When Jimmy Carter ascended to the presidency in 1977, he embodied a different kind of leadership—a blend of humility, moral conviction, and unvarnished authenticity. In a nation still reeling from Watergate and Vietnam, he was the antidote to the cynicism of the political and economic elite he had railed against in his acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention.
“A political and economic elite has controlled too much of our wealth, our media, and the processes of government,” he declared, a line that resonated deeply with working-class Americans who felt left behind.
Carter’s presidency began with the promise of connection to ordinary people, a refreshing divergence from the detached, bureaucratic image of Washington. Yet, in hindsight, his tenure may have unintentionally set the stage for a long-running challenge for the Democratic Party: how to balance high-minded idealism with the practical, visceral concerns of voters.
Carter, a peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, symbolized the simplicity and integrity that many Americans longed for. He eschewed ostentation in favor of accessibility and a clear moral compass. Shortly after his inauguration, Carter announced that his daughter, Amy, would attend Thaddeus Stevens School, a public elementary school in Washington, D.C., with a majority Black student body. “When the public schools are inferior or torn by strife, their children go to exclusive private schools,” Carter said, drawing a stark line between his administration and the privileged political class.
This decision was more than a gesture; it was a declaration of values. Only one other sitting president, Theodore Roosevelt, had sent a child to public school. Carter’s choice challenged entrenched norms and underscored his belief in leading by example. Yet, it also highlighted a tension that would shadow his presidency and the Democratic Party for decades: the difficulty of aligning progressive ideals with the messy, pragmatic realities of governance.
Carter’s vision for America was rooted in fairness, equity, and the idea that government could serve as a force for good. But his approach often lacked the narrative cohesion and emotional resonance that voters needed. While his rhetoric of condemning elites struck a chord in 1976, it struggled to evolve into a broader, actionable agenda that addressed the anxieties of an increasingly polarized and economically strained electorate.
His commitment to the public good was palpable but could feel distant from the kitchen-table concerns of voters. Carter was deeply engaged in issues like energy independence, human rights, and environmental stewardship, but these priorities, while forward-thinking, didn’t always translate into tangible benefits for struggling middle- and working-class families.
This gap between principle and perception—a problem of how Democrats are seen, rather than what they stand for—was magnified during Carter’s presidency and has haunted the party in the years since. While Republicans often spoke in visceral, relatable terms, Democrats, following Carter’s example, leaned heavily on policy expertise and intellectual arguments. It was a language that didn’t always resonate with the voters they needed most.
Carter’s presidency also revealed fractures within the Democratic Party that have grown more pronounced over time. His outsider status, which initially drew support from a coalition of working-class whites, Southern moderates, and African Americans, placed him at odds with the entrenched Democratic establishment in Washington. His push for reform—whether in ethics, energy policy, or civil rights—clashed with a political machinery resistant to change.
This tension was emblematic of a broader identity crisis. Was the Democratic Party the champion of the working class, as Carter envisioned, or a coalition of technocrats and social progressives? Could it be both? Carter’s presidency suggested that the answer was elusive. His inability to forge a unified vision left the party vulnerable to the cultural and economic anxieties that would define American politics in the decades to come.
Carter’s rise also represented the last gasp of a Southern Democratic tradition that had shaped the party for generations. As a New South moderate, Carter was uniquely positioned to bridge the gap between the party’s urban, progressive base and its rural, working-class wing. But the cultural and economic upheavals of the late 1970s—especially the deindustrialization and social conservatism that reshaped the South—eroded that coalition.
Republicans, beginning with Ronald Reagan, seized on this shift, framing themselves as the party of faith, family, and patriotism. Carter’s devout Baptist faith, once a cornerstone of his appeal, was overshadowed by the rise of the religious right, which increasingly aligned itself with the GOP. By the 1980 election, Carter found himself politically isolated, abandoned by many of the voters who had propelled him to the presidency just four years earlier.
In many ways, Carter’s presidency offered lessons that the Democratic Party has struggled to heed. His insistence on integrity and moral leadership remains a model of public service, but his inability to connect those values to a broader, more inclusive vision of economic and cultural renewal left a void.
Carter understood the importance of addressing systemic inequality, but his language often failed to meet voters where they were. He condemned the political elite but struggled to articulate a populism that felt accessible and empowering. He championed public schools and racial equality but couldn’t fully bridge the growing cultural divide between urban progressives and rural conservatives.
The Democrats who followed Carter—both his contemporaries and those of later generations—have often found themselves caught in similar binds. How do you reconcile the party’s progressive aspirations with the lived realities of an increasingly diverse and fractured electorate? How do you speak to the working-class voters who once formed the party’s backbone while also addressing the concerns of urban and suburban liberals?
In the years since his presidency, Jimmy Carter has come to symbolize a kind of moral clarity and public service that feels increasingly rare. His post-presidential work, from building homes with Habitat for Humanity to fighting for human rights, has only deepened the respect he commands.
Yet, the challenges of his presidency remain a cautionary tale for Democrats. Carter’s tenure underscores the importance of not just articulating ideals but also translating them into a vision that resonates with voters across divides of class, race, and geography.
In choosing the Thaddeus Stevens School for his daughter, Carter showed the courage of his convictions. But as Democrats have learned, conviction alone is not enough. The party must find ways to bridge the gap between its values and the hearts of the voters it seeks to serve—a lesson that Carter, in his humanity and humility, struggled to master.
In the end, Carter’s presidency reminds us of the enduring tension in American politics: the gap between what we hope to achieve and what we can deliver. His legacy is both an inspiration and a challenge, a testament to the power of moral leadership and the complexities of governing a nation that is always, in some way, at odds with itself.
TONY CASTRO, the former award-winning Los Angeles columnist and author, is a writer-at-large and the national political writer for LAMonthly.org. His forthcoming novel, THE BOOK OF MARILYN, will be published in 2025. He can be reached at tony@tonycastro.com.
