WHEN KAMALA HARRIS announced her presidential candidacy in January 2019, she was met with glowing profiles, grassroots excitement, and ready donors. Rolling Stone praised “her intensity and intelligence,” and NPR declared that “Harris says she was bent toward a career fighting for civil rights almost since birth.” The Washington Post gushed about the firsts—“the first woman, the first African American woman, the first Indian American and the first Asian American”—she would bring to the presidency. In the first 24 hours after Harris’ announcement, her campaign reportedly raised $1.5 million. Vanity Fair asked, “Is Kamala Harris the New 2020 Frontrunner?” MSNBC host Rachel Maddow was even more direct. “Honestly,” she said, “I think there is a good chance that you are going to win the nomination.”
Eleven months later, Harris left the race. Her campaign had been plagued by inconsistent and vague policy positions, disarray and disagreement among her campaign staff, and a tough-on-crime past come back to haunt her.
Harris had made her law enforcement experience central to her pitch, often suggesting she was the best one to “prosecute the case” against President Donald Trump. Yet she appeared flum-moxed—stumbling or deflecting—when asked to defend moves she had made as a prosecutor. For instance, when Anderson Cooper asked about fellow candidate Tulsi Gabbard’s criticisms of Harris’ criminal justice record, Harris responded not by making a case for her record but by calling herself a “top-tier candidate” and pointing out that Gabbard was polling far beneath her.
Harris’ stumbles led many to wonder whether the candidate, who had climbed the political ladder in California’s deeply Democratic circles, was really fit for a national
