Living History (82 page)

I want to tell you what I have been telling students for So years: It is my opinion that on judgment Day the first question God asks is not about the Ten Commandments (although He gets to them later!) but what He asks each of us is this:

WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE TIME AND THE TALENTS I GAVE

YOU?…

Those who feel you are not up to handling the hostile New York press and the taunts of your opponents fail to realize that, having been tried in the fire, you can handle anything.

… Bottom line: run, Hillary, run! My prayers will be with you all the way.

The most difficult decisions I have made in my life were to stay married to Bill and to run for the Senate from New York. By now I knew I wanted our marriage to last if it could because I loved Bill and I realized how much I cherished the years we had spent together. I knew that I could not have parented Chelsea alone as well as we had together. I had no doubt that I could construct a satisfying life by myself and make a good living, but I hoped Bill and I could grow old together. We were both committed to rebuilding our marriage with the tools of our faith, love and shared past. With my mind clearer about where I wanted to go with Bill, I felt freer to take the first steps toward a race for the Senate.

I knew that any campaign would be a baptism by fire. Although by now I was a seasoned campaigner, going from one end of the country to another―and everywhere in between―

on behalf of candidates for Governor, Congress and President, I had never been out on the stump campaigning for myself. I would have to learn to address crowds in the first person-I was accustomed to referring to “he,” “she” or “we,” not “I” And there was a real possibility I would have to speak out against Clinton Administration policies if they weren’t beneficial to New York. But for the moment, I focused on getting to know my prospective constituents. I planned a “listening tour” that would take me around New York in July and August and allow me to hear from citizens and local leaders about their concerns and aspirations for their families and communities. The tour began in the most appropriate place to launch a campaign for the seat held by Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan―his beautiful 900-acre farm in Pindars Corners. When I arrived there on July 7, I found the Senator, his wife, Liz, and more than zoo reporters waiting to hear my announcement.

My veteran advance man, Rick Jasculca, was astonished. “There’s even a reporter here from Japan!” he said.

With the Senator by my side, I announced that I was forming an official campaign committee in anticipation of running for the U.S. Senate. “I suppose the questions on everyone’s mind are: Why the Senate?

Why New York? And why me?” I said to the assembled press. Then I spoke briefly about issues that mattered to me and to New York and acknowledged the legitimacy of questions about my running from a state where I had never lived.

“I think that’s a very fair question, and I fully understand people raising it. And I think I have some real work to do to get out and listen and learn from the people of New York and demonstrate that what I’m for is maybe as important, if not more important, than where I’m from.”

A few minutes later, Senator Moynihan and I walked back to his farm house for a brunch of ham and biscuits. Soon I was on my way.

I had expected hurdles as a rookie candidate, and I certainly encountered some, but I never imagined how much I would enjoy the campaign. From the moment I left Senator Moynihan’s farm to begin my listening tour in July 1999, I was captivated by the places I visited and the people I met throughout New York.

New Yorkers, with their resilience, diversity and passion for the future, represented everything I treasure about America. I came to know the small towns and farms set in the rolling countryside “Upstate” and the cities like Buffalo, Rochester, Syracuse, Binghamton and Albany that were once centers of the American Industrial Revolution and were now retooling themselves for the Information Age. I explored the Adirondacks and the Catskills and vacationed on the shores of Skaneateles Lake and Lake Placid. I visited the campuses of New York’s great public and private colleges and universities. I met with groups of business owners and farmers from Long Island to the Canadian border who explained to me all the challenges they faced. And I settled into my new home, part of the downstate suburbs whose fine public schools and parks reminded me of the neighborhood where I grew up.

I loved New York City’s raw energy, its mix of ethnic neighborhoods and its bighearted, straight-talking people. I made new friends in every corner of the city, visiting diners, union halls, schools, churches, synagogues, shelters and penthouses. New York’s diverse communities are living reminders that the city symbolizes America’s unique promise to the rest of the world, a fact that would be tragically underscored on September 11, 2001, when Manhattan was attacked by terrorists who hated and feared the freedom, diversity and choices that America represents.

My campaign was a total immersion in the state’s history: The Native Americans of the Iroquois Confederacy, whose commitment to democratic principles influenced the thinking of our Founders, lived throughout New York before it was a state; the Revolutionary War was fought and won in the Champlain, Mohawk and Hudson Valleys; barge traffic along the Erie Canal opened up the rest of the nation to economic growth; the world’s arts, letters and culture were shaped in New York City; the movements for the abolition of slavery, women’s suffrage, labor unions, civil rights, progressive politics and gay rights all sprang from New York soil. I came to love the rhythm of events across the huge, sprawling state. I did the salsa down Fifth Avenue in the Puerto Rican Day Parade, ate a sausage sandwich at the State Fair and attempted the polka at the Polish festival in Cheektowaga.

Balancing the requirements of the campaign with my obligations as First Lady presented a unique challenge. Doing two jobs at once tested both the White House staff, who had stuck with me through thick and thin for nearly eight years, and the dedicated team of campaign aides working on the Senate race in New York. Occasionally the White House requested that I take a trip or do an event based on the President’s priorities or my interests as First Lady, causing my campaign advisers to blanch at the thought of my involvement in anything that wasn’t related to New York or its issues. Despite these inevitable tensions, everyone performed superbly.

Not that the campaign was idyllic. Especially at the start, I made my share of mistakes.

And mistakes in New York politics aren’t easily brushed aside. When the Yankees came to the White House to celebrate their World Series win in 1999, manager Joe Torre gave me a cap, which I promptly donned. Bad move. Nobody believed what The Washington Post and San Francisco Examiner had reported years earlier, that I was a diehard Mickey Mantle fan. They just thought I was pretending to be what I obviously was not: a lifelong New Yorker. Over the next few days, my prospective constituents saw a lot of pictures of me in that Yankees cap, with less-than-flattering captions to go along with the photos.

The worst instance came during an official visit to Israel in the fall of 1999, when I attended an event as First Lady with Suha Arafat, wife of the Palestinian leader. Mrs.

Arafat spoke before me in Arabic. Listening to an Arabic-to-English translation through headphones, neither I nor other members of our delegation―including U.S. Embassy staff, Middle East experts and respected American Jewish leaders―heard her outrageous remark suggesting that Israel had used poison gas to control Palestinians. When I went to the podium moments later to deliver my remarks, Mrs. Arafat greeted me with an embrace, a traditional greeting. Had I been aware of her hateful words, I would have denounced them on the spot. The New York tabloids ran photos of me receiving a kiss on the cheek from Suha Arafat, with accompanying stories about her remarks. Many Jewish voters were understandably upset with Mrs. Arafat’s comments and disappointed that I had not taken the opportunity to disavow her remarks. My campaign eventually overcame the fallout, but I had learned a hard lesson about the hazards of merging my role in the international diplomatic arena with the complexities of local New York politics.

Throughout the campaign, there was a humorous disconnect between the national view of the race and the way it was covered in New York. National columnists and cable pundits routinely predicted that the “carpetbagger” issue would kill me, and I would drop out of the race. In their frequent commentaries, they also admonished me for refusing to speak to the press. This was a source of great amusement for my staff, because I routinely granted interviews to the New York reporters covering the race. My relations with the press improved with time under the tutelage of my communications director, Howard Wolfson. Howard had worked for Nita Lowey and Chuck Schumer and understood the rough and tumble of dealing with the New York media. He became a familiar and eloquent presence on television, speaking for the campaign. With his help, I eventually learned to relax and let down my guard with the press, and I came to enjoy the daily interactions with reporters assigned to cover my campaign.

As unnerving as it was to find my footing in the shifting sands of New York politics, I had no plans to drop out of the race. I simply tried to stay focused on getting to know the people of New York and letting them get a sense of me. Despite the state’s size, I was determined to run a grassroots campaign rather than communicate to prospective constituents solely through paid media. While radio and television publicity is important and necessary, nothing substitutes for face-to-face conversations in which the candidate often learns more than the voters do.

My goal was to visit all sixty-two counties, and for more than a year I traveled the state in a Ford conversion van―nicknamed the HRC Speedwagon by the press―with my longtime aide Kelly Craighead and Allison Stein, an energetic campaign staffer. I stopped at diners and cafes along the road, just as Bill and I had done during his campaigns. Even if only a handful of people were inside, I’d sit down, have a cup of coffee and talk about whatever topics were on their minds. Campaign professionals call this “retail politics,”

but to me, it was the best way to stay in touch with people’s everyday concerns.

This hectic existence was a far cry from life in the White House. Bill and I had moved some of our belongings into the house we had purchased on the end of a cul de sac in Chappaqua, less than an hour north of New York City, but I did not have much free time to spend there. The place was usually empty except for the required contingent of Secret Service agents, who set up their command post in an old renovated barn in the backyard.

I rarely got to sleep before midnight, and I usually hit the road by 7 A.M. If there was time, I would stop for muffins, egg sandwiches and coffee at Lange’s, a great family delicatessen down the road from my house.

But instead of feeling tired, I found that I drew energy from the campaign itself. Not only was I getting a nonstop crash course in New York and its issues, I was discovering my capacities and limits for life as a political candidate. And I was finally moving beyond my role as a surrogate campaigner and allowing myself to operate on my own. It’s a slow process with a steep learning curve. With so many advisers, friends and supporters offering constant―and often conflicting―advice, I was learning how to listen carefully, weigh the options and then go with my instincts.

I finally felt that I was starting to connect to voters. Gradually, I could sense the mood of the electorate shifting my way. When I first began campaigning, no matter what part of the state I visited, people came out to see me in large numbers. This was not necessarily a groundswell of support. Rather, the crowd viewed me as a curiosity. After two or three visits to many towns and cities, I became a more familiar presence, and my prospective constituents seemed genuinely comfortable sharing their stories and worries with me. We had real conversations about the issues that mattered to them, and people began to care less about where I was from than what I was for. Upstate voters, even Republicans, listened carefully to my proposals for revitalizing the region’s economy. They asked tough questions, laughed at some of my inept jokes and often had a kind comment about my hair. I felt increasingly welcomed wherever I stopped.

Learning about the variety and complexity of the state’s political terrain was important to me. And so was reaching out to women, some of whom were disappointed or offended that I had stayed married to Bill. I respected their questions and hoped they would understand that I had to make a decision that was right for me and my family.

I didn’t want to give speeches to explain such a private part of myself. I attended small gatherings at the homes of women supporters in different parts of the state. The host invited about twenty friends and neighbors to have coffee with me. We talked informally, away from the camera lights and political reporters. I answered questions about my marriage, why I moved to New York, health care, child care and whatever else was on their minds. Gradually, many women who were otherwise inclined to support me seemed willing to accept my decision to stay with Bill, even if they would have chosen differently.

My campaign also benefited from what is called a “bump”-a surge of support-after my appearance in January 2000 on The Late Shove with David Letterman. One television appearance on a late-night talk show generated as much or more attention than days’

worth of speeches about the issues. I hadn’t even planned to go on the show, at least not so far in advance of the election. But Letterman regularly called Howard, pleading for me to appear. Each time, Howard put him off, which became a running joke and a nightly staple of Letterman’s opening monologue. After a month of Letterman’s ribbing, I agreed to come on as a guest on January 12.

I hoped it would be fun, but I also knew that late-night comics sometimes skewer their guests, so I was a little nervous. Letterman, who lives near Chappaqua, asked me about our new house and warned me that “every idiot in the area is going to drive by honking now.”