Contra Donald Trump’s claims, Vice President Kamala Harris is not a Communist. For one, no evidence suggests that she seeks the collectivization of the means of production, or even that she is especially hostile to corporate America. When outlining her vision for an “opportunity economy,” Harris speaks of “a future where every person has the opportunity to build a business, to own a home, to build intergenerational wealth.” This is rhetoric that brings to mind George W. Bush’s “ownership society,” not the liquidation of the kulaks.
Granted, we’re not obliged to take Harris’s campaign pronouncements at face value, and there is no question that she has supported a number of policies that place her firmly on the left of the Democratic Party. But since emerging as President Joe Biden’s chosen successor, Harris has jettisoned her past support for Medicare for All, the Green New Deal, the Zero-Emission Vehicles Act, a ban on fracking, and the decriminalization of illegal border crossings, conspicuously distancing herself from the ideological commitments of her short-lived 2020 presidential campaign.
Moreover, Harris and her closest political allies, most notably her brother-in-law, the Uber executive Tony West, have made a concerted effort to cultivate influential CEOs and investors, many of whom have come away encouraged by her openness to their policy priorities. As if to demonstrate the seriousness of her pro-business pivot, Harris broke with Biden by proposing a more modest tax increase on capital gains and dividends. And while she continues to call for taxing the unrealized capital gains of households with more than $100 million in assets—a policy that is anathema to investors—the Dallas-based venture capitalist and entrepreneur Mark Cuban, perhaps her most visible champion in the business world, has flatly told CNBC “It’s not going to happen.”
So no, Harris is not a radical. But when she claims to be a pragmatic capitalist who will take “good ideas from wherever they come,” the pitch doesn’t quite land. How, then, should we understand her ideological sensibilities?
The most straightforward interpretation is that Harris is a Democratic Party loyalist who reliably moves in line with the evolving consensus among left-of-center interest groups, activists, intellectuals, donors, and campaign professionals. She stands in favor of whatever will keep the fractious Democratic coalition together. If the climate movement insists that fracking is an obstacle to the green-energy transition, she’ll take up their cause by backing a ban. If support for a fracking ban jeopardizes Democratic prospects in Pennsylvania, she’ll reverse her stance while underscoring that her values haven’t changed, careful not to rebuke the climate movement for its excesses. In this regard, Harris is strikingly similar to Biden, who has followed the Democratic consensus—to the right in the Bill Clinton era, to the left under Barack Obama and Trump—throughout his half century on the national political scene.
If I’m right, the good news is that a Harris victory wouldn’t mean the end of American capitalism. The bad news is that her lowest-common-denominator progressivism wouldn’t fix what’s broken with American capitalism either.
Before turning to the content of Harris’s economic agenda, it’s worth thinking through what we can learn from the arc of her political career.
Harris rose to prominence against the backdrop of the Silicon Valley wealth boom and the collapse of two-party politics in the Golden State in the 2000s and 2010s. Unlike Clinton, who, as governor of Arkansas, navigated the Reagan-era realignment of the South and had to learn to appeal to swing voters, Harris’s chief political challenge has been winning over enough California Democratic voters to deliver a majority.
With the notable exception of her 2010 race for attorney general, Harris managed to avoid facing off against a meaningful Republican challenger until she was named Biden’s running mate in 2020. She also seldom faced difficult fiscal trade-offs. As the district attorney of San Francisco and the attorney general of California, she was charged with making any number of important decisions but not with balancing budgets. Elected to the U.S. Senate in 2016, Harris’s tenure perfectly coincided with the Trump presidency, when the job of the junior senator from California was to be a voice of the anti-Trump resistance, not to strike bipartisan bargains.
One lesson from Harris’s political climb is that “reading the room” has proved to be a much better way to make friends in blue-state Democratic politics than making hard choices. No one can accuse Harris of ever having cut a social program or denied a public-sector union an item from its wish list, which is a very good place for a Democratic presidential candidate to be.
The downside, of course, is that we don’t have a good sense of whether Harris is capable of saying no to her political allies as Clinton, the architect of welfare reform, and Obama, who resisted calls for single-payer health care, did before her. Among Harris’s contemporaries, consider the contrasting political trajectory of Commerce Secretary Gina Raimondo, who has the distinct misfortune of having been a hard-nosed and highly effective governor of Rhode Island in the midst of a budget crisis, when she earned the lasting enmity of the Democratic left by saving her state from fiscal doom. That, I suspect, is why Raimondo is being discussed as a possible treasury secretary in a Harris administration and not the other way around.
Harris is not alone in evading hard choices. Trump’s 2024 presidential campaign has been defined by a series of improvisational policy initiatives—including “No tax on tips,” “No tax on overtime,” “No tax on Social Security for our great seniors”—which, taken together, would blow an enormous hole in federal revenues. Recently, the nonpartisan Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget released a careful analysis of the fiscal impact of the Trump and Harris campaign plans, and it found that although Harris’s plan would increase projected deficits by $3.5 trillion over the next decade, Trump’s plan would increase them by $7.5 trillion. Given the unseriousness of so many of Trump’s tax and spending proposals, many have concluded that Harris is the more credible presidential candidate.
But the closer you look at Harris’s economic agenda, the more the gap in seriousness between the two campaigns starts to shrink.
Shortly after the Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget released its much-discussed analysis, Harris proposed an ambitious new Medicare benefit for home-based care on ABC’s daytime television program The View, a policy aimed at easing the burden of the “sandwich generation,” or working-age adults who find themselves caring for children and aging parents at the same time. This is a large and sympathetic group, and Harris deserves credit for speaking to its needs. From a fiscal perspective, however, the deficit-increasing impact of a new Medicare benefit along these lines could be in the trillions.
Though a number of press reports have suggested that a home-based-care benefit could cost $40 billion a year, drawing on a Brookings Institution précis of a “very-conservatively designed universal program” with strict eligibility limits, my Manhattan Institute colleague Chris Pope projects that it could cost more than 10 times that amount. Harris has suggested paying for this new benefit by having Medicare drive a harder bargain with pharmaceutical companies, but Pope estimates that that would yield no more than $4 billion a year in savings. At the high end, this proposal alone could see the deficit-increasing impact of Harris’s campaign plan surpass that of Trump’s.
Of course, much depends on the details of a new Medicare benefit, just as much depends on how Trump would operationalize his own scattershot campaign promises. Rather than offering a more sober approach, though, Harris is racing to outbid her Republican opponent. To swing voters who don’t have much faith in the federal government’s ability to spend money wisely or well—skepticism that I would argue is more than justified—Trump’s promise of further tax cuts might prove more resonant than Harris’s plans for an expanded welfare state.
If instead of just adding to the deficit Harris were to pay for all of this new spending, she would have to do much more than raise the corporate income tax or tax unrealized capital gains, the same tax that her admirers in the business community insist will never see the light of day. She’d have to break her pledge to shield households earning $400,000 or less from tax increases, a move that would be difficult to reconcile with the Democratic Party’s increasing dependence on upper-middle-income, stock-owning voters.
Harris does, however, have one way forward that could yield real political dividends. She just needs to say no.
Drawing from a wide range of progressive thinkers, the Harris campaign has embraced ambitious goals that enjoy considerable public support, including a revitalized manufacturing sector, abundant green energy and housing, and increased public support for low- and middle-income families with children. Yet remaking the American political economy along these lines will necessitate saying no to interest groups that wield enormous power within the Democratic coalition—unions demanding concessions that threaten to undermine a manufacturing revival, environmental-justice activists who oppose permitting reform, and welfarists who want to create new entitlements for the young without rightsizing existing entitlements for the old.
Judging by her past experience, Harris’s instinct will be to placate these constituencies, to take the path of least resistance when confronted by the Democratic left. That same ideological drift has plagued the Biden White House, and there is growing concern among Democrats that though voters might see Harris as younger and more vigorous than the incumbent president, they otherwise see her candidacy as representing more of the same. With early voting already under way in more than a dozen states, she’s running out of time to prove her doubters wrong.
theatlantic.com