The Confusion of Our Political Language
Series: Parties, Ideologies, and Systems: Untangling America's Political Categories
In 1912, three men competed for the presidency of the United States. Theodore Roosevelt ran as the Progressive Party candidate, pledging a “New Nationalism” that would expand federal power to regulate corporations and protect workers. Woodrow Wilson campaigned as a Democrat, promoting his “New Freedom” agenda—also called progressive—that promised to break up monopolies and restore competitive markets. And incumbent William Howard Taft defended his Republican administration’s record of cautious reform and constitutional restraint. All three men claimed some version of “progress.” All three identified enemies that threatened the common good. Yet their visions of government’s proper role could hardly have been more different.
Roosevelt believed concentrated federal power could counterbalance concentrated corporate power. Wilson feared that concentrated power of any kind—public or private—threatened individual liberty. Taft worried that both his opponents would shatter constitutional limits in pursuit of reform. They used similar vocabulary. They diagnosed overlapping problems. But they proposed fundamentally incompatible solutions.
A century later, our political language has only grown more confused. We speak of “liberals” and “conservatives,” “left” and “right,” “progressive” and “reactionary”—but these terms shift meaning depending on context, era, and speaker. A “conservative” in 2025 bears little resemblance to a conservative from 1925, let alone 1825. A “liberal” in the Jeffersonian sense believed in limited government and maximum individual liberty; a “liberal” in the modern progressive sense believes in active government and collective provision of social goods. The same word, opposite meanings.
This confusion isn’t mere semantics. When we lack clear categories for analyzing political power, we default to tribal affiliation. We ask “Is this my team’s position?” rather than “Does this align with my principles?” We evaluate politicians based on party label rather than actual governance. We mistake coalition loyalty for ideological consistency.
Think about your own political identity for a moment. If someone asked you to describe your political philosophy without using a party name—no “Democrat,” no “Republican,” no “Independent”—could you do it? Could you articulate what you believe about the proper scope of government, the nature of rights, the relationship between individual and collective, without falling back on team identification? Many people find this surprisingly difficult. And that difficulty reveals the problem: our political vocabulary has become so muddled that we’ve lost the ability to think clearly about power itself.
The Problem We Face
In my previous series on the General Welfare Clause, we traced how a constitutional provision transformed from Madison’s narrow construction—welfare achieved through enumerated powers—into an independent spending authority that effectively bypassed Article I’s limitations. That transformation didn’t happen through formal amendment. It happened through linguistic drift, institutional accumulation, and the slow redefinition of foundational terms.
The same process has scrambled our broader political vocabulary. We can’t have productive debates about the proper scope of government when we don’t share a common language for describing what government does, why it does it, and what principles should constrain it.
Consider how the following conversation might unfold today:
Person A: “I’m a conservative, so I support strong national defense and law enforcement.”
Person B: “I’m a conservative too, but I oppose foreign intervention and drug prohibition as expansions of federal power.”
Person A: “That’s not conservative—that’s libertarian.”
Person B: “Libertarianism is conserving the constitutional limits the founders established.”
Person A: “The founders wanted a strong executive during wartime.”
Person B: “Jefferson opposed standing armies entirely.”
Both claim the same ideological label. Both cite founding principles. Both believe they’re defending limited government. Yet they reach opposite conclusions about actual policy. The label “conservative” has done no analytical work. It’s obscured rather than clarified their disagreement.
This happens because we conflate distinct categories: parties, ideologies, and systems—and then we add a fourth variable, populism, that cuts across all three like a rogue wave disrupting otherwise predictable patterns.
Three Layers, One Fog
When we talk about politics, we’re actually discussing three separate layers simultaneously:
1. Parties: Coalitions That Seek Power
Parties are pragmatic alliances formed to win elections and exercise authority. They are not ideological commitments but strategic vehicles. The Democratic Party of Grover Cleveland (1893-1897) championed the gold standard, opposed tariffs, vetoed pension expansions, and resisted federal intervention in the economy. The Democratic Party of Franklin Roosevelt (1933-1945) abandoned gold, raised tariffs selectively, created Social Security, and built the administrative state. Same party name. Opposite governing philosophy.
Parties are coalitions of factions that temporarily align because they need each other’s votes. These coalitions shift. They fracture. They realign around new issues and new coalitions form. The Republican Party began as the party of federal supremacy, wielded national power to end slavery, and imposed Reconstruction on Southern states. A century later it became the party of “states’ rights” and resistance to federal mandates. The party label remained constant. The constitutional philosophy reversed.
When we identify with a party, we’re identifying with a coalition—a collection of interests, not a coherent worldview. That coalition will disappoint us, because coalitions prioritize winning over consistency.
Ask yourself: Have you ever felt betrayed when “your” party supported a policy that contradicted your principles? That disappointment stems from mistaking a coalition for an ideology. The party didn’t betray you—you expected philosophical consistency from an institution designed for tactical flexibility.
2. Ideologies: Belief Systems About How Society Should Be Organized
Ideologies are coherent frameworks built on assumptions about human nature, the origins of rights, the purpose of government, and the relationship between individual and collective. They ask foundational questions:
Are human beings fundamentally rational and self-governing, or do they require guidance and restraint?
Do rights exist prior to government (natural rights), or are they granted by society (positive rights)?
Is liberty defined as freedom from interference, or freedom to obtain certain goods?
Should government secure the conditions for individual flourishing, or should it actively engineer outcomes?
Classical liberalism—the ideology of Locke, Jefferson, and Madison—answered these questions one way: humans possess natural rights that precede government; government exists to secure those rights, not to grant them; liberty means freedom from coercion; government power is inherently dangerous and must be strictly limited.
Modern progressivism—the ideology of Wilson, FDR, and LBJ—answered these questions differently: rights evolve with society’s capacity to secure them; government should actively provide for human welfare; liberty means access to education, healthcare, and economic security; government power, properly channeled through expertise and democratic accountability, can solve social problems.
These are fundamentally different worldviews. They can both be coherent. They can both be argued persuasively. But they cannot both be correct, because they rest on incompatible premises about the nature of rights and the purpose of political authority.
Ideologies transcend parties. You can find classical liberals in both major parties (though they’re increasingly homeless). You can find progressives who call themselves Democrats and national conservatives who call themselves Republicans, despite having more in common with each other than with libertarian-minded members of their own parties.
When you hear “liberal” or “conservative” in contemporary discourse, pause and ask: Which definition is being used? The older meaning rooted in constitutional limits and individual rights, or the newer meaning rooted in collective action and positive entitlements? Often, political arguments are actually people using the same words with incompatible definitions, talking past each other without realizing it.
3. Systems: How We Structure Ownership and Production
Systems describe the actual organization of economic life: who owns property, how production is coordinated, how goods are distributed.
Capitalism relies on private ownership, decentralized decision-making through markets, and profit as the signal for resource allocation.
Socialism relies on collective ownership (whether by the state or by workers), centralized planning or democratic coordination, and need or equality as the principle for distribution.
Mixed economies—the practical reality in most modern states—combine elements of both, with ongoing debates about where to draw the line.
Here’s what makes systems particularly confusing: The same system can be justified by different ideologies.
Capitalism can be defended on libertarian grounds (voluntary exchange respects individual autonomy), utilitarian grounds (markets generate wealth more efficiently than planning), or even progressive grounds (a rising tide lifts all boats, and prosperity enables social investment).
Socialism can be justified by egalitarian ideology (material equality is justice), paternalistic ideology (experts should manage resources for the common good), or communitarian ideology (cooperation reflects human nature better than competition).
This means that when someone says “I support capitalism” or “I oppose socialism,” they haven’t actually told you much about their underlying beliefs. A libertarian capitalist and a progressive capitalist will disagree profoundly about regulation, redistribution, and the role of government—despite both defending markets.
Consider this thought experiment: Two people both support “capitalism.” One believes the free market should operate with minimal regulation because voluntary exchange is morally superior to coercion. The other believes markets should be heavily regulated to ensure equitable outcomes, but private ownership is more efficient than state control. Do these two people actually agree about anything meaningful? They’ve both said they support capitalism, but their visions of society—and their comfort with government power—couldn’t be more different.
The Fourth Variable: Populism as Style, Not Substance
Just when we’ve separated parties from ideologies from systems, we encounter a fourth element that scrambles the categories: populism.
Populism isn’t an ideology. It’s a mobilization strategy, a rhetorical style that frames political conflict as “the people” versus “the elite.” Populists identify an enemy—corrupt insiders, coastal elites, the billionaire class, the deep state, the establishment—and position themselves as champions of the common citizen against entrenched power.
But here’s what makes populism so slippery: it can serve radically different ideological ends.
William Jennings Bryan mobilized farmers against Eastern bankers in 1896, demanding inflation to help debtors and attacking the gold standard as a tool of creditor oppression. His populism served a left-wing, redistributionist ideology.
Huey Long promised to “Share Our Wealth” in the 1930s, proposing massive taxation of the rich to guarantee every American family a middle-class income. His populism served an authoritarian-collectivist vision.
Barry Goldwater rallied against the Eastern Republican establishment in 1964, positioning himself as the voice of principled conservatism against moderate compromisers. His populism (though intellectually grounded rather than purely emotional) served a limited-government ideology.
Ron Paul attacked the Federal Reserve, the warfare state, and both party establishments, mobilizing supporters around constitutional restoration and individual liberty. His populism served a libertarian ideology.
Bernie Sanders frames politics as “the 99% versus the billionaire class,” demanding single-payer healthcare, free college, and wealth redistribution. His populism serves a democratic socialist ideology.
Donald Trump ran against “the swamp,” promising to restore American sovereignty, control immigration, and reject globalist elites. His populism served a nationalist ideology skeptical of both free-market economics and progressive social policy.
Same rhetorical structure—”the people” versus “the elite”—but look at what these populists actually proposed once in power (or aspiring to power). Bryan wanted inflation and regulation. Long wanted confiscatory taxation and guaranteed income. Goldwater wanted to dismantle the New Deal. Paul wanted to abolish the Fed and end foreign intervention. Sanders wants European-style social democracy. Trump wanted tariffs, immigration restriction, and deregulation.
Populism tells us nothing about a politician’s ideological commitments or governing philosophy. It only tells us their mobilization strategy. The relevant question is: What does the populist want to do with power once they have it? Do they want to expand government authority or constrain it? Do they want to centralize control or devolve it? Do they want to redistribute wealth or protect property? These are ideological questions. Populism is just the vehicle.
Pay attention to your own reactions to populist rhetoric. When a politician rails against “the establishment” or “the elites,” do you feel a surge of agreement? That’s natural—most people feel alienated from concentrated power at some point. But then ask the harder question: What is this person proposing to do about elite power? Replace it with different elites? Redistribute it? Constrain it through constitutional limits? The emotional appeal of populism can obscure wildly different—even opposite—visions of governance.
Why This Matters: The Trap of Identity Politics
When we conflate parties, ideologies, and systems—and when we’re susceptible to populist framing without examining what lies beneath it—we fall into identity politics. We start thinking tribally rather than analytically.
Identity politics asks: Is this person on my team?
Analytical politics asks: What is this person actually proposing to do with power?
Identity politics asks: Does this policy come from my party?
Analytical politics asks: Does this policy expand or constrain government authority, and do I approve of that trade-off?
Identity politics asks: Is this politician saying things that make my opponents angry?
Analytical politics asks: Is this politician’s rhetoric consistent with their actions, and do those actions align with my principles?
The problem with identity politics isn’t that people are stupid or tribal by nature. The problem is that our political language makes it nearly impossible to think clearly. When “liberal” means opposite things, when “conservative” contains contradictions, when party labels shift every generation, when populist rhetoric can serve any ideology—how is anyone supposed to evaluate political power coherently?
We can’t. So we default to: “Is this my team?” Because at least that question has a clear answer, even if it’s the wrong question.
Here’s a test of whether you’ve fallen into identity politics: Think of a policy you strongly support. Now imagine the opposing party proposed the exact same policy, word for word. Does your support waver? If it does, you’re thinking tribally. If you’d support or oppose the policy regardless of which party championed it, you’re thinking ideologically. Most of us fail this test more often than we’d like to admit.
What Comes Next
This series offers an alternative: a framework for analyzing political power that separates what we usually conflate.
Over the coming articles, we’ll examine:
How parties evolve and why your party disappoints you (because it’s a coalition, not a philosophy)
What major ideologies actually claim and why intelligent people reach opposite conclusions (because they start from different premises about human nature and rights)
How economic systems work and why the same system can be defended by incompatible ideologies
How populism operates across the political spectrum and why the “people versus elite” frame reveals nothing about actual governance
A two-axis framework for plotting political figures based on their actions rather than their rhetoric—measuring whether they moved toward liberty or authority, toward free markets or collective control
By the end, you’ll be able to evaluate any politician—past, present, or future—based on what they actually do with power, not on what team jersey they wear.
You’ll understand why you approve or disapprove of their approach based on your own principles, not on partisan reflexes.
And you’ll have a vocabulary for discussing politics that clarifies rather than obscures the real stakes: How much power should government wield, and what happens when it exceeds its proper bounds?
That was the question Madison and Jefferson debated. It was the question Hamilton and Adams answered differently. It’s the question Wilson and Coolidge, FDR and Taft, LBJ and Goldwater, Reagan and Clinton, Obama and Paul addressed through their actions in office.
It’s still the question. We’ve just forgotten how to ask it clearly.
Next in this series:
Parties: The Coalitions That Seek Power
Why the Democratic Party of 1896 would be unrecognizable to Democrats today, why Lincoln’s Republican Party bears no resemblance to Reagan’s, and why your party will inevitably disappoint you if you mistake coalition for principle.