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March 2000

In Praise of Public Life By Joseph Lieberman Simon and Schuster Click on the title to buy the book

By most accounts, Senator Joe Lieberman (D-Conn.) is a decent, devout, likable, and occasionally courageous politician. He's bucked his own party leaders on issues like the Persian Gulf War and cutting capital gains taxes. He's publicly upbraided Hollywood for its excessive taste for sex and violence; his pointed (and timely) September 1998 speech excoriating President Clinton for his "disgraceful and immoral" conduct in the Lewinsky matter also received widespread kudos.*

In short, Joe Lieberman seems exactly the kind of person one wants in American politics. So he's to be commended for wanting to write a book that he hopes will inspire more citizens--especially younger Americans--to vote, get involved, even consider going into politics themselves. His intent, as he puts it, is to provide a credible answer to the question he's so often asked: "Why in the world would anyone in his or her right mind choose such a life?"

So why is it unlikely we'll see well-thumbed, heavily underlined copies of Lieberman's book showing up in the hip pockets of once-jaded, now eager young volunteers ready to enter the political fray?

It's not for lack of trying. There's no doubting Lieberman's sincerity, idealism, and native optimism. He really does seem to love government service. The problem is that when Lieberman finally gets around to discussing what his life as a U.S. senator is really like--in the book's second, less interesting half--the picture is resoundingly ambivalent.

Yes, he's helped pass some worthy legislation, and he derives genuine satisfaction from some of his case work. But then there's having to deal with special interest groups, excessive partisanship, raising campaign cash, the long hours, commuting back and forth between Connecticut and Washington, and the struggles of juggling family, religious, and community obligations.

And then there's the book's first half where Lieberman describes what it took to get to the U.S. Senate. Tellingly, it's more vivid, more interesting, and more revealing (in some inadvertent ways). But here too, the picture is ambivalent, though in a different way.

Lieberman describes the unpleasant realities which pervade modern politics, including the inexorable imperatives of campaign fundraising; the inordinate role played by small ideas, negative tactics, and well-paid political consultants; and the personal toll many politicians pay on the family front. But it's also here that Lieberman reveals--without intending to, I'm sure--just why these realities are so ingrained, even a bit seductive. Much as he bemoans these realities, he also clearly takes pride in how he's mastered them. The game is unpleasant, even dangerous at times. But after many trials Lieberman has learned how to be a "pro" at it.

The fact that "Lieberman as campaigner" seems a more interesting figure than "Lieberman the office holder" also reflects a deeper change that's occurred in American politics over his lifetime.

Thirty years ago, many of the great dramas of American politics were played out in the streets, or in generation-defining votes such as the gallery-packed showdown in the U.S. Congress that led to passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, or the many efforts to stop the Vietnam War. These were the stories that mattered; they not only changed laws, but also attitudes and hearts.

For many contemporary politicians, their most dramatic narratives--stories rich with elements like quest, loss, dilemmas, despair, lessons learned, redemption--increasingly don't take place in legislative chambers. They occur during political campaigns, while a candidate is seeking public office. The "prize" in these circumstances lies in winning an election and, unfortunately, what it increasingly takes to win elections also diminishes one's very ability to actually make a difference, and govern effectively. More than anything else, it's this disjunction--illustrated well in Lieberman's book--that has led so many bright, idealistic young people to shun politics, concluding that what little difference they might be able to make, simply isn't worth paying the likely, even necessary, price.

Marathon Man

In 1970, as a 28-year-old attorney, Lieberman decides to run for the Connecticut State Senate. He's idealistic, young, and able to recruit a legion of eager neophytes to campaign for him.

But this is no pure "David vs. Goliath" battle. Lieberman decides to challenge an incumbent legislator: a maverick, independent-minded fellow Democrat, Ed Marcus, who's fallen out of favor with the state's Democratic machine. There doesn't seem to be any transcendent, burning issue in the race. "I wanted to get my political career moving and so I decided to run," Lieberman says. His law-school classmates find themselves working right alongside the state's most powerful political bosses.

Lieberman has long criticized the huge role that money plays in American politics. Several times in this book he laments how he's "always had difficulty asking people for money." Nonetheless, his reticence doesn't seem to affect his prowess.

In 1970, during his inaugural race, Lieberman raises over $30,000 in contributions for a primary race where 7,000 votes are eventually cast. At about $4.50 a vote, and considering the effects of inflation, that far exceeds the record-breaking, 1998 Charles Schumer-Al D'Amato U.S. Senate contest in New York, where each candidate spent about $20 million, or about $4 per candidate per vote cast.

Lieberman's easy re-election in 1974 and 1978 is followed by his first major miscalculation: a run for Congress in the Democratic Waterloo year of 1980.

Again, Lieberman's distaste for fundraising doesn't affect his ability to raise $300,000--a healthy war chest for the era. But Lieberman watches in slow-motion horror as his 19-point lead evaporates in the final three weeks.

The major reason? Lieberman's opponent has carefully gone through thousands of votes Lieberman cast as a Connecticut state legislator, zeroing in on a handful that give apparent credence to the "tax and spend liberal" label. Lieberman's consultants urge him to "stay positive," and ignore the attacks. Lieberman takes their advice and narrowly loses. In retrospect, he now believes he should have "acted on [his] own instincts" and counter-punched.

But Lieberman soon bounces back from this defeat, and from an "unraveled" marriage, perhaps the best way he knows how: another political campaign. He's elected Connecticut attorney general in 1982, after "raising $200,000 more than had ever been raised in a Connecticut campaign for state office other than Governor." He also remarries--though he notes that his first date with his second wife wouldn't have materialized had it not been Easter Sunday when there was "nothing on the political schedule."

After his 1986 re-election, Lieberman challenges then-Connecticut Senator Lowell Weicker, a maverick, independent Republican best known for his work as a Nixon antagonist on the Senate Watergate Committee. As in 1970, Lieberman pulls together a coalition of idealistic supporters and Establishment figures--in this instance, business leaders and Republicans who are disgruntled with Weicker's "go-it-alone" tendencies. Lieberman's consultants now comb through Weicker's thousands of Senate votes, finding examples that will reinforce a poll-tested message that Weicker is "soft on crime" and "anti-consumer."

Lieberman and his second wife are also expecting a baby amidst the 1988 campaign and Lieberman relates how gleeful his consultants are for a well-timed illustration that will reinforce the "family values" theme. As for money, Lieberman, a devout Jew, seems genuinely surprised that "largely Jewish pro-Israel PACsŠ had a hard and fast rule of not giving any support to challengers facing incumbents who have a pro-Israel voting record, no matter who the challenger was or what his stance on Israel. Weicker had a pro-Israel record, so I was shut out."

Undaunted, he embarks on an exhausting marathon series of cross-country trips, going to major city after major city, "like Willy Loman," soliciting campaign cash from wealthy individuals with a history of supporting Democratic Senate candidates. It's hard, relentless -- and necessary--work. "It was like a marathon," Lieberman writes. "I came to understand how important stamina--sheer physical and intellectual stamina--is to a political candidate. It's important to be informed, personable, creative, well advised, and well supported -- but none of those things is going to get you where you want to go if you haven't got the stamina."

Lieberman eventually raises "a very impressive total of $2.6 million," which is enough to run a credible television campaign. But this is definitely not a campaign of big ideas or creative solutions to government problems. Beginning in the spring of 1988, Lieberman "punches away," using various votes to tag Weicker as "no longer representing the interests of the people of Connecticut so much as he was representing himself and his own interests."

In short, Lieberman does what his Republican opponent did in 1980--and Weicker takes Lieberman's previous role, largely ignoring the attacks. But Lieberman is dismayed, nonetheless: "It seemed like we were doing everything right"--but Weicker still has a 16-point lead. But in October, the campaign launches a "brilliant" satirical commercial that literally portrays Weicker as a cartoon figure of a sleeping bear, ignoring the concerns of Connecticut voters.

The campaign pulls dead even. The sleeping bear now awakens, lashing out at Lieberman, using some of the same "tax and spend" votes from the 1970s that sank the 1980 campaign. ("One of those ads was technically accurate but didn't mention that the tax votes cited were cast 18 years earlier," Lieberman retorts, lamenting how even his own son was swayed by the Weicker attack.) But for Weicker, it's too little, too late. Prepared this time--even to the point of taking out a bank loan against his house, Lieberman finances a media blitz, and ekes out a one percent victory.

Uncertain Lessons

The key lessons of all this? Distasteful though it may be, raise lots of money. Don't be afraid to attack when you're behind--and kick back hard and fast when you're attacked. Hire good consultants, be clever with TV advertising. Make sure your spouse loves this as much as you do. Do what you've gotta do to win. Go raise some more money. These are hardly inspiring lessons for tomorrow's would-be senators, governors, and state legislators.

Lieberman writes: "The problem in America today is that campaigns never end. Legislating becomes campaigning by another name. Candidates are constantly worrying about the ramifications of virtually every vote they cast, for fear that a single vote may come back to haunt them on television in the next election. At a time when we need more courage and independence among our elected leaders, this last point is critical, because of the timidity it creates."

Is this what successful candidates have to look forward to? It's a rather bleak conclusion. Indeed, Lieberman's pessimism is vividly reflected on one page, where he states flatly, "Today, however, a single vote can kill you, because it can become the subject of an attack commercial at the end of your next campaign."

Yet on the very next page, he brightens: "The fear that a lot of elected officials have today that one attack television advertisement about one vote will bring them down in the next election is generally unwarranted. The voters are usually fair. They will judge you on your entire record and your sincerity."

Lieberman's career actually contains evidence for both propositions--but that really isn't the point. The key is the cognitive dissonance; the fact that Lieberman himself isn't so sure.

Lieberman's book also revealingly fails to even acknowledge the (at times) jarring contrasts between stated ideals and actual behavior. He extols the virtues of "independent-minded" politicians, for example, but overlooks the irony of his own ascent hinging on the defeat of two such politicians. Lieberman also doesn't talk about how his own 1988 campaign helped write the book on using a handful of legislative votes to paint a negative picture to wear down and beat popular incumbents.

If Lieberman harbors any misgivings about past conduct, or learned any unpleasant truths about his own character, he doesn't talk about them here. What hasn't defeated him has made him stronger.

Parallels and Empathy

That said, I still ended up liking Lieberman after this book--and having no small amount of empathy for him.

I've spent 11 years myself in elected politics in Oregon. While I started 18 years later than Lieberman, some of the career parallels are a bit eerie. (I, too, raised $30,000 for my first legislative primary race in which 7,000 votes were cast, and set a new record for fundraising in a non-gubernatorial race.)

I can also relate to Lieberman's ambivalence. You hate the rules about raising money--but you also enjoy proving you can do it with the best (and worst) of them. If you're a big advocate of campaign finance reform--Lieberman and I share this as well--you may also tell yourself your past success gives you more credibility, much the way a reformed alcoholic carries weight at the an A.A. meeting.

You may even commend yourself for raising so much money the "right way" (or at least a "better" way). For example, Lieberman argues the $2.6 million he raised against Weicker was a bit less "tainted" because it mainly came from individuals, not PACs, each with broader sets of interests. I've found myself publicly defending my own campaign fundraising by stressing how more than 2,000 individuals gave me an average of $125.

For those who've decided from the outset that politics is worthwhile, it's only natural to adjust to the rules the best you can, trying to accommodate a guilty conscience and idealism to realities not of your making. But for those outside looking in, it's still a pretty discouraging picture.

So while Lieberman's book may fail on its stated terms, it succeeds on another. It underscores, yet again, the need for comprehensive campaign finance reform. That means not only real limits on contributions, but a system of public financing that gives credible candidates the option of focusing exclusively on ideas--especially brave and important ones--and not on cross-country fund-raising jaunts and multi-million dollar media buys that resort to empty rhetoric, distortions of opponents' records, and funny cartoon characters.