We Can All Do Better (3 page)

O
n a cold night in early November 2008, two hundred thousand people assembled in Chicago's Grant Park. Giant television screens had been placed at strategic points on the lawn. There was an air of exuberance and anticipation. All eyes were on the stage with its colorful backdrop and long runway, where any moment now Barack Obama would emerge to speak for the first time as president-elect of the United States.

The joy was palpable, all across the country. More than 70 million of our fellow citizens gathered around their television sets. Something historic had happened. Whether you were black or white or Hispanic or Asian or whatever—if you had lived in America over the last fifty years, you had seen the slow decline of racial strife. The election had confirmed that movement in our collective humanity. But this night was about more than race, or how yet another person from humble origins had ascended to America's highest office, or how the young president-elect had beaten the political odds to win
the nomination. It was about a new generation of Americans discovering their inspiration in the words of a political leader, and an older generation finding those words more deeply imbedded in their souls than they would ever have thought possible. Barack Obama convinced us that we could change our country, that one person could make a difference, that a new set of possibilities for ourselves, the country, the world was emerging.

One month earlier, in the midst of the presidential campaign, the stock market had cratered and the financial system had almost collapsed. Pension funds plummeted overnight, and job loss soon followed. Americans were afraid—aware that we were reaping the consequences of years of economic mismanagement. The country needed to believe in itself again. And the world needed to believe that the United States hadn't forgotten its historic role as an engine of hope and example of justice.

With his family at his side, Barack Obama took the stage. The applause was thunderous. Grown white men cried openly. Jesse Jackson stood on the lawn, wiping tears from his eyes. Young Americans screamed their lungs out. People around the world were watching, rapt at what was happening in America that night. TV commentators let the moment speak for itself. Oprah Winfrey put her head on the shoulder of a stranger in the Grant Park crowd and sobbed, overcome by the moment. The president-elect kissed his wife and his two girls, stepped forward, and said,

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first
time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference. . . .

It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day. . . . Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

For that is the true genius of America—that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

In the next day's
New York Times
, Ethan Bronner, writing from Gaza, declared, “From far away, this is how it looks: There is a country out there where tens of millions of white Christians, voting freely, select as their leader a black man of modest origin, the son of a Muslim. There is a place on Earth—call it America—where such a thing happens.”

When Obama was elected, he came to office as the personification of hope and the realization of the American dream, having established through two years of campaigning a unique bond with the American people. The honeymoon would not last long. Six days later, Lawrence Downes of the
New York Times
wrote, “It's time to pack away the Obama glow. Young people should save it for when they're old. The men who landed at Normandy spent no time thinking about what an awesome invasion they had just pulled off; they had to go liberate Europe. Postgame celebration and analysis are fine, for a game, but this country's challenges are not recreational.” Within three weeks, ratings for cable news and news websites had
dropped precipitously, and news leaks from the presidential transition effort had mushroomed. Within six months of Obama's inauguration, the momentum, based on a carefully crafted story the nation believed in, dissipated as the reality of Washington took hold. Many of Obama's newly assembled team of advisers seemed more comfortable with the tribal rituals of the capital than with the aspirations of the country. The president was gradually deprived of the oxygen a politician needs—his encounters with the people—and he appeared to be listening to those who told him what he couldn't do, instead of those who told him what he'd been elected to do.

Disgust with the federal government—particularly the Congress—has never been higher. In a late September 2011
New York
Times/CBS poll, only 6 percent of respondents—an all-time record—believed Congress deserved re-election. President Obama's approval rating hit a low of 40 percent in the October Gallup Poll. The fact that we seemed unable to get our economy growing again and that American troops were at war on the other side of the globe had something to do with those numbers, but so did the nation's perception of the culture of Washington, driven by that city's obsessions: power and money.

Most members of the Washington insiders' club come to town brimming with idealism, and then something happens. It's as if there were something in the air there that changes them with every breath. Lawyers rarely graduate from law school with dreams of becoming a lobbyist, but if you're a lawyer in Washington, that's where the action is. Most political consultants begin their careers in a campaign that stirs their souls, and then they get hooked on the adrenalin of combat and the money from lucrative consulting contracts. Pundits often start out as journalists and then morph into opinion-spouting television celebrities. Think-tank stalwarts get caught up in a swirl of fundraising and media strategies that leave little time for their substantive work. All these “members of the club” love their country. They work
hard at building their professional skills. They love their friends and their families. They have dreams for their children. But when it comes to politics, most of them can't break free from the cynicism that dominates the Washington culture and snuffs out the quintessentially American can-do spirit.

High-tech detective agencies investigate the most personal aspects of politicians' or appointees' lives. Members of administrations settle internal disputes by leaking their versions of an event or their opinions of a colleague, and the media turn the gossip into news, because it's easier to report on people than on policy. Rumors spread like wildfire. The press arrogates to itself the right to see if a politician can “take a punch,” even if it's below the belt. Today, in a culture whose main rule is “last man standing,” politics is mean and virtually everyone is a pitiless critic.

During my eighteen years in the U.S. Senate, I saw the Washington knives come out on more than a few occasions. George H. W. Bush, an honorable and talented president, won the first Gulf War, reduced the deficit, resolved the savings-and-loan crisis, passed a strong clean-air law, signed the Americans with Disabilities Act, and deftly presided over the end of the Cold War—yet he failed to win a second term. The press helped to bring him down from a post–Gulf War approval rating of 89 percent by ridiculing him for such trivialities as a distaste for broccoli and not knowing what a supermarket barcode was, a lapse intended to show that he was out of touch with middle-class families—as if any president would (or should) do the grocery shopping for the White House. When he reversed his promise not to increase taxes (“Read my lips!”), the media treated it as a sign of inconsistency and weakness, not as an act of courage by a political leader willing to change his position because the needs of the country demanded it. Bill Clinton read the tea leaves and shrewdly took advantage of that widespread depiction.

For the lobbyist members of the Washington club, government power can be an aphrodisiac. The best calling card in today's Washington is to be a friend of the president. The next best is to be a friend of the committee chairman or the cabinet secretary. Lobbyists love to use their connections—to exercise them for their clients. The amount of money that changes hands in some of these transactions is mind-boggling.

Many members of the club treat even the smallest disagreement as if it were a blood sport. Witness two consultants of opposing parties blasting each other on a talk show in order to prove their aggressive bona fides and drum up business. Pundits hold forth on TV with ironclad certainty (Washington is not the place for nuance), and when whatever they so confidently predicted does not come to pass, few hold them accountable. Members of the Washington club exude a smugness based on the premise that they've been around and they know how things work: Big dreams—idealistic dreams—cannot be realized. They've seen politicians come and go, and their views are etched in stone: “Reagan will never make it; he's just an actor.” “Hillary Clinton's the inevitable Democratic nominee.” “You can never reform the income-tax code.” “You can never pass major health-insurance reform.” Then there is the current conventional wisdom, which hasn't been disproved . . . yet: “You'll never be able to raise taxes or substantially reduce the deficit.” And “The two parties have a lock on politics.”

Politicians tend to tell people what they think people want to hear. They spout bromides and hurl vitriol at one another on TV. Twenty percent of their supporters cheer: “Way to go! No compromise!” But the 80 percent sitting at home and watching these spectacles is appalled. The hostility, the rigidity, is foreign to their own experience. On the Sunday talk shows, administration spokesmen rely on poll-tested phrases, and the opposition counters with poll-tested rhetoric of its own. Compare those shows with the stories
about real people's everyday lives carried on
CBS Sunday Morning
and you'll see the difference between posturing and reality. One show reveals the true America, the other the trivial nation of the permanent political class.

If the Washington culture is cynical, its most frequent expression is complaint. No president, at least since I went to Washington in 1979, has ever measured up for members of the club, no matter what his ranking in the polls. At nearly every reception or dinner party, you learn that there is something wrong with the president, whoever he is: “The president isn't reaching out properly.” “He doesn't have strong command of substance.” “He's too cocky.” “He needs more backbone.” “His cabinet is mediocre.” “He seems isolated.” “He should be more sensitive to human needs.” Or more this and less that. The state of perpetual dissatisfaction is not a state from which dreams can spring. If you're a politician, the Washington club is the hammer and you're the nail. The unspoken premise of many media interviews is that you are probably not telling the truth. Few in the club are moved by honest sentiment or devotion to public service. Most see everyone in politics as attempting to manipulate everyone else. Politics, they believe, is all about posturing and self-interest. The electorate, they think, is uninformed, the politicians venal. A politician's expression of emotion is invariably disbelieved and often ridiculed. The admission that you don't know something is seen as weakness. The sad irony is that many members of the club may be idealists underneath, for as the saying goes, a cynic is nothing more than a disappointed romantic.

Contrast this picture with the way most people in America live their lives. Even as their economic prospects have declined in the last thirty years, they have continued to believe in their country's fundamental health.
¹
They give their neighbor the benefit of the doubt. They look for silver linings. They take selfless actions. They make due. They endure.

When I ran for the Democratic presidential nomination in 2000, my conviction about the decency of the American people was only amplified. They wanted to believe in a positive future. They looked to you with the expectation that if you were president you could change their lives for the better. To be worthy of that trust, you gave them the best you had, you answered all their questions, you responded to the problems they confronted, the dreams they held onto, the frustrations they felt. A great deal of respect was conveyed—not so much for me as for the office I aspired to, which is why it is such a tremendous privilege to place yourself before the citizens of this country and seek the presidency.

Some of the people I encountered, to be sure, were unreasonable, angry zealots. The great majority were not. You would stand before an audience, with all eyes on you. I loved the eyes, in which I could read doubt or hope or anxiety or anger or support. I loved connecting with people in the audience until you had the whole room going with you as you tried to persuade them of your views. Most Americans will give you a hearing if they sense that you're putting the country ahead of your party and telling them the truth. I enjoyed sharing stories from my life and my hopes for the country. I especially enjoyed listening to their stories, which were full of unexpected twists, sometimes sad, occasionally funny, and frequently inspirational. When you are a politician who tries to feel the heartbeat of your district, or your state, or your country, you get a sense of the whole, a feel for what binds us together as citizens. The knowledge that hope is still alive outside our nation's capital balances the cynicism of the club and reminds us of what we have done and can do again.