Campaigning

What is it about Obama?

Maybe it’s his message of inclusion, his smarts or his million-dollar

smile. Whatever it is, people seem smitten.



By Terry McDermott

December 24, 2006

Los Angeles Times



CHICAGO – Chicago
politics, viewed from afar, often seems a

monolithic thing. The words most closely associated with it – “the

machine” – imply an implacable, unbreakable force. On the ground,

nearly the opposite is true.



Far from being a monolith, the machine has many parts.



Anyone seeking to navigate and survive it, much less prosper, must

master a set of equations that includes fine gradations of locale and

clan. There are, for starters, the South Side and the Near North Side,

the Loop, the South Loop, the West Loop, West Town, Irving Park,

Portage Park, Hyde Park, this Catholic parish or that, the Poles, the

Czechs, the Jacksons, the Bridgeport Irish (who are not to be confused

with the Lace Curtain Irish, or with anyone else, for that matter).



You’ll encounter a hundred fiefdoms without ever leaving Cook County,

beyond which lie still more divisions – the collar counties around

the city, and, of course, downstate, which seems to include everything

that isn’t Chicago, from the northwest suburbs to the sundown towns (as

in, if you were black, you’d better be out of town before the sun set)

of Little Egypt, which are closer in almost every way to Alabama than

Chicago.



It is a place, in other words, of great divisions and, maybe because of

that, uncommonly well-suited to have initiated U.S. Sen. Barack Obama

into politics.



Obama-mania has exploded across the country this fall, propelled by a

wave of adulation that greeted the publication of his second book, “The

Audacity of Hope,” and by shrewd manipulation of the opportunity that

attention afforded. He has popped up everywhere from the cover of Men’s

Vogue to “Monday Night Football.” He has been urged to run for

president by everybody from Oprah Winfrey to a shockingly large number

of ideologically opposed political commentators.



For the moment, Obama has demurred. A decision, he says, is forthcoming

in the new year. Hardly anybody who knows him doubts that he wants to

run. But he has two young children, and whether he enters the race for

the 2008 Democratic nomination will largely be a family matter, friends

say.



Outsider in a big city



Obama arrived in Chicago
in 1991, unbidden, with a fresh Harvard Law

degree, big ambitions and virtually no reason to think they would ever

be fulfilled. In a place of fervid group loyalties, he was a nearly

complete outsider, having spent just three of his prior 30 years in the

city, a member of no group but his own.



Five years later, he was elected to the state Senate, where he served

until winning election to the U.S. Senate in 2004. What he had instead

of a loyal base was a million-dollar smile, an optimistic message of

inclusion, and a willingness to work with anyone willing to put a

shoulder to the wheel of his choosing, no matter their ideological

stance.



Chicago
politics tends toward polarization. Depolarization is Obama’s

stock in trade.



Just a generation ago, Harold Washington was campaigning to become the

first black mayor of Chicago, and he and
Democratic presidential

candidate Walter F. Mondale attended Sunday Mass at St. Pascal’s, a

predominantly white Roman Catholic parish in Northwest
Chicago. They

were spit on, cursed and lucky to leave unharmed.



In the 2004 U.S. Senate campaign, Obama carried every precinct but one

in St. Pascal’s Portage Park neighborhood. Talk
to people who live

there now and you could easily get the impression that Obama grew up

one block over.



Why?



“Barack is wildly less threatening than Harold Washington,” said
Judson

Miner, who hired Obama into his small Chicago
civil rights law firm in

1991. “Even the North Shore ladies love
him.”



Go west to DuPage County, one of the most
Republican in the nation, and

you’ll find a GOP county chairman, state Sen. Kirk W. Dillard, who

relishes the opportunity to accompany Obama whenever he comes to town.

“My constituency is enamored of him,” Dillard said. That Obama

registered approval ratings in DuPage above 60% in this fall’s campaign

season is an obvious reason to get next to him – but Dillard has been

on the Obama bandwagon for years.



He, along with many others, was skeptical when Obama arrived in

Springfield,
the state capital. There was suspicion that Obama, with

his fancy degrees and a job teaching constitutional law at the
University of Chicago, was an elitist. It turned out
he was a more or

less regular guy who played pickup basketball and poker.



Obama developed a reputation as a very conservative poker player. He

threw in many more hands than he played, said another state Senate

colleague, Larry Walsh, a farmer from Will County.
“I told him once,

‘If you were a little more liberal in your poker-playing and a little

more conservative in your politics, we’d get along a lot better.’ “



Obama was somebody you could sit and have a beer with, Walsh said –

even if Obama, who frequently quit buying but not smoking cigarettes,

perpetually bummed them.



As a freshman, a member of a Democratic minority in a General Assembly

not much interested in policing itself, Obama carried to passage the

state’s first significant ethics legislation in a generation. He later

worked to overhaul the state’s death penalty and healthcare laws. He

developed a reputation as someone anybody could work with.



“I brag that before anybody knew who he was, I knew he had the gifts

that have made him into the rock star he is – charm, intellect, hard

worker, ability to relate,” Dillard said. “I saw it all within the

first couple of months when he came to the Legislature.”



In “The Audacity of Hope,” Obama tells of being on the state Senate

floor, sitting with a white colleague, when an African American

senator, whom Obama refers to as John Doe, gave a lengthy, passionate

speech in which he said voting against the program he advocated would

be racist. The white colleague, a liberal, turned to Obama and said,

“You know what the problem is with John? Whenever I hear him, he makes

me feel more white.”



Obama sees this as an illustration of the exhaustion of white guilt.



He has nearly the opposite effect on people; he removes race from the

equation. Some critics would say he works too hard at this. Yet there

is no one in contemporary American politics who has gone to greater

lengths to define and embrace his racial identity. He wrote an entire

book – his first, a memoir titled “Dreams From My Father: A Story of

Race and Inheritance” – about that act of definition.



“My identity might begin with the fact of my race, but it didn’t,

couldn’t end there. At least that’s what I would choose to believe,” he

wrote.



A real head-turner



Obama is one of very few politicians who cause a rustle just entering a

room. Heads turn, cameras flash, and whooping and hollering commence

often before he reaches the stage. Other politicians might need two

warmup speeches and a battle of the bands to generate that much noise

and excitement.



It’s the same almost everywhere he goes. Crowds are bigger and noisier

than for whoever was the last unlucky pol to roll through. It is worth

noting, however, that this is relative. Obama is very exciting – for

a politician. He drew perhaps 500 people to a Manhattan Barnes & Noble

for one of the first events of his fall book tour. That’s a lot of

people, but the week before, the author of the Lemony Snicket

children’s books drew twice that many in the same room.



In many ways, Obama is both politician and celebrity. People offer up

their children for hugs and scramble after him for autographs. Once the

bright light of Obama has beamed down upon them, they are smitten.



Bettylu Saltzman, a Chicago philanthropist, activist and veteran of

dozens of political campaigns, recounts meeting Obama for the first

time in 1992, well before he was a candidate for anything.



“I was working for the Clinton
campaign, putting constituencies

together. He was working on a voter registration drive. He came into

our campaign office. He was 30 years old,” she said. They talked for a

while. Nothing exceptional happened. The next day, Saltzman recalls,

she told a friend that she had just met the man who was going to be the

first black president of the United
States.



This is not a unique reaction. Emil Jones Jr., president of the

Illinois Senate and one of Obama’s mentors, tells the story of

attending a downstate political dinner, a fish fry, where he, his

driver and Obama were the only black faces in a crowd of 3,000.



“Sitting across the table from me was a little old lady, said she was

86 years old,” Jones said. “After Barack spoke, she nudged me on the

shoulder and said, ‘This young man is going to be president of the

United States
someday. I just hope I live long enough to vote for him.’





Obama was unknown outside Illinois until he
was chosen to deliver the

keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention in Boston.

Watching that speech from the convention floor, Jones was astounded to

discover tears rolling down his face. He was embarrassed, he said,

until he turned and saw another member of the delegation crying too.

“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in 40 years in politics,”

Jones said.



People who have known Obama for a while, like Jones, Walsh and Dillard,

tend to describe him in ways eerily similar to how he is described by

people who know him hardly at all.



“The biggest difference between then and now is he’s been

well-publicized,” said state Sen. Terry Link. “A lot more people know

him, but he’s the same guy. I’ve spent a lot of quiet nights with him.

This is not an act by any means. When we were in the state Senate

together, you would get guys, real right-wingers, they would consider

Barack a guy they wanted to work with.”



What is most striking about the surge of interest in Obama is the

degree to which it is fueled by people’s estimation of him as an

individual, not as a politician. His appeal is almost entirely

personal. Abner Mikva, a former federal judge and Illinois
congressman

who taught with Obama at the University of Chicago, said Obama
was

probably the smartest man he had ever met. Yet people seldom see him as

being anything other than the next-door neighbor they would love to

have: “He’s Everyman. People look at him and see what they want to see.

Not that he cuts and trims. They fit him into what they want.”



This is probably not an accident. Obama’s political skills are in some

ways reflected in his personal history. Born in Hawaii
in 1961, half

Kenyan, half Kansan, and raised in such polyglot places as Honolulu
and

Jakarta, he has
spent much of his life as an outsider figuring out a

way to fit in.



As a consequence, friends say, there is no place Obama doesn’t feel at

ease, no room he’s uncomfortable entering.



This shows up in subtle ways. Giving speeches, he’s more prone to a

casual conversational mode – he sometimes greets crowds by saying

“Thanks, guys” – than to high-flying rhetoric, although that’s there

if he needs it. He speaks words one measured syllable at a time, with

the emphasis – like a young David Brinkley – on the ends of

phrases. He often speaks in the first-person plural: We ask, we see, we

wonder. We take challenges seriously. He invites audiences in. He

communicates comfort, so much so that he often draws applause even when

describing what he sees as the nation’s dire circumstances.



Early this month, at the invitation of Rick Warren, Obama spoke to a

hall full of conservative Christian evangelical activists gathered at
Saddleback Church in Orange County. Warren, author of the bestseller

“The Purpose Driven Life,” is among the most successful and popular

preachers in the world. Saddleback is his city on a hill, a sprawling

campus set above the smooth, clean boulevards of the most suburban of

places. His is the kind of congregation where Warren’s joke about the

authoritarian rule of suburban homeowners associations brings a knowing

laugh.



It is definitely not the sort of place you would expect a liberal

big-city Democrat to feel at home.



Warren has an
aphoristic style of preaching. Remarking on opposing

political inclinations, he said: “People ask, ‘Pastor Rick, are you

right-wing or left-wing?’ I’m for the whole bird. One-winged birds fly

in circles.”



To keep the bird flying straight, Warren had
also invited one of

Obama’s Senate colleagues, Republican Sam Brownback of Kansas.

Brownback is one of the most conservative members of the Senate, and a

favorite of the folks who fill Warren’s
church.



This day, the right wing of the bird flew first. Brownback has a

boyish, plain-country countenance. He knew the crowd and the place and

was winning in his talk.



Brownback teased Obama about straying beyond his natural habitat. He

recalled that he and Obama had spoken together previously in front of

the National Assn. for the Advancement of Colored People. Just the

mention of the NAACP drew a nervous chuckle from the crowd. Brownback

might as well have said he had parachuted in behind enemy lines. He

said he had been given a polite reception, then had yielded the stage

to Obama, who received a raucous welcome, as if Elvis had come on

stage.



Brownback then turned toward Obama and told him today would be

different. “Welcome to my house,” he said; the crowd roared.



When Obama followed Brownback to the Saddleback lectern, he thanked

him, but added that he had to correct one thing the Kansan had said:

Obama said he felt very much at home in Pastor Rick’s church.



“Sam,” he said, “this is my house too. This is God’s house.”



That simply and quickly, Obama was again completely at home in a room

full of strangers, and they with him.

For McCain, the war is the only real issue

By Terry McDermott

April 11,
2007

Los Angeles Times

 

John McCain
has gotten himself stuck in an almost inescapable political dilemma.
Formerly a keen critic of the Bush administration’s policies in Iraq, McCain finds himself lambasted for –
and his presidential ambitions hostage to – his outspoken defense of the
administration’s latest Iraq
policy shift: the “surge.”

In the process, the Republican senator from Arizona has alienated almost everybody.
And you know what? He doesn’t really care, certainly not enough to begin
doubting his decisions.

Rather than run from the issue, McCain,
characteristically, has put the war at the center of his campaign. He is
scheduled to give what his campaign advertises as a major address
reemphasizing that point this afternoon at the Virginia
Military Institute.

In that sense, today will not be much different than any
other in the campaign. He talks about the war at every stop. He
often brings it up unbidden, when voters are asking about immigration
or education or any of the other 1,001 issues that concern them. He won’t
run from it and seems to insist that they not either. He refuses
to allow failure as an option.

“I would be derelict if I did not talk to you about the
issue that is taking American lives,” he said by way of introduction in
a recent speech to a room full of Republicans in northern Iowa. “And we’re
sacrificing so much, so much of America’s
greatest treasure on behalf of somebody else’s freedom. All of us are
frustrated, all of us are saddened, all of us are unhappy about what has
happened in Iraq. I
know that many of you know that many mistakes were made. You know that
this war was mismanaged. But the fact is we are where we are.”

Getting the dead weight of those mistakes hung around
his neck while trying to navigate the open water of a
presidential campaign, he said later, “is the ultimate irony.”

Then he shrugged.

“First of all, I can’t let it worry me,” he said. “I can’t
let it bother me because it’s too important. It’s a trite phrase,
but I’d rather lose the campaign than lose the war. So I recognize
what’s at stake, but I can’t worry about it. The second thing is, how
can you really with a straight face walk into a town hall meeting
and not talk about the issue that is costing American lives even as we speak?”

He mentioned seeing a news report that morning on the
deaths of five American soldiers. “How can I not talk about it?” he
asked. “You just have to. Kids are dying.”

Former Defense Secretary William S. Cohen, one of
McCain’s oldest friends in politics, said McCain’s critics
completely misunderstood the man if they thought he would begin to
backpedal any time soon – or ever.

“John has everything at stake, and he knows it,” Cohen
said. “The politics has moved away from him on this. He looks as though
he’s out of touch with reality when in fact he’s in touch with
what he believes in to his core.”

That core, especially on matters of national security,
is simple and so deep-seated that people who know him suggest it
can’t be changed. It’s not about a political position McCain has
taken. It’s about who he is.

McCain, a career Navy man before entering politics,
has written fondly of learning to command big ships in tight quarters.
In those terms, he’s back on the bridge again and has ordered
all engines ahead full speed.

‘Go to the finish’

For as long as anyone who knows him can remember, John
McCain was the cut-up, the impudent towel-snapper, a wiseacre who
could command a room not by any sense of authority but with a wink and a
nod and the practiced charm of a born salesman.

He seemed destined to be the underachieving son and
grandson of Navy admirals. He followed them – more out of inertia than
intent – into the service and became a carrier pilot. Carrier pilots
are not notably contemplative people, and McCain seemed a good
candidate to live a rambunctious life with no more seriousness, no
more weight, than a feather.

Then he went to war, and his attack aircraft was shot
down over Hanoi
in October 1967. He spent the next 5 1/2 years as a prisoner, often in
horrifying circumstances. He was tortured repeatedly.

It was during those years, his early 30s, McCain later
wrote, that he found a purpose beyond himself: “I fell in love
with my country

The strapping young fighter jock returned home
a crippled, emaciated man, but one with a new sense of purpose,
which he eventually turned to politics.

Former Democratic Sen. Gary Hart, an early
McCain political mentor, said it was “typical that John would stick to his
position on the Iraq
war. He believes very strongly in consistency, in persistence. A lot of
that has to do with his military upbringing and his experience in the war.
He believes that once you go in, you go to win. And you go to
the finish.”

Endurance, in fact, is the lone goal and signal triumph of
a POW who survives captivity. It is a triumph of will, and it is
hard to imagine that history not having an effect on McCain’s
approach to Iraq.

Although he often brushes aside suggestions that his
Vietnam War experience was formative, McCain has put it to work in
his campaigns. Even when making light of his plight – “I managed to
intercept a surface-to-air missile with my own airplane,” he says –
he makes sure his listeners appreciate the seriousness with which
it imbued him.

He tells campaign audiences, “I know at this difficult time when
we face this incredible evil that wants to destroy everything we stand for
and believe in, my friends, I have the knowledge, I have the experience, I
have the background. I know the face of war, and I know the face
of evil.”

McCain’s temperament tends toward impatience; he is a
man of action, not retrospection. On the campaign trail, this can be
problematic. Even sitting down, he gives a sense of wanting to move on.
“C’mon, c’mon, give me what you got,” he’ll say to reporters, with a
staccato drumming of his fingertips on a tabletop. His aides, more wary
than he, watch. There is little they can do but avert their eyes from the
scene of the crime – the crime being, of course, the mortal sin of
politics: going off message, saying what you really think.

At a stop earlier this year in Seattle, a questioner suggested that
McCain had been “sucking up to the religious right” and wondered when he
might start “sucking up to the Rockefeller wing of the
Republican Party.”

You could see McCain knew better than to respond in kind,
but he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m probably going to get in trouble,” he said, a
grin spreading across his face, “but what’s wrong with sucking up
to everybody?”

That was a blunter statement than his campaign
advisors probably appreciated, but it seemed a fair summation of McCain’s
broad early strategy to win the 2008 GOP nomination.

McCain’s basic political beliefs are very conservative,
but on most issues he is more than ready to seek compromises in the
interests of getting something done. Thus, he has worked on different
issues with a succession of liberal Democrats, the mere mention of whose
names are often laugh lines at other GOP
candidates’ campaign rallies.

To allay the suspicion that he was some sort of
closet liberal, McCain, in the last few years, reached out to critics
on the religious right, looking for common ground there as well.

The result has been fusillades of criticism from all
sides. Rather than placating everyone, he offended them all. And then came
the war. National security issues are the exception to his general
tendency to seek compromise. On those he is unyielding.

Believing the intelligence that former Iraqi leader
Saddam Hussein was intent on acquiring weapons of mass destruction,
McCain favored the invasion of Iraq but called for more troops
almost from the beginning. He said repeatedly that until Americans
provided genuine security for the population, there was little hope of
rebuilding the structures of a peaceful, civil society. He has been fiercely
critical of the conduct of the war, at one point calling Donald H.
Rumsfeld the worst secretary of Defense in American history.

In an interview, he characterized his worldview as
a combination of Wilsonian principles (the general notion that the United States has a special, benevolent
role to play in world affairs) and realpolitik (the notion that the U.S. must
recognize the difference between what is desirable and what is possible
and choose the latter). McCain said there were often tensions between
the two goals. That is a notable understatement in that the two
ideals are nearly opposite one another.

‘It is the right road’

McCain says that like most military men he is often
reluctant to commit American troops to war, but once you do, you go with
all the force you can muster, and you stay until you win.

He reads history and writings about current
affairs voraciously but gives little if any sign that the information he
takes in ever yields contradictions. He says, for example, that
Islamic extremism is the leading threat to American security, and he
acknowledges that the threat has worsened because of the Iraq war but
sees no reason because of this to rethink the rationale for the invasion
or the argument for staying.

“Was [Iraq]
at the beginning a part of the war on terror? I think you could make a
strong argument that it was not, even though I think [Hussein] was a
danger and a threat. But I think it now has become one, a central
battlefield in the war on terror,” he said.

Cohen said it was not that McCain was unaware of
complications. He is fully informed, but he fits everything into his
broad conception of what is right and wrong. “He doesn’t want to engage
in ambiguity at all,” he said.

McCain says Americans should know within months,
not years, whether success is likely in Iraq, but if it is, it will
take years, not months, to achieve. To stop short of that would be
to embolden all of America’s
enemies, he says.

In his speech today, according to a prepared text, McCain
will ask for patience:

“I know the pain war causes. I understand the
frustration caused by our mistakes in this war. I sympathize with the
fatigue of the American people. And I regret sincerely the
additional sacrifices imposed on the brave Americans who defend us. But I
also know the toll a lost war takes on an army and a country. We, who
are willing to support this new strategy and give [Army Gen. David H.] Petraeus
the time and support he needs, have chosen a hard road. But it is the
right road.”

He sees signs of significant progress. These include increased
cooperation with tribal leaders in heavily Sunni Al Anbar province, and
increased security for civilians in Baghdad.
He says the U.S. has
a chance to succeed, but success is not guaranteed. What is guaranteed, he
says, are the consequences of failure – “chaos and genocide, and they will
follow us home.”

“If you think things are bad now, if we withdraw, you
ain’t seen nothing yet,” he says.