The Audacity of Hope

That is one of the things that makes me a Democrat, I suppose—this idea that our
communal values, our sense of mutual responsibility and social solidarity, should
express themselves not just in the church or the mosque or the synagogue; not just on
the blocks where we live, in the places where we work, or within our own families; but
also through our government. Like many conservatives, I believe in the power of culture
to determine both individual success and social cohesion, and I believe we ignore
cultural factors at our peril. But I also believe that our government can play a role in
shaping that culture for the better—or for the worse.
I OFTEN WONDER what makes it so difficult for politicians to talk about values in
ways that don’t appear calculated or phony. Partly, I think, it’s because those of us in
public life have become so scripted, and the gestures that candidates use to signify their
values have become so standardized (a stop at a black church, the hunting trip, the visit
to a NASCAR track, the reading in the kindergarten classroom) that it becomes harder
and harder for the public to distinguish between honest sentiment and political
stagecraft.
Then there’s the fact that the practice of modern politics itself seems to be value-free.
Politics (and political commentary) not only allows but often rewards behavior that we
would normally think of as scandalous: fabricating stories, distorting the obvious
meaning of what other people say, insulting or generally questioning their motives,
poking through their personal affairs in search of damaging information.
During my general election campaign for the U.S. Senate, for example, my Republican
opponent assigned a young man to track all my public appearances with a handheld
camera. This has become fairly routine operating procedure in many campaigns, but
whether because the young man was overzealous or whether he had been instructed to
try to provoke me, his tracking came to resemble stalking. From morning to night, he
followed me everywhere, usually from a distance of no more than five or ten feet. He
would film me riding down elevators. He would film me coming out of the restroom.
He would film me on my cell phone, talking to my wife and children.
At first, I tried reasoning with him. I stopped to ask him his name, told him that I
understood he had a job to do, and suggested that he keep enough of a distance to allow
me to have a conversation without him listening in. In the face of my entreaties, he
remained largely mute, other than to say his name was Justin. I suggested that he call
his boss and find out whether this was in fact what the campaign intended for him to do.
He told me that I was free to call myself and gave me the number. After two or three
days of this, I decided I’d had enough. With Justin fast on my heels, I strolled into the
press office of the state capitol building and asked some of the reporters who were
having lunch to gather round.
“Hey, guys,” I said, “I want to introduce you to Justin. Justin here’s been assigned by
the Ryan campaign to stalk me wherever I go.”
As I explained the situation, Justin stood there, continuing to film. The reporters turned
to him and started peppering him with questions.