Why a Gen Zer Wants Joe Biden to Win
Deconstructing the political identity of an 18-year-old progressive
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For the past four years I have prided myself on being a diehard progressive.
Like much of my generation, I was pulled into the activist strain of modern politics — the kind personified by iconoclasts like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Greta Thünberg, and Emma González. Our worldview exists in a deeply emotional space. It is fueled by a driving need to right the wrongs of history, to question a system that seems neither to be built for, nor to serve the oppressed or marginalized. It is something driven by an understanding of intersectionality, of a feeling not just of political removal, but of political isolation.
The issues that stoke our fire are diverse and complex. Climate change and gun control, education and income inequality, restorative justice for women, racial minorities, and queer people. Each shares a key theme of establishment ignorance — a conception that despite decades of work from advocates and individual leaders, the powers which control the United States have failed in any desire for meaningful action. Our reaction to these issues is powerful, and once again, emotional. To us, the vitriol present in the Women’s March, in the climate strikes, and in March for Our Lives was not some ideological scuffle. It was not something controversial, not a political crusade. It was, and is, an extension of our very identity.
For much of us, that has not meant an attraction to establishmentarianism — even that of the Democratic party. Despite their efforts and despite conservative blockades, they still, nevertheless, failed on issues like guns. And their mainstream interpretation of issues like student loan debt or climate change have not even begun to scratch the surface of what we as a generation need or have asked for. This is the reasoning behind our unflagging support of figures like Senator Bernie Sanders. His promises of a political revolution — of a redefinition of what it means to be included in the American citizenry — remain potent promises for the kind of change that we, as a generation are still searching for.
When the 2016 campaign really took off, I was only in eighth grade. My parents were never political around me or my sister. I only later learned that they were independents to the bone. I don’t think they’ve ever voted for the same party for President two times in a row. My only tangential scrape with politics was through a the offhanded comments of a conservative relative, snarking over “Obama!” or “Pelosi!” or, God forbid, one of the Clinton’s. By all indicators I should never have become as politically active as I am. And if ideological heritage counts for anything, I’m doing so with the wrong party.
It means something different to be a Gen Zer in a political world. I like to think that my case is not abnormal.
Anecdotally, I can list an endless stream of progressive friends that were still brought up in conservative households. And statistically, I think I have some sort of legitimate validation in my claims. While the labels “liberal” or “conservative” are mostly evaded by Gen Z in terms of self-affixation, we overwhelmingly fall into what most would consider a progressive camp on issues like gun violence, LGBTQ rights, racial inequities, and legalized marijuana. We are also united with two other primary values: a belief that our government is not doing enough to solve the problems we face and a particular hatred for the current President. These issues come down to the same themes of betrayal and justice that I mentioned earlier. We feel that our voice has been isolated within the political process. It isn’t simply that it’s ignored, but is minimized.
The issues young people are most passionate about are recognized in mainstream politics by some individuals, but are not treated with the same gravity or sanctity as those impacting older voters. Take the polar opposite reactions to policies for social security and policies for student debt relief. Both are integral forms of welfare. Both stimulate the economy. Both act out of a moral imperative to avoid impoverishment for large groups of Americans. But only one has rigorous bipartisan support.
Our resistance to Trump reflects on this theme, but has its roots in another. Gen Z is the single most diverse generation in human history — not only in ethnicity, but in gender and sexual identity as well. The rise of social media has also broadened our sense of community. It has massively compounded social interactions and awareness, and has fomented a shared youth culture that has been able to achieve a profound breadth and a vibrant depth simultaneously. The result is a generation that is more interconnected, culturally plural, and fundamentally more empathetic. Thus, Trump’s assaults on minority identities not only threaten our sense of individuality, but threaten our more worldly and cosmopolitan generational identity as a whole. Disparaging rhetoric against immigrants or jingoistic Islamophobia does not have the same effect as it might on older or rural voters who may have been more culturally sheltered over their lifetimes. And the empathetic nature of our generation means that our reaction is not just one of ignorance. It’s one of anger. A drive for immediate change.
It was Sanders’ excited rhetoric that first drew many of us, including me, into the political process in 2016. A healthy outrage over Trump surely played a role, but politics of hope are almost always more effective than those of hate. The Sanders movement became a mechanism through which to channel anger and fear into something more productive. Young people like me feel that attraction to Sanders not simply for his online organizing or a penchant for viral moments on the internet — but a message of generational inclusivity that was and is wildly optimistic.
I remember my first introduction to him: it came through the lens of a Fox News interview, of all places, playing in the quiet, innocuous background of my grandparents’ kitchen. Senator Sanders talked about climate change in a way that was more reminiscent of an issue-conscious science teacher. He quoted statistics that I had seen people like Trump flat out ignore, or people like Obama and Biden acknowledge but soon forget. He spoke with vigor, passion, and urgency. His words tapped into the dueling feelings of marginalization and apathy. He called for aggressive action to curb fossil fuel use, for sustainable economic overhauls in manufacturing and energy, for a recognition of the future of young people — for my future. He talked about college debt, something I’d heard my own parents fret over even in eighth grade. As the interview concluded and I began to follow his campaign, more and more issues that actually included my concerns became front and center. Gun violence and education emerged — and policy proposals that once again orbited that key tenet of empathy, like single-payer healthcare, counted as assets in my mind. The apathy I had felt suddenly transitioned into political investment. His campaign felt like something personal.
So, I bought Bernie stickers for my laptop. I became something a lot of people like to think high schoolers aren’t: politically active
I talked about him with my friends at school, and a few more stickers populated the lockers, water bottles, and phone cases of our hallways. The summer before high school, of course, Sanders lost the nomination. I don’t remember being as crestfallen as I was on November 3rd, though. Unlike some of my older political peers, I simply transferred an excitement to Hillary Clinton, not because of anything unique about her, per se, but because she would take down Trump. She did have positives for her faults. Most of the Democratic party at least acknowledges the needs of young voters. While their prioritization of them is questionable and their actionless rhetorical appropriation of them is problematic (think Pete Buttigieg), inclusion of your political wants on an official party platform is nonetheless desirable. She was also a woman candidate. Maybe, I thought, that could reshape the toxic standards for sex and sexuality in the United States. Sadly, it did not.
But, as the election dragged on, I, and much of my generation, felt particular anger over the cascade of Trump scandals. The Clinton scandals were a problem in and of themselves, but I don’t think my political maturity was at the point where I could recognize the larger undertones of corruption and establishmentarianism that colored her campaign. But by that point, I was invested like I hadn’t been before. I needed Clinton to win. I started tracking polls and writing them down in a journal. I voraciously read every news article I could get my hands on. On election night, when she didn’t blow out Virginia, I really started to get nervous. When she lost Pennsylvania I cried.
By the end of it, I supported Clinton in 2016. I loved Bernie, and still do, but an opposition to Trump runs deep for me. During his presidency, that grew and metastasized. I watched the protests that erupted during his inauguration. I participated in two and even organized one in 2018. I watched Republican after Republican defend him in ways I thought were morally incomprehensible. I lost respect for public figures and only kiltered more to the left of a Democratic Party with which I only had a remarkably shallow history. By 2020, I was ready to vote. And I did.
My state was called by the major networks with less that 1% of the vote. Still, my preferred candidate didn’t win.
Colorado voted for Bernie Sanders by a whopping margin on Super Tuesday. I fell in love with the message of Elizabeth Warren in 2019. It was Bernie’s inclusive revolution on steroids. I know that most people my age still supported Sanders. And I knew his brand of progressivism was something I would love to see in the White House. But, Warren is something special. She takes the message of government engagement and runs away with it. Battling political corruption pervades every minute detail of her policy plans. And her vision for America falls staunchly within my own personal narrative: it is about re-investment in the marginalized, prioritizing an equitable and democratic system of justice. Her call for “Big, Structural Change” is not only synonymous with Sanders’ revolution mantra, it expands it. It doesn’t just reorganize the economy and social norms on the framework of fairness; it holds the government to the same standard. I could go on for hours about the wealth tax, her plans for worker investment, for stellar educational models, and a gargantuan climate plan. Her socioeconomic genius is remarkable.
But I’m lost again. Colorado was one of Warren’s best states. So was Massachusetts. So was Minnesota. So was Utah. So was California. She finished third or fourth in all of them — and didn’t even win convention delegates from California. My candidates might have a little bit of losing streak.
Writing this essay has become a bit of a political catharsis. I don’t know where to go. I still want to see the name “Elizabeth Warren” attached to the words “46th President.” But her candidacy is finally over. Her camp had downturns before: October of 2019, the aftermath of New Hampshire. But how could she have won a brokered convention as a candidate that has pledged a return to democratic values? At this point, I know the natural inclination for me should be to want to see Sanders win. Or to just not care at all. After all, my vote’s already been cast, and I’ll vote against Trump in November irregardless.
Sanders is an option. I love the notion of democratic socialism that he’s selling. A lot of my generation does. Buttigieg was the youngest candidate in the race, but he dropped out. And his “voice-of-a-generation” trope was dubious at best. His supporters were all older, dreamers from the Obama coalition in 2008, and he was far from capturing a real grasp of the intersectional activism with which my generation approaches politics, although he was happy to claim he was. Klobuchar was always a maybe. More conservative? Yes. But still a progressive. Now it’s down to Sanders and Biden. And I might have to do the unthinkable.
I know it might seem self-aggrandizing or pompous to put so much weight into who you choose to support in a Presidential primary, especially after you’ve already voted. And it seems even more so probably because of my age. My political opinion is irrelevant. I don’t have the clout for my voice to matter all that much. I gave voting a spin and my candidate lost. Now what does it matter? Personally, however, I need a cause to believe in. So does the rest of my generation. That is the draw of Sanders. He represents not just a platform, but a movement, something that, as I said, is markedly defined by hope.
Generationally speaking, however, our reaction to Joe Biden is the opposite.
He fits a nebulous archetype. A member of a complacent party elite — a 1970s Democrat who was blasé to segregation, who chaired the sexist disaster that was the Anita Hill hearings, and who led the fight for an atrocious take on criminal justice in the 1994 crime bill. There’s also another mold — one that is virally popular on apps like Instagram or TikTok — that likes to accentuate Biden’s verbal slips with the trappings of a confused old man, one who is once again irrevocably out of touch. But I increasingly find myself drawn to him— not the caricature but the candidate himself — as my 2020 alternative.
I’ve loved Sanders for all of the five years I’ve been active in politics. He represents much of what my generation wants to see for the future of our country. Not in the sense of his revolution but in his radical pragmatism — his appeal to simply make life easier for those for whom the economy has made it more difficult. His campaign is one of struggle, of change, of justice. Warren’s was the same. But he also scares me as a candidate. He puts a real chance for Democrats to win back the Senate at risk. Republicans have already weaponized his candidacy in the race in Arizona, where Mark Kelly has an excellent chance at defeating a remarkably ill-presented incumbent in Martha McSally. He places a potential upset in an empty Kansas seat at risk, where a firebrand conservative zealot — who lost the election for governor by 5 points there in 2018 — is facing a formidable challenger in the moderate Barbara Bollier. His leading the ticket would effectively quash the two fledgling campaigns in Georgia and one in North Carolina, where Obama-legacy candidates have the potential to thrive, and kill Doug Jones’ chances at holding Alabama in cold blood.
As a progressive, the Senate is crucial. The agenda of no Democrat can pass without it, and as much as I love Sanders, to affect change, we need a Senate that is able to pass legitimate legislation. For all the efforts of the House in the past two years, Mitch McConnell has wielded the Republican majority as an oligarchical firewall. Nothing has passed, not even bills with bipartisan support, not even bills with bipartisan co-sponsors. He has been happy to let Americans suffer.
We have a real chance this year. Republicans control the chamber 53–47, and up to seven vulnerable GOP seats are up for election, with one vulnerable Democrat. Sanders kills five of those options and cuts the vulnerable Democrat loose. A one seat gain is not enough to legislate.
But the night of Super Tuesday, watching the results roll in, Biden sparked a certain reminiscence not just for Obama, but for the staunchly energetic and egalitarian strain of liberalism that projected a message of hope through the 2018 midterms. He has rapidly constructed a broad coalition — of black voters, suburban families, moderates, women, and even some young voters — that sent him into massive victories across the South, Northeast, and Midwest. These were the same voters that fueled the Blue Wave two years ago and the same voters that, in the age of Trump, have facilitated the crux of the activistic resistance movement. His connection with the black community could drive the kind of turnout to make Georgia and North Carolina competitive not just for the Senate, but for the general Presidential election. Perhaps he even does the same for Texas and Arizona. And across the country, he gives us the best chance to elect activist representatives alongside the moderates.
This week, he’s won the endorsement not just of a fellow centrist in Klobuchar, but of Beto O’Rourke — one of the progressive darlings of the 2018 midterms. Likewise, he’s flirted with a vicepresidential spot for activist progressive icons like Stacey Abrams or even Elizabeth Warren herself. While the merits of an adherence to the party establishment are far from perfect, for Biden they carry the undeniable perk of his potential role as a unifier.
He might be riding Obama’s wave, but he is doing so by reigniting a passion for a united Democratic party. And his centrism may have serious flaws for young people, but the persistence of Warren and Sanders throughout this campaign have dragged him considerably to the left of where he was even four years ago. Even as the field’s self-designated moderate, if elected, he would still be the most progressive President in decades. The implications of this are not only enormous in their own right, but also allow Biden to do so as a familiar face for most Americans — as someone who they were comfortable enough to vote into federal office twice. Now that federal office may afford Biden a role as a serious changemaker. The Obama promise may not have worked out to the full extent that the electorate had hoped, but he was dogged by a financial crisis and a belligerent Congress of the opposite party. Imagine the progress of a Biden administration that, as a unifying party institution, would need to incorporate the wishes of the powerful activism groups that emerged in response to Trump not just for an electoral consensus, but for a consensus in governing.
I feel that as a Gen Zer, I should have a particular attachment to someone like Bernie in this election, and I do. But it was a sense of what was better for the movement that drew me to Warren. Sometimes, as a young person myself, I feel that we get caught up in notions of celebrity. Social media certainly exacerbates a feeling of personal connection, but so too does a strong political candidate. An enigmatic Sanders himself can take partial credit for that. But I think what matters more is our values as a generation over our specifics. That’s why I switched to Clinton when she won the nomination, and again why I chose to go in wholeheartedly for Warren. Because I believed, in that moment, that they had the best chance of making my needs heard, of including me in the political process, in insuring that I, or someone like me was not forgotten, marginalized, or abandoned by the machinations of government once again. I chose to invest in people that chose to invest in me, and that would set up a system of power where my voice was just as equally valuable as anyone else’s. Sanders might do the best job of making that connection, and his policies may present the best vision of how it would fundamentally change society for the better. But the argument for Biden is not one for electability. It is not one for pragmatism. It is not one which tells us we are overambitious or too progressive. It is one that gives us the best chance of making the dreams of our generation a reality.
The saying goes that Democrats are a big tent party. With Biden, we’ll be under the tent, right up next to the skeptics. We’ll be in a place where we can talk, where they can listen, and where our voice in government can echo off every inch of taut fabric.
