Some Assembly Required?

The Progressive Conservative Ontario government of Doug Ford made a surprise announcement in April 2019: the provincial transit agency, Metrolinx, would build a fifteen-station “downtown relief line” to help relieve pressure on Toronto’s congested subway system, particularly on the Yonge-University Line. Local transit officials had discussed such a project for decades, and the City of Toronto had been studying a $6.8-billion extension, but these new plans were drawn up by a British railway consultant in a mere three months. Despite the Fordian mantra of “Subways, subways, subways!” the so‑called Ontario Line would run above ground through Toronto’s leafy Riverside neighbourhood before crossing the Lower Don River and tunnelling beneath the city centre.

Much about the Ontario Line, now projected to open in the early 2030s, has proven controversial, from the selection of rolling stock to the terminal locations. But before work began in Riverside, it was the decision to thread new tracks along an existing rail corridor that provoked the most consternation. What would happen to the trees and shrubbery on either side? What about the parkland beyond that? What would trains running every two to three minutes throughout the week mean for sound pollution? What about the effects of increased vibration on all those century homes just metres away? Was Metrolinx’s “All will be well!” messaging believable, especially after the nightmare that was the construction of the Eglinton Crosstown LRT a few kilometres to the north?

Public consultations were held, of course, but they struck many residents as disingenuous. After all, in that same April 2019 announcement, the PC government unveiled a buried subway extension — projected to be one of the world’s most expensive — in a more suburban swath of Scarborough. Unlike that part of town, Riverside typically votes Liberal and NDP. Ford had few fans here, so surely he wouldn’t pay attention to local concerns about the route. And even if supercharging the existing corridor was in fact the smartest, most efficient way to build much-needed infrastructure — and even if left-leaning residents could be brought onside — the premier would surely dismiss concerns about hours of construction work, muster points for idling dump trucks, and plans for the temporary rerouting of pedestrian, vehicular, and streetcar traffic.

Peter MacLeod and Richard Johnson do not mention the Ontario Line or Metrolinx in Democracy’s Second Act: Why Politics Needs the Public, but the situation in Riverside certainly illustrates their overarching argument: “Democracy is not an idea, not a value, not a right; it’s a practice.” For far too long, citizens have been discouraged from that practice by duly elected governments on the left and the right — and by the civil servants and professional consultants in their employ. “Say as little as possible, as late as possible, in the most positive way possible,” they write of a general modus operandi that shapes Queen’s Park as much as it does Ottawa, Washington, London, and most other Western capitals. “It’s a defensive posture — useful for political survival, but corrosive to democratic understanding.”

Inevitably, MacLeod and Johnson argue, such corrosion will “slowly poison the democratic well,” leading to widespread cynicism, strongmen, and extremists — and to events like the storming of the United States Capitol on January 6, 2021. “Populism, resentment, authoritarian nostalgia: These are not fringe forces. They flourish wherever people feel ignored, humiliated, or locked out.”

The landscape MacLeod and Johnson describe in vivid detail will be familiar to anyone who has felt powerless in the public square — not unable to have their way, necessarily, but powerless to have their voice, concern, or expertise heard and acknowledged by decision makers preoccupied with managing risk or with the next election.

“Declining democratic legitimacy,” MacLeod and Johnson write, “does not emerge from a lack of trust that citizens have in their democratic governments; the real problem is that governments do not trust their own citizens.” Considering the widespread lack of trust, which the authors demonstrate with dozens of examples, Democracy’s Second Act could have easily become a gloom-ridden assessment of the status quo. Yet MacLeod and Johnson, who are colleagues at the advisory group MASS LBP, have produced a book that’s quite optimistic and, given the approachable case studies they present from around the world and throughout history, would be of practical value if those in charge were to read it with an open mind.

Things are the way they are, according to MacLeod and Johnson, because of three “self-serving myths” that undermine democracy. Regular people are too apathetic, for one thing. They’re also too ill-informed to have opinions on the inner workings of such a complex world. And, finally, they’re too self-interested: looking out only for themselves and their tribes. “These three myths do more than misrepresent reality,” the authors maintain. “They sustain systems that concentrate power in narrow hands while pretending to speak for all.”

Riverside residents are certainly not apathetic about trains running through their neighbourhood. They may not know a lot about boring machines or specialized subway carriages, but they do have direct experience with commuter and Via trains, which have passed through for decades; with their aging house foundations; with the wildlife that populates the rail corridor; and with the daily or seasonal usage of area parks. Those with cars of their own still believe in the value of public transit, just as those without children still believe in healthy schools and playgrounds. Even if that British consultant’s plan ultimately was the best possible approach, meaningful, multi-faceted consultations and deliberations would have taken such perspectives into account in good faith — rather than merely putting lipstick on an a priori pig.

That’s not too much to ask, according to MacLeod and Johnson. But it does mean a rejection of “the logic of New Public Management” that, over the past forty years or so, has steadily recast citizens as “customers, taxpayers, or stakeholders — identities that are transactional, shallow, and fleeting.” What’s needed is a mindset that relies less on static polling and that instead sees the public as an intelligent and active resource —“informed, engaged, and productive.”

History shows that such a mindset can have profound results. Consider the aftermath of an unusually fierce storm that hit Frisia, in northwestern Europe, more than 700 years ago:

Rather than head to higher ground, the surviving Frisians mobilized and devised a self-governing system of canals and dikes to help them reclaim their lost land. Each reclaimed plot, or polder, could sustain a large family or small village. As the number of polders grew, local water management boards, or waterschappen, formed to manage resources, erect windmills, and maintain berms. Through centuries of change and war, the community-based solution held. “On its surface, the polder model of democracy may seem to have little to do with things like elections, voting, political parties, majority rule, left versus right, liberal or conservative,” MacLeod and Johnson concede. But this “democracy of dry feet,” as some historians have called it, is also “a landmark, hiding in the plain sight of history, for how we might imagine the role of the public in a democracy today.”

Setting aside wooden clogs, MacLeod and Johnson draw other lessons from twenty-first-century citizens’ assemblies in British Columbia, Ontario, and the Netherlands (on electoral reform); France and the United Kingdom (on climate change); and Austria (on the integration of asylum seekers). These assemblies have been constituted in different ways — but generally through randomized selection of people who put up their hands — and they’ve had varying results. Yet even the less successful bodies, like France’s Convention Citoyenne pour le Climat, show how an engaged public can complement efforts of elected legislatures.

Two Irish assemblies, on gay marriage and on abortion rights, are among the most striking examples. In 2013, ninety-nine people, a sundry mix of sixty-six citizen volunteers and thirty-three elected politicians, gathered in Dublin for the concluding session of Ireland’s Convention on the Constitution. Having met seven previous times, on weekends spread over fourteen months, the group had listened to presentations about the Irish constitution, the history of marriage, and what it means to come out. They heard from psychologists, Catholic bishops, activists, and more. Ultimately, 79 percent of the convention members recommended a national referendum on legalizing gay marriage.

Despite widespread skepticism that such an assemblage would work — and that the government would ultimately listen to its recommendations — a referendum was held in May 2015, with 62 percent of voters in favour of amending the constitution. As a result, Ireland became the twenty-first country to legalize gay marriage and “the first to do so not through the courts, not in parliament, not by executive order — but from the direct authority of the people.” Three years later, a similar process led to a referendum on reproductive rights, with 66 percent of the country voting to remove the ban on abortion.

Not all of MacLeod and Johnson’s argument rests on such weighty topics. They point to randomly selected citizens’ councils that advise the parliament of Ostbelgien, in the semi-autonomous German-speaking region of Belgium. They discuss what works and what doesn’t with government support for community associations in Denmark, for local newspapers in Norway, and for cause-based groups in Singapore. And they show how programming at a youth centre near San Francisco began to click only when the “good intentions” of officials were refracted through experiences of young people. In each of these scenarios, politicians and civil servants have been willing to listen to those who are not high-paid consultants or trained experts.

“When we say democracy has a first act,” MacLeod and Johnson write, “we’re talking about the massive historical project to ensure that, more or less, every adult citizen has the chance to cast a vote for someone to represent their interests in government.” The ability to vote remains hugely significant, of course, but it’s no longer enough. “If democracy’s first act was about establishing universal rights and empowering every adult to vote and participate in representative institutions,” the authors conclude, “then its second act is about enabling many more people — at different times and in turn — to take on the happy burden of representation: to deliberate, exercise public judgment, and help solve shared challenges.”

With Democracy’s Second Act, MacLeod and Johnson draw upon philosophers and political theorists, especially Walter Lippmann and John Dewey, two Americans who held very different opinions of the average citizen’s capacity to shape public policy. In other words, this is an intelligent book, though not one that talks over the heads of its main subject: regular people.

In Toronto’s Riverside neighbourhood, regular people are invited to visit Metrolinx’s outreach centre to voice their concerns about the Ontario Line. But it never seems to be open after work or on weekends — when most could actually stop in to have a say. One is tempted to drop off a copy of Democracy’s Second Act if it ever is.