In N. K. Jemisin’s science fiction short story “The Effluent Engine” (2011), Jessaline, a Haitian spy and “natural” daughter of Toussaint Louverture, arrives in New Orleans in the early years of Haitian independence. Her world is both like and unlike our own: in the tale, Haitians have learned to convert gases from sugarcane distilleries into fuel for airships. Turning “our torment to our advantage,” as Jessaline puts it, Haiti effectively bombed French ships to win the Revolution; became the world’s leading manufacturer of dirigibles; and secured diplomatic standing in the United States, even constructing an embassy in New Orleans.1 And yet, despite Haiti’s steampunkesque political and technological power, there is much in “The Effluent Engine” that recalls a less optimistic history. The French are still “hell-bent upon re-enslaving” the nascent republic; although the United States begrudgingly recognizes Haiti, it remains “the stuff of American nightmare”; and Jessaline confronts white supremacist terrorism and the threat of racial-sexual violence in the US South, where she fights the Order of the White Camellia.

The presidential elections of 2016 and 2020 were two of the most disconcerting in American history. In 2016, the winning candidate lost the popular vote by 3 million votes and never obtained the support of the public. In 2020, the incumbent president lost by 7 million votes. Instead of conceding defeat, he exploited the complex system of certifying the results to prolong the denouement of the election, attempting to subvert the U.S. democratic process. Both elections raise serious doubts about democracy in America. At the core of these misgivings is the electoral college.

Many of the justifications for the electoral college focus on maintaining the harmony and cohesion of the Republic. Upon closer scrutiny, however, we find that the electoral college does not contain the results of fraud and accidental circumstances within states. Instead, it magnifies their consequences for the outcome nationally. Direct election, by contrast, would create disincentives for fraud and recounts. Similarly, the electoral college does not produce concurrent majorities around the country and force winning candidates to moderate their stances to appeal successfully to all segments of society and all geographic locations. Equally problematic is the view that victory in the electoral college ensures presidents effective coalitions for governing. Moreover, the electoral college does not produce compromise within states, and it is fundamentally different from constitutional provisions that require supermajorities to take positive action. The electoral college produces neither majority-vote victories for presidents nor mandates for their governing. It is also not a bastion of federalism. Direct election of the president would not diminish the role of state and local parties and officials or the nominating conventions, and national standards for elections are already in place and not to be feared.

The final chapter, “Mesmeric Revolution: Pauline Hopkins’s Matrilineal Haiti,” extends the coordinates of Hopkins’s global commitments, charting an alternative geography beneath the Africa-oriented Of One Blood. By turning to the Caribbean, Hopkins reveals how Haiti emerges at key moments of energetic resistance. Moreover, she explicitly genders these moments of resistance as feminine. Focusing on the matrilineage of Hannah, Mira, and Dianthe, I argue that women in the novel carry specifically Haitian valences: from colonial Saint-Dominguan mesmerism, to the poison of Makandal, to the legacy of marronage. This muted Caribbean geography recenters women at the heart of the narrative, adumbrates Hopkins’s anti-imperialist politics, and subverts the dehumanizing energy politics of plantation genealogies.

At the core of the democratic process is the view that “all votes must be counted as equal.” In an election for a national officeholder, each voter has a right to expect that he or she will stand in the same relation to the national official as every other voter. It is more important than ever that we act on our best principles and not our worst instincts. Understanding the flawed foundations of the electoral college is the critical first step on the road to reforming the system of presidential selection. Given its many advantages of direct election of the president for the polity, the United States should adopt direct election of the president. The president and vice president are the only national officials who represent the people as a whole, and the candidate who wins the most votes best approximates the choice of the people. This is the essence of “the consent of the governed.”

A core justification for the electoral college, and its violations of political equality, is that it is necessary to protect important interests that would be overlooked or harmed under a system of direct election of the president. Yet such claims are based on faulty premises. States—including states with small populations—do not embody coherent, unified interests and communities, and they have little need for protection. Even if they did, the electoral college does not provide it. Contrary to the claims of its supporters, candidates do not pay attention to small states. The electoral college actually distorts the campaign by discouraging candidates from paying attention to small states and to much of the rest of the country as well. Instead, they devote their attention to competitive states. It is also the case that people of color do not benefit from the electoral college, because they are not well positioned to determine the outcomes in states. As a result, the electoral college system discourages attention to their interests. It does, however, provide the potential for any cohesive special interest concentrated in a large, competitive state to exercise disproportionate power.

The electoral college is an extraordinarily complex mechanism for selecting a president. State and national laws drawn to implement the electoral college system have only added to the complexity—and the risks of a malfunction. The allocation of electoral votes among the states may not accurately represent the citizens resident in those states. Electors are not wise elites, and they may make errors or violate their charges when casting their votes. The constitutional provisions and laws required to implement the electoral college are open to multiple interpretations and may well involve Congress and the courts in partisan wrangling over which candidate won a state and which electoral votes to count. Their decisions may misrepresent the public’s wishes. Donald Trump’s attempts both to create alternative slates of electors and to reject certified electors from states won by Joe Biden could only occur because there was an electoral college. The absence of a right to vote in presidential elections is certainly inconsistent with our notions of democracy. Similarly, the selection of the ultimate choosers of the president—electors—by party committees is contrary to our notions of transparency and popular participation. Allowing a state legislature to choose the winning slate of electors of a state makes a mockery of popular selection of the president.

Chapter 2, “Marie Laveau’s Generational Arts: Healing and Midwifery in New Orleans,” turns from Saint Domingue to the immigrant communities of New Orleans many of whom were of Haitian heritage. Through an excavation of the myth and legacy of New Orleans “voodoo queen” Marie Laveau, I argue that Laveau renegotiated her body as capital, resisting social, cultural, and legal forces that sought to commodify, exoticize, or criminalize her. Instead, she became a community leader, healer, and possibly a midwife. Situating Laveau within a longer genealogy of Black women’s birthwork and midwifery within the nineteenth-century US South and circum-Caribbean, this chapter argues for alternative ways of imagining reproduction, kinship, and energy economies. Ultimately, it puts pressure on the myriad myths surrounding Laveau’s dynastic legacy, drawing attention away from white heteropatriarchal logics of touristic consumption, and instead allowing for bodily autonomy, love among women, and the notion of gestation and labor as an autoregenerating, independent economy.

The electoral college violates political equality. It is not a neutral counting device. The use of the unit-vote system, the allocation of electoral votes among the states, differences in voter turnout among the states, and the vagaries of the size of the U.S. House of Representatives allow the electoral college to favor some citizens over others, depending solely upon the state in which voters cast their votes for president. As a result, popular votes do not directly translate into electoral votes, and the candidate receiving the most popular votes may lose the election, as has happened twice in the twenty-first century. Thus, the electoral college is not just an archaic mechanism for counting the votes. It is an institution that aggregates popular votes in an inherently unjust manner. In addition, electors may violate their oaths to support their party’s candidates, and many U.S. citizens are disenfranchised.

Chapter 4, “‘A Wandering Maniac’: Sojourner Truth’s Demonic Marronage” turns to a prophet seldom associated with the Caribbean. Yet Sojourner Truth, who was born in 1797 in the predominantly Dutch Ulster County, grew up in a world shaped by Atlantic empires; steeped in African, Native American, Caribbean, Spanish, Dutch, and French histories; and shaking with the tremors of the Haitian Revolution. Her first language was Dutch, her early spiritual beliefs were African, and her community was influenced by transatlantic and Caribbean channels of trade, labor, and revolution. This chapter examines the energy practices of Truth’s creolized milieu within a broader discourse on Truth’s celebrated mobility, historicizing her fugitivity within a transnational history of female marronage throughout the Americas. This hemispheric history of wandering evokes what Sylvia Wynter has understood as the “demonic grounds” of Black women’s liberation. Suturing the demonic (an energy force that emerges from Wynter’s critique of nineteenth-century physics) with Caribbean practices of marronage (a kinetic practice of flight against the immobilizing energy demands of chattel slavery), Truth, I argue, not only is an Atlantic subject but also expands critical understandings of twentieth- and twenty-first-century Caribbean philosophy and specifically Black women’s energy in the Americas.

Most critics of direct election of the president assume that it would require a runoff provision. Although it is possible that such a rule would encourage third-party candidacies, there is no need to institute a runoff under direct election of the president. Advocates of the electoral college are correct that America is better off without a second-ballot runoff election. They are incorrect, however, that the electoral college is the only way to avoid such a runoff. Although there is no voting system that guarantees that the most preferred candidate will win, both plurality election and ranked choice voting are more likely to produce the Condorcet winner than the electoral college. Neither system requires a second ballot. The electoral college is not essential for a two-party system and actually encourages third parties to run presidential candidates and discourages party competition in many states. There is no evidence that direct election of the president would polarize political parties. Similarly, there would be little incentive for secret deals under direct election and severe constraints on the bargains third parties could make. Moreover, there is much less chance of such deals under direct election than under the contingent election provision of the electoral college.