The Audacity of Hope

prohibiting torture by the U.S. government comes to mind). At other times, a bill
appears on the floor that’s so blatantly one-sided or poorly designed that one wonders
how the sponsor can maintain a straight face during debate.
But most of the time, legislation is a murky brew, the product of one hundred
compromises large and small, a blend of legitimate policy aims, political grandstanding,
jerry-rigged regulatory schemes, and old-fashioned pork barrels. Often, as I read
through the bills coming to the floor my first few months in the Senate, I was
confronted with the fact that the principled thing was less clear than I had originally
thought; that either an aye vote or a nay vote would leave me with some trace of
remorse. Should I vote for an energy bill that includes my provision to boost alternative
fuel production and improves the status quo, but that’s wholly inadequate to the task of
lessening America’s dependence on foreign oil? Should I vote against a change in the
Clean Air Act that will weaken regulations in some areas but strengthen regulation in
others, and create a more predictable system for corporate compliance? What if the bill
increases pollution but funds clean coal technology that may bring jobs to an
impoverished part of Illinois?
Again and again I find myself poring over the evidence, pro and con, as best I can in the
limited time available. My staff will inform me that the mail and phone calls are evenly
divided and that interest groups on both sides are keeping score. As the hour approaches
to cast my vote, I am frequently reminded of something John F. Kennedy wrote fifty
years ago in his book Profiles in Courage:
Few, if any, face the same dread finality of decision that confronts a Senator facing an
important call of the roll. He may want more time for his decision—he may believe
there is something to be said for both sides—he may feel that a slight amendment could
remove all difficulties—but when that roll is called he cannot hide, he cannot
equivocate, he cannot delay—and he senses that his constituency, like the Raven in
Poe’s poem, is perched there on his Senate desk, croaking “Nevermore” as he casts the
vote that stakes his political future.
That may be a little dramatic. Still, no legislator, state or federal, is immune from such
difficult moments—and they are always far worse for the party out of power. As a
member of the majority, you will have some input in any bill that’s important to you
before it hits the floor. You can ask the committee chairman to include language that
helps your constituents or eliminate language that hurts them. You can even ask the
majority leader or the chief sponsor to hold the bill until a compromise more to your
liking is reached.
If you’re in the minority party, you have no such protection. You must vote yes or no on
whatever bill comes up, with the knowledge that it’s unlikely to be a compromise that
either you or your supporters consider fair or just. In an era of indiscriminate logrolling
and massive omnibus spending bills, you can also rest assured that no matter how many
bad provisions there are in the bill, there will be something—funding for body armor for