertain future with deflated confidence in the institutions that have guided our way.
Throughout nearly four decades of his 55-year career in journalism, Red Smith piled up recognition like cordwood.
“Say something more,” the burly taxi driver demanded after I told him the name of the Dublin hotel where I planned to stay. “Don’t you know where it is?” I inquired, wondering what he meant. “You’re that Yank on the radio,” he responded.
The invitation provoked incredulity and irony in equal measure. “Me?” inquired Frank McCourt, author of Angela’s Ashes and ’Tis. The first word of his letter was set off as a paragraph unto itself.
Back in high school during the 1980s, Mike Hochstetler developed a large, painful callus on his writing hand. After enrolling at Notre Dame and enduring more discomfort, he figured out how to cure the problem. Today the remedy has become his life.