The “State of the Union” Isn’t what It Used to Be

While Reagan devoted the bulk of his 1982 State of the Union address to his domestic economic agenda, which he touted as a cure for the nation's economic doldrums, his speech was designed to end on a more soaring note. He linked the heroic actions (which had been replayed countless times during the two weeks prior to his speech) of a single government employee, a man who dove into the icy waters of the Potomac River to save plane crash victims, with those of the founding patriots who took up arms at Lexington and Concord.

Yes, we have our problems . . . We speak with pride and admiration of that little band of Americans who overcame insuperable odds to set this nation on course 200 years ago. But our glory didn't end with them. Americans ever since have emulated their deeds.

We don't have to turn to our history books for heroes. They're all around us . . .

Just 2 weeks ago, in the midst of a terrible tragedy on the Potomac, we saw again the spirit of American heroism at its finest-the heroism of dedicated rescue workers saving crash victims from icy waters. And we saw the heroism of one of our young government employees, Lenny Skutnik, who, when he saw a woman lose her grip on the helicopter line, dived into the water and dragged her to safety.

As the president spoke, the cameras panned to the visitors' gallery where Skutnik was seated next to the First Lady, and the members of Congress rose to their feet to give him a sustained standing ovation. By acknowledging Skutnik's heroism, Reagan celebrated the Congressional Budget Office employee's extraordinary action while deploying it for political advantage.

In 2014, a president from the opposing party would use the same tactic of rhetoric for similar political gain. After Obamacare passed in 2010, President Barack Obama still faced the tough tasks of defending his hallmark health care legislation and trying to explain the nuances of its complicated regulatory framework. Rather than diving deep into policy particulars in his 2014 annual message, he told the story of Amanda Shelley, who obtained health insurance just days before she required life-saving emergency surgery. As he spoke, the camera cut to the gallery, where Shelley was seated directly behind Michelle Obama.

President Donald Trump would also use this tactic, a decision that is unsurprising given his predecessors' habitual use as well his own familiarity with what made for good television. In January 2020, several guests sitting with First Lady Melania Trump were selected to highlight his policies, at risk as they were during the forthcoming election, on issues ranging from criminal justice reform to border security. But one of the guests in particular was arguably chosen for a "made for TV" moment. Trump singled out conservative radio personality Rush Limbaugh before surprising him with the announcement that he would be awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, which Mrs. Trump then placed around his neck as the cameras rolled. The Minutemen of Lexington and Concord-and Lenny Skutnik-now had a new compatriot, symbolically at least: one who had waged ideological war on the airwaves.

As the address itself has become more theatrical, members of Congress have also gotten in on the performance. Whether standing and applauding raucously or sitting and staring in stony silence, those comprising the constitutionally intended audience physically signal support or rejection of a president's policy prescriptions. The joint session of Congress convened for the annual address at times almost seems as lively as the British House of Commons, but some unwritten rules still seem to apply. For example, Rep. Joe Wilson (R, S.C.) was roundly condemned for shouting "you lie" during Obama's 2009 address; he subsequently apologized. While it appears that shouting directly at the president while he is behind the rostrum is unacceptable, quieter displays of opposition may be here to stay if last year's showing of "women in white" is any indication.

In addition to participating in customary partisan shenanigans, President Joe Biden and members of Congress from both political parties have a unique task this year. Through the annual and ritualistic trappings, from the introduction of the president by the House Sergeant at Arms to the applause (and the withholding of it by some), they will reclaim the U.S. Capitol-and especially the House Chamber. For many Americans, the last sustained image of the U.S. Capitol is a shirtless man bedecked in furs and horns brandishing the American flag like a spear. Since a president last presented an "annual message," Americans have suffered through a pandemic, felt its debilitating societal and economic costs, survived a fraught election season, heard incendiary claims of electoral fraud, and watched a small legion of misguided insurrectionists despoil the seat of the country's democracy.

Like the rest of American society, this annual tradition is not immune to the coronavirus. Masks may lessen the volume and visual intensity of attendees' theatrics, and there may be video cutaways to honored guests watching the speech in a remote location. However, by staying within the roughly sketched parameters of modern State of the Union comportment-including respectful, if vociferous, disagreement-the president and members of Congress can take an important step toward demonstrating their shared commitment to America's democratic institutions.

After the last 12 months or so, reading a syllabus that tells us what will come next might not seem quite so bad.