No man is happy but by comparison.

– Thomas Shadwell, poet laureate, United Kingdom (1689-1692)

If you want to better understand the true nature of a proposal, consider a counterproposal.

Looking at two competing proposals forces you to reckon with the different details of each idea.

Which is why every proposition on the California ballot should have a counterproposal listed next to it.

I raise this idea now because of a nasty fight in the State Capitol that made headlines earlier this summer. The fight was over a November ballot initiative and a possible counter to it from the legislature.

The initiative is a proposed repeal of the 2014 criminal justice reform measure known as Prop 47, which reduced penalties for crimes. This new initiative, now labeled Prop 36 on the November ballot, would increase penalties for certain drug crimes and thefts, as well as for criminal activities involving fentanyl. Prosecutors, county sheriffs, Republicans, major retailers, and the mayor of San Francisco are among its backers.

State Democratic leaders opposed the measure as a return to failed tough-on-crime policies. But they also knew that profound concerns about retail thefts and fentanyl meant the measure might well pass.

So, they sought to sabotage the initiative, by offering both an alternative ballot measure and a package of 14 bills that would achieve some of the goals of the initiative. The tactic backfired, causing a political firestorm instead.

The details of the controversy are complicated, so here’s the short version. Democrats included popular provisions in their bills that would be canceled if the law enforcement-backed measure were approved by voters and took effect. These provisions seemed designed not just to undermine the competing initiative but to add to voter confusion. The Democrats also gave their countermeasure some advantages, like a better ballot position.

This gamesmanship undercut the Democrats. Party leaders were criticized for appearing less interested in working toward an effective compromise to curb fentanyl and retail theft, and more interested in getting rid of a tougher-on-crime initiative that might boost turnout among Republicans in November.

In the end, with Democrats facing accusations of “election interference” from the media and Republicans, Gov. Gavin Newsom dropped the countermeasure.

Which was too bad. Voters would have benefited from a clear choice.

The controversy exposed a basic problem with California’s direct democracy. There is no fair, established, and voter-centered process for putting countermeasures on the ballot.

But it would be easy to put one in place.

Some countries with direct democracy have just such an established process for encouraging counterproposals. Switzerland, which has a ballot initiative system that inspired the establishment of California’s system 113 years ago, has the best.

The process is straightforward. When citizens or initiative groups have enough signatures to qualify an initiative, the legislative body gets to examine the initiative and negotiate with sponsors on a compromise that would obviate the need for the measure.

California established a similar process in 2014. It includes a 30-day period for public comments, and legislative hearings on measures once initiative sponsors have gathered 25 percent of the signatures necessary for ballot qualification. This has created new space for compromise between initiative proponents and state lawmakers.  The proponents can now amend their initiatives, or even remove them from the ballot, if they reach an agreement with the legislature and governor.

If those negotiations fail, as they often do, the proponents go forward with their initiative. In response, the legislature can use its power to put its own measure—a countermeasure—on the ballot.

The difference between Switzerland and California is that California has no clear rules that govern these countermeasures. As a result, California countermeasures can be presented on ballots in ways that are haphazard or unfair (with the legislative measure having a more favorable title or position on the ballot, for instance). The measures aren’t linked together on the ballot, which confuses voters. (Have you recently been confounded by two measures on different parts of your ballot seemingly aimed at reforming dialysis clinics, or combating homelessness?)

The Swiss have a standard process for countermeasures that is fair. Each countermeasure is clearly labeled as such, and placed on the ballot right next to the initiative to which it responds. If California adopted this process, countermeasures would be labeled with the same proposition number as the initiative (the initiative might be 24A, and the countermeasure 24B), and with language that made clear that the measures were competing proposals on the same subject.

No gamesmanship.

In a Swiss-style process, California voters would have three questions to answer on each initiative. Yes or no on the initiative. Yes or no on the countermeasure. And then a third choice: if both of these measures pass, which one do you want to go into effect?

The benefits of such a three-part question would be obvious. Voters would have more clarity about their choices—and more power, regardless of whether their preferred outcome wins or loses. Even voters who oppose both the initiative and the countermeasure would be able to register a preference for the one they object to least. Ultimately, voting results would more closely match voter preferences.

I’ve spent considerable time observing Swiss votes on initiatives and referenda, and there’s another advantage to this three-question system. It produces better, more informative campaigns.

Right now, we California voters consider each initiative separately in the vacuum. We learn few details of the measures. Instead, we often vote based on our feelings about an issue, or by following the endorsements in a partisan voter guide.

A Swiss-style comparative campaign—where voters must choose between an initiative and counterproposal—forces voters, and the media, to delve into the details of the two measures. Because the natural question to ask of competing measures is: What is the difference between them? Answering that question requires looking at the actual language and policy detail.

Californians won’t have that option this November. Instead, their choices will be one measure, Prop 36, that proposes harder-line solutions to drug and theft problems—or maintaining the status quo.

The proposed Democratic bills and countermeasure, now abandoned, weren’t much better. But a transparent process would have allowed legislators to draft a better countermeasure, knowing it would go on the ballot right next to the initiative. Or to negotiate in better faith with the initiative sponsors.

Either way, a clear and fair process would have produced more choices for voters, and likely better public policy.

So, let’s give the people a counterproposal now.

The post California’s Ballot Measures Don’t Need to Be a Hot Mess appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

Over 20 years ago, I covered my face with my hands and shyly told my (now) husband, “I’m moving away for graduate school and I’d love you to go with me, but I want us to be married first.” After he agreed that it seemed like a great idea, we shopped together for an engagement ring before he chose one of the two I had liked best. He offered it to me from one knee a couple of months later in a “surprise” engagement. As a wife, I tell others he proposed. But as a social scientist who studies marriages and engagements, I’m not so sure.

Young, heterosexual adults increasingly prefer egalitarian relationships in which both partners work for pay and contribute equitably to childcare and domestic labor—even as they struggle to realize this balance. Equalizing the proposal—a single moment in time rather than an ever-changing, lifetime negotiation of labor—should be much easier. Still, the proposal process remains overwhelmingly a male responsibility—and privilege. The stubbornness of this seemingly last acceptable bastion of male control has a lot to tell us about gender, relationships, and the division of labor in 21st-century America.

Sociologist Sharon Sassler and I interviewed a number of cohabiting couples between the ages of 18 and 34 who were considering or in the process of discussing marriage with their partners. We explicitly asked them which partner should propose. We received a fair number of responses such as “Whomever wants,” especially from college-educated men and women. But when we changed the question slightly to “Who do YOU want to propose if the two of you get married?”, the response was overwhelmingly the male partner. And this remained true even among those who otherwise viewed their relationships as equal.

When we asked why, men and women alike expressed concerns that “flopping the question” would call into question long-established gender roles. “It’s just a manly job,” explained Terrell.* “It’s just natural.”

Nathan, who was committed to sharing the housework and financial responsibilities equally with his partner, Andrea, had just proposed. Although Andrea had been the one to initiate their move-in, he said of the wedding proposal: “I think it’s the guys’ job, not to be chauvinistic and old-fashioned. But I think I would have felt kind of like a putz if she would have proposed to me.”

Many women felt the same way. Tara told us, “I said, ‘If you don’t do it by a certain time, I’m just going to do it.’ But I don’t mean that, because I don’t want to do it ’cause then I’ll feel like masculine, and I don’t want to feel masculine.” Asked to elaborate, Tara said, “I’ve definitely been the initiator in some of our other circumstances that are traditionally I think male roles. This is just a big one. And because everyone will ask, ‘How did it happen?’ And I don’t want to say, ‘Well I did it.’ I can’t. It would kill me I think.”

Female proposals were not entirely out of the question. Dawn had planned to propose to Eric, only to be dissuaded by both her mother and Eric’s wishes. She said, “I’ve threatened to propose to him a few times. He’s like, ‘No, the man does it.’ I think he would feel unmanly if he didn’t do it. Yeah, I know that sounds weird from a guy that’s really liberal, but I just feel like he wants to—he wants control of the situation.”

Eric’s explanation was simpler: “I just see it as the guy should propose—the classic way.”

All of this, for one simple question. But the power to propose is not merely picking out the right place or time to ask those four little words. It’s the ability to determine the pace of the entire relationship. It stands to reason that if the male partner is the only one who can move the couples’ union into marriage, the female partner has only two choices: wait to be asked or leave. In this way, the man’s timeline determines the seriousness of the relationship, with couples often scarcely realizing just how much control that affords him. In fact, this kind of “hidden power,” which makes certain gender roles seem natural or inevitable, can continually and insidiously reinforce patriarchal norms without ever really being questioned.

So what’s a modern straight couple to do? What might a more equal proposal look like?

Well, for one, heterosexual cis couples could certainly look to their gay and lesbian counterparts. They often leave the power of the proposal to a decision reached through discussion before the partner who most wants to advance the relationship or who prefers to stand on ceremony is the one to propose. However, such a change requires overcoming centuries of tradition and internalized sexism.

More recently, “dual proposals” have begun to make the rounds on social media. In this model, each partner proposes, and each (hopefully!) accepts. Though, of course, this is not without its own challenges: Need the proposals occur on the same day? Who goes first? And is the engagement official after the first “Yes”?

As the age of marriage has risen over time in the U.S. to just over 30 for men and 28 for women and the institution has become more economically elite, a third possibility for the “new proposal” seems apparent. Far from being the blushing bride and fresh-faced groom leaving the family home, today’s betrothed couples typically already have established their own households—most often living together and perhaps even with children of their own. The pomp and circumstance of the engagement period that were designed to help provide a young couple with the goods necessary for setting up a new household, like hope chests, engagement parties, and bridal showers, are no longer a major factor. Now, marriage is a pinnacle marker of adulthood rather than its beginning. After discussing whether they wish to marry, couples could simply decide that they are engaged, no proposal needed. In fact, rather than spending money renting out the jumbotron or hiring the skywriter, they might choose to host a party announcing their engagement and celebrating all who have supported them along the way.

Human beings have agency—and with that, the power to choose to modify or reject social norms. If our society continues to promote the proposal as a nearly unquestionable male right, we will continue to go through great lengths to reach true egalitarianism. Regardless of when our engagement became “official,” in the end, my husband and I are no less married. We have crafted a life full of mutual admiration, equal sharing, and a whole lot of fun. The question will be, is the conventional start to that life together—a male proposal—a tradition that heterosexual couples want to eschew?

Saying “yes” to an overhaul of the marriage proposal might be beneficial not only to our own relationships, but for generations to come.

The post Who Should Put a Ring on It? appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.