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But democracy also imposes limits on America, as compared to hyperpowers of the past. Those calling for an American empire often compare the United States to Rome. This comparison is apt in many ways. Not only was Rome the military and economic giant of its time, but it was astonishingly “multicultural,” tolerant both ethnically and religiously up to the highest levels of power. At the same time, alone among the ancient empires, Rome offered a cultural package that was extraordinarily appealing to people throughout its dominions—at least if they weren't slaves. Similarly, the United States today offers a cultural package—blue jeans and baseball, hip-hop and Hollywood, fast food and Frappuccino Light—that is maddeningly attractive to millions if not billions around the world.

But Rome, as we have seen, had an advantage: It could make those it conquered and dominated part of the Roman Empire. Subjugated peoples from Scotland to Spain to West Africa all became subjects of the greatest power on earth. Even more significantly, Rome turned large numbers of conquered men, both elites and common soldiers, into Roman citizens, clothed with the high status and privileges that such citizenship entailed.

The United States can do no such thing. Precisely because it is a democracy, the United States does not try or want to make foreign populations its subjects—and certainly not its citizens. When Americans imagine bringing U.S. institutions and democracy to the Middle East, they are not envisioning the people of Baghdad and Falluja voting in the next U.S. presidential election. Even when the United States invades and occupies other countries, the goal today is never annexation but, at least ostensibly, an eventual military withdrawal, leaving behind a constitutional (and hopefully pro-American) democracy.

During the Cold War, America's support of democratic movements around the world—particularly in the 1980s—was part of a general strategy to counter Soviet influence. This strategy included spreading economic liberalism along with democratic institutions. At that time, resentment of the American superpower was relatively mild, mainly because it represented a clear alternative to the much-more-repressive Soviet system. The collapse of the Soviet Union—the leading obstacle to the spread of free market democracy—could have made the rest of the world more receptive to American leadership.

Instead, the ironic result of the United States’ “democratic world dominance” has been rampant, raging anti-Americanism. Today, America faces billions of people around the world, most of them poor, who know that the American dollar is the world's dominant currency, that English is the world's dominant language, that American corporations are the most powerful and visible in the world, and that American brands are the most pervasive and coveted. In the eyes of billions, America is the antithesis of what they are. They are poor, exploited, and powerless, often even over the destiny of their own families. America, in their eyes, is rich, healthy, glamorous, confident, and exploitative—at least if Hollywood, our multinationals, our advertisements, and our leaders are any indication. America is also “almighty” and “able to control the world,” whether through our military power, our “puppets” the International Monetary Fund and World Bank, or our formidable economic leverage. In short, large numbers of people all over the world feel dominated by—but no connection or allegiance to— the United States.

This, then, is America's dilemma. Inside its borders, the United States has over time proven uniquely successful in creating an ethnically and religiously neutral political identity capable of uniting as Americans individuals of all backgrounds from every corner of the world. But America does not exert power only over Americans. Outside its borders, there is no political glue binding the United States to the billions of people who live under its shadow.

The problem facing the United States