Elizabeth Warren, failure on a slow fire

Elizabeth Warren's presidential career began, in a sense, in 2016. Donald Trump's victory over Hillary Clinton, the first presidential candidate of one of the two major American parties, was a major surprise to much of the country's society and political class. Although the Republican lost the popular vote, he secured the presidency through his control of the Electoral College, where he had more support than the former secretary of state. His triumph mobilized women across the country, who protested his declared misogyny en masse, and called for the largest demonstration in American history: the Women's March of 2017. The people's resistance to the tycoon had profound political implications, and in the 2018 mid-term elections, 117 women were appointed to Congress, a historic number.  

This trend was replicated in the Democratic primary for the 2020 election. Elizabeth Warren, Kirsten Gillibrand, Kamala Harris, Marianne Williamson, Amy Klobuchar and Tulsi Gabbard made history by being part of the most diverse nomination race in history. However, most of them withdrew before the so-called Super Tuesday, and Warren was the only woman with a chance to be a candidate - still Gabbard is standing - who faced the decisive election date. A third position in Massachusetts, the state she represents in the Senate, as well as static popularity, forced her out on March 5, reducing the nomination to a dispute between two men in their seventies: the progressive Bernie Sanders and the centrist Joe Biden. 

The senator, who became a favorite in different polls, tried to position herself as a pragmatic alternative between Sanders' political revolution and Biden's traditionalism. Warren seemed to have "a plan for everything" - her campaign slogan - with which to reduce blatant inequality, to end racial injustice and to curb climate change. Her ambitious project won her the patronage of figures like footballer Megan Rapinoe and movements like the Working Families Party. In addition, influential media such as The New York Times or The Boston Globe openly praised her candidacy and according to The Economist, she was the most popular candidate among the white population with higher education. Her personal story also seemed to be adequate to win back the vote of the white working class that chose Trump in 2016, as well as to attract moderate conservatives. Born in Oklahoma to an impoverished family, Warren was for many years a staunch Republican, and she did not join the Democrats until 1995, when she was almost 50. That same year she became a full professor of law at Harvard University. 

Despite her overwhelming resume and stoic candidacy - with memorable speeches in the debates - her campaign was thwarted by a number of factors that have prevented her from advancing triumphantly to 1,600 Pennsylvania Avenue. One of her greatest obstacles was her limited fan base, and her low support among racial minorities. In South Carolina and Alabama, the two states with the highest percentage of black people in which they have held primaries, their support was 5% and 4% respectively, according to a survey by The Washington Post. A poll by the same newspaper gives the senator 6% and 8% of the Latino vote in California and Texas, territories where this group is demographically significant.

The homogeneity of her supporters has been, in part, one of the reasons why Democrats saw her as unable to beat Trump. This year's primaries have been strongly marked by the search for "electability," the selection of a candidate capable of reaching the Administration. Some of Warren's measures, such as the ban on fracking, raised some misgivings among Democrats, as they doubted its acceptance in key states such as Pennsylvania. On top of that, after Clinton's failed candidacy, more pressure has been put on political aspirants, and Warren's sexism has eroded her popularity. Although the senator has worked hard to convey an effective image even with her campaign slogan, the truth is that her mistakes have been more thoroughly scrutinized. For example, the harassment she faced after defending her native ancestry - which she later retracted - was far greater than that which Biden endured after being accused of inappropriate behaviour with women. Eligibility is therefore a skewed threshold that disproportionately hurts women. 

The Democratic Party finds itself in a moment of tension between a base thirsting for structural change and an establishment whose recipe is a return to Barack Obama's pragmatism. Elizabeth Warren tried to become a bridge between the two factions, but her vacillation on issues such as health coverage aroused the caution of members, and ended up making her invisible compared to Sanders and Biden. Many citizens labeled her attitude as condescending and even classist, a pertinent criticism given the weak support of the Democratic working-class base. Her hard personal history and her economic reformist vision were not enough to convince this electorate, which has remained faithful to Sanders since the last presidential elections. 

Her withdrawal from the race will probably not imply a political demise, since, with her departure, she has become a key player in the future nomination. If the senator openly supports Sanders, he could increase his number of supporters and beat Biden in key primary states. If, on the other hand, she prefers to align herself with the establishment and give her blessing to Biden, she would be welcomed back into the Senate with open arms and some position of responsibility. Both candidates are thirsty for her endorsement and may even offer her some clout in her future Administration if elected president. However, Warren can also remain impassive and not opt for either, maintaining a pragmatic stance between the two currents, as President Obama has done so far. Her ultimate plan may be to weld the party together by 2024 or, hopefully for the Democrats, 2028. The truth is that Warren's plan does not seem to end here.