Power, presidents and the pendulum

Every November, I find myself thinking about the rhythm of American power — how it rises, how it breaks, and how, somehow, it steadies again.

The fight between presidents and Congress, between action and restraint, is as old as the republic itself. From Abraham Lincoln’s wartime orders to Franklin Roosevelt’s bank holiday to Donald Trump’s border emergency, every generation has tested how far a president can push when Congress stalls. That tug-of-war between executive action and legislative oversight isn’t a flaw in our government — it’s the design.

And this fall, that imbalance feels especially close to home. Down here in the Delta, folks just want steady work, safe neighborhoods, and the lights to stay on. But every time Washington gridlocks, the ripple lands here — in paychecks and programs. When government stalls, farm program payments slow, research funding freezes, and USDA offices go quiet. In places like Stoneville, even science and soil stand still until the gridlock breaks.

The American Way of Arguing About Power

The founders built our system on tension. They split government into three branches — one to make laws (Congress), one to enforce them (the President), and one to interpret them (the courts) — and gave each the tools to block the others. They’d lived under kings; they wanted arguments instead of decrees.

That friction became the American rhythm, and the beat quickened under Lincoln. In 1861, facing a fractured nation, he suspended habeas corpus to preserve the Union — acting first, explaining later. Congress eventually caught up, but the precedent stuck: in crisis, presidents would act fast and ask permission later.

Half a century later, Woodrow Wilson didn’t just follow that example — he rewrote it. During World War I, his administration rationed food and fuel, nationalized railroads, and passed the Trading with the Enemy Act of 1917, giving the president sweeping control over international trade. What began as wartime necessity became the foundation for today’s sanctions and emergency powers.

Yet even in that same era, the 1918–19 influenza pandemic revealed the limits of federal authority. Washington largely deferred to states and cities while the U.S. Public Health Service issued guidance but little direct action. That contrast — centralized control in war, local control in health — set the pattern for the century that followed.

By the time Franklin D. Roosevelt took office during the Great Depression, presidential intervention was no longer the exception — it was the expectation. FDR closed the nation’s banks for a week, then reopened them under new emergency laws that reshaped the economy overnight.

Harry Truman tried to stretch that model further. During the Korean War, he ordered a federal takeover of steel mills to prevent a strike from halting production. This time, the Supreme Court pushed back. In Youngstown v. Sawyer (1952), the Court ruled that a president’s power is at its “lowest ebb” when Congress hasn’t granted authority.

In the 1970s, Congress tried to codify the boundaries that had blurred over decades. The National Emergencies Act and International Emergency Economic Powers Act (IEEPA) required presidents to specify which powers they were invoking and gave lawmakers a process to end them — an attempt to pull the pendulum back toward balance.

But after 9/11, the pendulum swung again. The AUMF and PATRIOT Act vastly expanded executive powers in the name of national security. Those authorities — surveillance, targeted strikes, indefinite emergencies — remain embedded in the modern presidency.

Each crisis stretched the seams; each recovery tightened them again. That back-and-forth is our government — messy, loud, imperfect, and alive. Lately, it feels as if the pendulum is swinging once more — not just between parties, but between federal and state power.

Maybe that’s a return to “local control,” or maybe it’s the same old debate in a new disguise: how to balance freedom, authority, and accountability without letting the scale tip too far.

The Senate’s Stalemate and the “Pen and Phone” Era

Why do modern presidents lean so heavily on executive orders? Because Congress rarely reaches 60 votes. The filibuster rule, born in 1917, allows a minority to block almost anything. Ending it would take a simple majority willing to rewrite the Senate’s own rules — a step no party wants to make permanent.

So when legislation freezes, the White House acts alone. Barack Obama once said, “I’ve got a pen and a phone.” Donald Trump used emergency statutes to redirect funds for a border wall. Joe Biden used the same laws to steer supply chains and sanction Russia.

Different presidents, same toolbox. Even Saturday Night Live once parodied the shift — the old “I’m Just a Bill” getting shoved aside by an executive order that “pretty much just happens.” It was funny because it felt true: when Congress stalls, the presidency moves.

The Rhythm of the Republic

The U.S. system doesn’t work because the branches agree — it works because they argue. That friction isn’t failure; it’s design.

What breaks the balance is when we only defend the rules when our side isn’t in power. The founders didn’t build a monarchy or a mob. They built a machine that runs on disagreement, accountability, and time — one branch checking another until the rhythm steadies again.

Every crisis stretches that rhythm, and every recovery tightens it. The pendulum swings, and the republic endures.

That’s the American system I grew up loving: a scale of balance, like the scales of justice — a pendulum moving from one side to the next in step with the people. It’s messy, imperfect, sometimes exhausting, but it’s ours.

We should celebrate that endurance. Because more than two centuries later, the fight over power still belongs to the people — and it still matters here at home, where the paychecks and peace of our towns depend on that brackish balance.