Republican Mehmet Oz, right, is seen live on a monitor in the media tent, next to a poster of Democrat John Fetterman, left, as the two U.S. Senate candidates hold their first and only debate, at the WHTM-TV/ABC 27 Studio in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, on Oct. 25. AP file

Democrat John Fetterman’s performance in Pennsylvania’s lone Senate debate provoked intense discussions about his fitness for office while recovering from a stroke. Fetterman’s verbal stumbles and pauses intensified Republican accusations that his health is too frail to withstand the job of a senator, even as doctors and disability advocates pushed back on these charges.

But while some saw Fetterman’s halting speech and need for closed captioning as evidence of cognitive impairment, the conversation surrounding his fitness is premised on bias and ableism. The polished, articulate and groomed image we associate with the ideal politician means that anyone who does not meet this ideal is considered subpar — and hence “unfit.” But that understanding of what makes someone capable of holding office is actually rooted in eugenics.

In 1883, British polymath Sir Francis Galton first developed eugenics as a science for improving the inborn qualities of the human race. Eugenics swept into American society around the turn of the 20th century as a Progressive solution for addressing widespread problems caused by groups deemed “socially inadequate.”

As far as eugenicists were concerned, science said “moral” deficiencies were hereditary and threatened the health of the nation. That meant the solution to social problems like criminality, promiscuity and poverty was targeting the “morally degenerate” for institutionalization and sterilization. As Galton envisioned it, human betterment was only possible through consistent, scientific intervention brought about by eugenics: “What nature does blindly, slowly, and ruthlessly, man may do it providently, quickly, and kindly.”

Yet, at its core, eugenics simply applied a scientific gloss to existing race, class and gender prejudices. Immigrants, disabled people and racial and ethnic minorities were among those labeled socially “unfit.” As historian Natalie Lira explains, new terms such as “moron,” “imbecilic,” “feebleminded” and “degenerate” branded those who ran afoul of these existing prejudices. And their supposed lack of fitness was deemed detrimental to the future of the race – which made these groups susceptible to fundamental infringements on their freedom.

The language of eugenics bore deep roots in American culture that spilled over into every aspect of life. The eugenic impulse created perceptions about what kinds of traits were “desirable” — intelligence, health, appearance and success — and therefore who should reproduce to propagate normal or superior traits and who shouldn’t.

Controlling human reproduction through better breeding was a must. In a 1914 article in the Virginia Law Review, for instance, J. Miller Kenyon argued that sterilization should be performed “upon all of the unfit, a class that includes not only the insane, the criminal insane, but rapists, syphilitics, and degenerates.” Such arguments extended to the “disabled” — a label equated with being defective — leading to the involuntary sterilization of 60,000 disabled people over the course of the 20th century.

What justified such draconian ideas? The good of society as a whole.

Such stakes justified the adoption of deeply unequal and bigoted policies. In 1919, for instance, Detroit police revoked licenses held by deaf drivers after legislation barred “defectives” from operating motor vehicles; over the next 20 years, deaf people had to beat back proposals to ban deaf drivers in many other states as well.

The exclusionary power of eugenic fitness significantly shaped how Americans perceived disabled and chronically ill people. If the goal of eugenics was to define the normal, fit and genetically superior individual, then the logical corollary was that everyone who didn’t meet that standard should be subjugated. It especially made them unfit for positions of power.

This understanding compelled disabled politicians to take tremendous strides to conceal their disabilities from the public. Though many voters were aware of President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s bout with polio, Roosevelt took great pains to hide his inability to walk and project strength and virility — using canes, leg braces and even the Secret Service to “walk” — to avoid being perceived as weak even as opponents launched whispering campaigns declaring he was not “fit” for presidency. Several of Roosevelt’s successors also hid significant ailments: Dwight D. Eisenhower had Crohn’s disease and the public perceptions of John F. Kennedy’s youthful vigor were only possible because he hid the impact of Addison’s Disease and other medical issues.

But the work of disability activists in the decades after World War II began to change what was politically possible for the disabled. They protested against ableist ideologies that viewed disabled people as inherently deficient, and argued discriminatory policies needed to change. Energized by other civil rights movements of the 1960s and 1970s, the activists forged coalitions with disabled war veterans, student activists and other groups, with their efforts culminating in what lobbyist Patrisha Wright labeled the “golden age of disability rights legislation,” including Section 504 of the 1973 Rehabilitation Act and the Americans With Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA).

Massive moral and legal victories, Section 504 and the ADA paved the way for increased accommodations and opportunities for disabled Americans to hold office — with more and more disabled candidates appearing on the ballot in each election, especially at the local and state levels. For the first time, disability exclusion in public spaces was viewed as discrimination and these laws guaranteed protection for disabled people to ensure they had the same opportunities for employment, education and housing. That counteracted eugenicists’ insistence that it would be better for society to segregate and sterilize disabled people. It also helped credential potential disabled candidates and transformed the way Americans viewed them.

Despite these gains, as disability rights advocate Sarah Blahovec writes, too often disabled candidates still face increased scrutiny, see their autonomy denied or their agency stripped. Indeed, bias, inaccessibility and ableist prejudices not only prevent disabled people from running for office, but studies have indicated voters tend to follow a “hierarchy of impairments” when determining whether a candidate is fit for office. They disavow candidates who have heavily stigmatized conditions or disabilities — such as deafness, blindness, bipolar disorder, cancer or HIV — that they perceive might hamper their ability to function effectively. Indeed, researchers Lisa Schur and Douglas Kruse reported in 2019 that the percentage of elected officials who are disabled — one in 10, with the most common disabilities being hearing impairment and mobility impairments — remains below the nearly 16 percent of the adult population who is disabled.

Disabled people have long fought for inclusive spaces for themselves within society and politics and challenged ableist assumptions about their lives and worth, for they know firsthand how every policy is essentially a disability issue, from employment and health care to mass incarceration and voting. And they know that they can handle any job – as disabled design advocate Liz Jackson emphasizes, disabled people are the “original lifehackers,” people who adapt to their circumstances and make their way through the abled world by creating new objects and pathways that allow them full participation.

These skills — and the unique perspective they provide — help explain why jettisoning the ideas shaped by eugenics about disability would benefit American society and government. The need for adaptation and accommodations is not a character flaw but an opportunity to examine the world through different perspectives. Seeing the world through these lenses could inject new understandings into our government and produce policies that will collectively benefit us all.

Instead of a liability, disability can be a strength for bringing new ideas and insights to our government. While John Fetterman’s auditory processing problems may run afoul of traditional standards about fitness for office, his candidacy gives us an opportunity to re-evaluate ideas that are long out of date.

Jaipreet Virdi is a historian of medicine, technology and disability at the University of Delaware, and author of “Hearing Happiness: Deafness Cures in History.”