The Two Americas: A Comparison of Political Models in America

 

I revisited the topic of an article I published a few days ago in Italian on Money.it to write a post for English-speaking readers.

In American political debate – as in European – two opposing visions on the role of the state have confronted each other for decades. On one side, those who call for a strong, regulatory and redistributive presence; on the other, those who hope for a leaner and more limited function, centered on security, individual rights and the market. In the United States, this opposition is concretely reflected in the policies of individual federal states, each with broad fiscal and administrative powers. And if we look at the relationship between public spending and results achieved – in key sectors like education, healthcare, infrastructure and security – interesting, sometimes surprising data emerges.

Partisanship aside, it's worth asking: which model works better? Who manages to do more with less? The answer, with due caution, is that Republican administrations – despite exceptions – are on average more efficient: they spend less, but often achieve more, thanks to administrative models inspired by pragmatism, decentralization and accountability.

Take the case of education. According to Census Bureau and Department of Education data, New York State spends over $29,000 per year per student, while Florida spends less than $11,000. Yet the results are comparable, sometimes favoring the "low cost" model: Florida has invested over the years in voucher systems, charter schools (autonomous public schools, funded with public money but managed by private or non-profit entities), performance evaluations and competition between public and private schools. Utah, another Republican-led state, has the lowest per-student spending in the country, but achieves high-quality educational results, with literacy rates and STEM (Science – Technology – Engineering – Mathematics) preparation in constant growth.

Florida Governor Ron DeSantis

The same applies to healthcare. While progressive states aim for extensive public healthcare, with substantial investments, some Republican states prefer a mixed approach: fewer subsidies, more competition, greater access to private providers and freedom of choice. The result? In many cases, good levels of public health and patient satisfaction, with lower public costs. Florida, for example, while not excelling in "universal access," has avoided the structural crisis of other more centralized systems, maintaining good hospital efficiency. South Dakota and Utah (both Republican-led) consistently rank among the best in the ratio between spending and quality of health services.

Even in the field of infrastructure, the difference is noticeable. Utah today has one of the most reliable transportation systems in the USA, well-maintained roads, extensive broadband and efficient electrical networks, despite having one of the most contained public spending on infrastructure. Other Republican-led states, like Tennessee and North Carolina, are investing in a targeted and sustainable way, focusing on public-private partnerships and responsible fiscal models.

The security aspect is even more emblematic. In many East Coast Democratic-led states, urban crime rates remain high despite consistent investments in public safety. GOP-administered states like Texas (excluding some large Democratic cities like Austin) or New Hampshire (often considered among the safest in America) show how a mix of good governance, widespread legality and preventive policies can reduce crime with well-calibrated resources.

However, no model is perfect. Some Southern Republican states, like Mississippi or Louisiana, have contained public spending but also poor results in education, healthcare and social inclusion. In these cases, however, the problem is not so much the political color, but rather a weak economic fabric, limited human capital and low administrative capacity. Conversely, liberal states like Massachusetts or Minnesota show excellent performance in many indicators, despite a high and "progressive" spending model. This shows that a public administration can be efficient even if it spends a lot – but only if it does so well.

What emerges clearly is that efficiency doesn't depend only on the level of spending, but on the quality of governance. And in this, Republican administrations seem to have developed, at least in certain contexts, a competitive advantage: ability to better allocate resources, attention to public service performance, trust in local autonomy, merit incentives and reduction of bureaucracy.

Let's say things work properly when a non-ideological, but pragmatic vision prevails. The risk of some right-wing movements – as well as certain left-wing ones – is to transform governing philosophy into a symbolic battle instead of a tool to solve concrete problems. Citizens rightly want schools that teach, hospitals that work, taxes that serve a purpose, livable cities and digitized services. They want a state that is not invasive, but not absent either. A state that doesn't do everything, but does well what it must do.

In this sense, the most virtuous Republican model – that of states like Utah, Florida and Tennessee – can offer an interesting path for the future: a sober state, that invests where needed, doesn't waste, values private initiative, but doesn't completely give up a social safety net. A model that focuses on efficiency and responsibility, without abandoning the idea of the common good. The point, in fact, is not to cut welfare, but to make it sustainable, selective, effective. It's not about reducing the state on principle, but rethinking it in function of contemporary challenges: digitalization, mobility, security, skilled work, protection of rights. And it's here that politics, to be truly useful, should exit ideological cages and return within the boundaries of reality.

President Ronald Reagan delivering his
first inaugural address

In his inaugural address as President of the United States on January 20, 1981, Ronald Reagan uttered a famous phrase: "In this present crisis, government is not the solution to our problem; government is the problem." Those words represented a watershed in American politics, especially in relation to the legacy of the "Big Government" of the Lyndon B. Johnson era and his Great Society. They were also a cultural turning point, which profoundly influenced subsequent administrations, even Democratic ones (Clinton, for example, declared in 1996: "The era of big government is over").

In today's world, marked by growing debt and high expectations, the real line of demarcation is no longer between those who want to demonize the state and those who idolize it, but between those who want a state that works and those who settle for rhetoric. The future belongs to those who will have the courage to govern with numbers, with transparency and with vision. And in this, at least today, the most intelligent Republican administrators are charting the course.

Rethinking Humanity in the Age of AI

Algorithms and ancient voices. Talking about Artificial Intelligence is practically unavoidable these days... What do we really have to be afraid of? It’s not the robots.
My latest on American Thinker.

Summer, at least in theory, is supposed to be the best time of year to reflect on ourselves and on the big questions of our age.  Maybe it’s the warm weather, which is often more suitable for thinking than for acting, or maybe it’s simply the fact that many people are on vacation and finally have time to ponder things.  Either way, talking about artificial intelligence (AI) these days is practically unavoidable.

For every intelligent and insightful thing we read or hear about this vast and complex topic, there are countless foolish or banal statements multiplying like the Gremlins in the 1984 movie.  A novel like Klara and the Sun (2021) by Kazuo Ishiguro, with its humanistic take on AI, is an example of the former; the constant oversimplifications that flood both old and new media are a perfect example of the latter.

One thing is certain: Talking about A.I. ultimately means talking about human beings.  Because no technology, not even the most advanced, is ever just lines of code or clever algorithms.  It always ends up reflecting our desires, our fears, our limits, and our hopes.  It’s no surprise that in this era, where AI is rapidly permeating every part of our lives, we’re witnessing both excitement and dread, rooted in the age-old questions philosophers and poets have been asking for millennia: Who are we?  What can we become?  What is our destiny?

And so, looking back to the great thinkers and writers of the past feels not just interesting, but necessary.

Nietzsche, for instance, would probably smirk at some of the fear surrounding A.I.  He spent his life urging mankind to fulfill its true potential — “Become who you are!” he said — and he’d likely argue that if it takes A.I. to free us from tedious chores, repetitive work, bookkeeping, or endless emails, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that.  It might even be a kind of Dionysian liberation: Let the machines handle the paperwork so we can dance, create, or watch the sun go down.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, the great voice of American transcendentalism — a thinker whom Nietzsche greatly admired — would likely agree.  He wrote, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”  Emerson’s faith in the power of the individual and in human progress would not have been shaken by the challenges of A.I.  He probably would have seen it as a tool to amplify human potential — so long as we remain true to our inner voice.  Used wisely, A.I. could be an ally in our journey toward self-determination, not a tyrant.

Still, we can’t ignore the risks of intoxication — or of hubris.  Technology, as Plato well knew, is a beautiful siren.  But it can deceive us.  It makes us believe we can do anything — even recreate consciousness itself.  And yet it’s amusing to think that Plato, for all his brilliance, could never have imagined ChatGPT, deepfake videos, or algorithms that can write poetry or love letters.  Even so, his question still floats in the air like a soul hovering in the realm of ideals: What is man?  And what will we become when the machine speaks with our voice?

Let’s be clear, though: A.I. itself isn’t frightening.  What’s frightening is humanity.  Shakespeare understood this well.  In Hamlet, he wrote, “What a piece of work is man!”  Yes, marvelous and noble...but also treacherous, petty, and cruel.  Deep down, we all know that the real monsters aren’t inside machines — they’re inside people.  Nietzsche would call it our will to power.  Or perhaps it’s simply our bloated ego, like that of the Roman emperor Tiberius, whom Montaigne mocked for caring more about his posthumous reputation than about living well among his contemporaries.

Dante knew this, too. He mapped out an entire journey through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise to show that human beings lose themselves — and find themselves again.  If today we’re getting lost among bits and bots, perhaps it’s simply the same old selva oscura, where the right path is easy to lose.  Who knows if an algorithm could ever serve as our Virgil and lead us out?  Maybe so — at least when it comes to giving us directions home on Google Maps.

Of course, we need to stay vigilant.  The danger is that we become so accustomed to comfort that we start outsourcing not only our tasks, but also our thinking, our critical spirit, and our memory of history — that we start treating the machine as an infallible oracle.  It’s at moments like this that we hear Montaigne’s slightly melancholic humor reminding us, “I do not teach; I tell a story.”  Well, A.I. tells stories, too.  The problem is that it doesn’t necessarily tell the truth.  And there lies a vast abyss, one that belongs less to the realm of technology and more to the domain of human judgment.

We shouldn’t buy into the idea of an AI-driven apocalypse.  But we should absolutely be worried about an apocalypse of the human spirit — about people who stop asking questions.  That’s the real danger.  The biggest risk is giving up on asking who we are, why we live, and what we truly want.  And if there’s one lesson that the classics — from Plato to Shakespeare, from Dante to Montaigne — teach us, it’s that doubt is life.  That there’s no truth without contradiction.  And that sometimes, as Sophocles said, “not knowing anything is the sweetest life.”

Perhaps AI will force us to redefine what it means to be human.  Maybe it will make us smarter.  Or lazier.  Or both at once.  But I’d like to believe we’ll learn to use it as a mirror in which to see ourselves more clearly, much like Montaigne in his tower, surrounded by his thousand books and the Greek and Latin maxims carved into the beams.

And there, perhaps, we’ll finally realize that if the future frightens us, it’s not AI’s fault.  It’s ours.  Because of our arrogance.  Or our laziness.

It must be said that humanity has never been closer to becoming truly master of itself.  We must just remember that machines can imitate many things — but not the sudden quickening of a human heart at the sight of a sunset, nor the mystery of a soul wondering why it exists.

Blogs, Social Media, and the Cultural Growth of Public Opinion: from Montaigne to Our Time

I revisited the topic of an article I published yesterday in Italian on Money.it to write a post for English-speaking readers.

In an era in which digital connectivity has reshaped every aspect of communication, it’s worth pausing to reflect on the role that blogs and social media play in the cultural growth of public opinion. These are not merely technological tools; they are channels that have inherited—and partly revolutionized—an ancient tradition: that of individual thought opening itself to the world. A tradition that, quite surprisingly, takes us back more than four centuries to the time of Michel de Montaigne, the French philosopher whom many consider a “proto-blogger” of the 16th century. In his Essays, Montaigne laid himself bare before the reader, revealing his thoughts, fears, and idiosyncrasies. He didn’t write to pontificate but to understand himself—and, through that self-exploration, to help others question themselves as well. It’s precisely this spirit that animates many contemporary blogs: virtual spaces where writers reflect publicly on personal matters, in the hope of sparking dialogue, debate, and ultimately a shared culture. From Pen to Keyboard: The Continuity of Personal Thought

While Montaigne lived in the age of print, today’s digital world infinitely amplifies that same human urge to tell one’s story and reflect. In the end, every blog is a modern-day “essay,” written with the conviction that one’s ideas can meet, challenge, or enlighten the ideas of others. And, like Montaigne’s Essays, blogs can range from the personal to the political, from the philosophical to the everyday. Social media, on the other hand, have made this exchange even more immediate. Whereas a blog is usually a more meditative space where thoughts are structured in longer form, social media thrive on speed, brevity, and reaction. Yet even in these shorter formats, we find the same drive toward sharing ideas—what we might call the “publication of the self.” Recent Events and the Cultural Role of New Media

Take, for example, the recent European elections of 2024, which saw intense polarization and lively online debates. Independent blogs, social media accounts run by journalists, intellectuals, or everyday citizens offered alternative viewpoints, often challenging the official narratives presented by mainstream media. In some cases, these digital spaces brought attention to underrepresented issues, like youth voter abstention or the role of artificial intelligence in political communication.

Or consider the war in Ukraine, where blogs by geopolitical analysts and on-the-ground reporters have helped inform public opinion about aspects that might otherwise have been overlooked. While social media can indeed be tools of propaganda or disinformation, it’s undeniable that they also make valuable cultural contributions by diversifying sources and stimulating critical thinking. The Challenge of Quality and Critical Thinking

Of course, not everything about the digital world is golden. It’s also a realm filled with superficiality, fake news, and toxic dynamics. And here we return once again to Montaigne, who wrote in his Essays: “I do not teach, I tell a story.” A simple yet powerful phrase. Montaigne never positioned himself as an absolute authority but as a man who, through writing “en chair et en os” (in flesh and blood), shared his doubts with others. Perhaps this is the most important lesson for today’s digital world: not to replace complexity with slogans, not to give in to the temptation of always being right, but to cultivate doubt and curiosity.

Blogs and social media can indeed be extraordinary tools for cultural growth—but only if used critically: if writers take responsibility for researching, arguing their points, and respecting complexity, and if readers exercise both the right—and the duty—to verify, compare, and dig deeper. A New Public Sphere

In this sense, blogs and social media are reshaping what the philosopher Jürgen Habermas once called the “public sphere.” It’s no longer a one-way space where a few speak and many listen. Instead, it’s an arena where anyone can participate. True, this creates chaos, an overabundance of voices, and sometimes confusion. But it also offers everyone the chance to contribute to collective culture, breaking through geographical, social, and even linguistic barriers.

This is why comparing today’s digital world with Montaigne isn’t merely an intellectual game. The man who wrote to understand himself and share his thoughts four centuries ago was already anticipating the fundamental dynamic of the digital world: the construction of public opinion through personal storytelling. Umberto Eco once said of his own books that they were “a fabric of texts, a book made of books.” The same is true of Montaigne—and today, of the internet itself. Blogs and social media are, in fact, an endless conversation, made up of cross-references, quotes, links, and comments—a collective weaving of texts, images, and ideas, where each piece of content generates new content in turn. In a passage from his Essays, Montaigne pushes his reflections on reality so far that he ventures into what we might now call a “metaphysics of blogging,” offering contemporary people yet another of his extraordinary lessons:

I cannot keep my subject still. It goes along befuddled and staggering, with a natural drunkenness. I take it as it is, at the moment when it interests me. I do not describe the being; I describe the passage (…). I must adapt my story to the moment. I could change soon, not only in condition but also in intentions. It’s a record of various and shifting events and uncertain ideas—and sometimes contradictory ones: whether because I myself am different or because I view things from different aspects and perspectives. So much so that I may perhaps contradict myself, but I never contradict the truth, as Demades said. If my soul could settle, I would not be testing myself; I would be resolved. It is always in training and on trial.

In much the same way, we could say, online communication moves in countless directions, with scattered fragments connecting and transforming. Yet amid this apparent chaos lies a profound value: the possibility of surfacing new perspectives, personal experiences, and micro-stories that enrich our collective culture. Ultimately, blogs and social media are powerful tools for the cultural growth of public opinion—but only if they serve as spaces for genuine dialogue rather than megaphones for shouted certainties. And Montaigne reminds us that the true driving force of culture is curiosity, doubt, and the courage to expose ourselves without pretending always to be right. If the 16th century witnessed the birth of Montaigne’s Essays, our age has multiplied those voices a thousandfold. It’s up to us—readers and writers alike—to ensure that this incredible wealth doesn’t turn into mere noise but remains the lifeblood for cultural (and existential) growth for all.