WAVELENGTHS
of the Campaign Trail articulate what politics is – my en- tire undergraduate experience as a public policy major and a campus leader who organized forums, class trips, and local events, was centered on politics. But instead, my mouth hung open and I was wordless. After a momentary silence, Father Drinan quietly de- clared, “Politics is‌who controls the money.â€? Can the two-Âparty system, FDPSDLJQ Ă€QDQFH VSHFLDO interests, lobbying, government contracts, education funding, pensions, and referendums all boil down to that one statement? The brilliance of his explanation was that it made perfect sense on one level, but left us yearning for more. Left us wondering how it really works behind-Âthe- scenes and who is involved. The question, “What is politics?â€? haunted me. :LWKLQ ZHHNV RI Ă€QLVK- ing classes at HWS, I joined the presidential campaign for Vermont’s outgoing governor, Howard Dean. As an assistant of sorts, my duties included ran- dom tasks like handling phone calls, checking mail, looking up news articles, organizing internal phone lists, and other assignments WKDW VHHPHG WR Ă€W QLFHO\ LQWR WKH category of “special operations.â€? 2QH RI P\ Ă€UVW GHVNV ZDV D VWDFN RI EURZQ FDUGERDUG ER[HV Ă LSSHG upside down at the end of a long hallway stationed in earshot of the campaign’s manager, Joe Trippi. Trippi was a political guru of sorts and had been working on campaigns since the mid-Â1970s. +H ZDV Ă XHQW LQ WKH ODQJXDJH DQG Ă RZ RI SROLWLFDO FDPSDLJQV an art that I had only begun to understand. On a typical day, 7ULSSL VKXIĂ HG IURP URRP WR room, often pausing in his own
RIĂ€FH GRRUZD\ EHIRUH UHPHPEHU- ing something that had slipped his mind and shouting a directive toward one of several staffers. One afternoon he stopped at my boxes, rumpled as always, caf- feinated, and without blinking, vaguely described an article he’d read and wanted printed out: “Neocons. Iraq. I think it was in The Weekly Standard, maybe it was Bill Kristol.â€? He stared at me waiting for acknowledgement that I understood exactly what he was asking for. But I didn’t. I nodded back, half-Âreassuringly, DV KH OXPEHUHG LQWR KLV RIĂ€FH Soon, I was tasked with a UROH WKDW PDQ\ Ă HGJOLQJ SROLWLFRV before and after me start out with – compiling news clips very early in the day. One cold morning in December 2003, I ZDV DORQH LQ WKH FDPSDLJQ RIĂ€FH gathering articles before the sun rose. Quickly, news emerged that Iraq’s dictator Saddam Hus- sein had been captured by U.S. military forces. Major world news with incredible political implication. I muted the televi- sions and called our traveling press secretary who was with Governor Dean on a fundraising swing in the West Coast, where it was the middle of the night. He was half-Âasleep when I told him what had unfolded. We hung up the phone and my heart pounded. I desperately wanted someone to EXUVW WKURXJK WKH RIĂ€FH GRRUV VR that I could share the up-Âto-Âthe minute reports of what had hap- pened. But I sat alone in silence for a moment looking out of the window. It was still dark outside. A few years later, I was in a restroom at a convention center. It was a momentary pause in the day as I was getting ready to help manage “rapid responseâ€? efforts
for a debate between two candi- dates vying for an open seat in the U.S. Senate. I had been on the Democratic candidate’s campaign for several months and we had held numerous mock debates, cre- DWHG KXQGUHGV RI SDJHV LQ EULHÀQJ
by them, wishing I had the guts to turn back and see the shocked expressions on their faces. I walked down the large corridor toward my candidate’s debate “war room.� It was almost time for both men to make their
Nicholas Howie ’02 worked for the Democratic Party as a political research and policy analyst on President Barack Obama’s re-election effort. He’s pictured here in Chicago, Ill.
material, and poured over poten- tial incoming lines of criticism and their counter-Âarguments. It was QRW P\ Ă€UVW GHEDWH EXW LW ZDV WKH Ă€UVW WLPH , ZDV LQ FKDUJH RI WKH research at a debate. Suddenly the bathroom door swung open. The opposing candidate walked in. He didn’t see me as he placed his hands on either side of a sink and leaned over it like he was going to be sick. He took a deep breath and made his way to a stall. Here I was, with the state’s one-Âtime most SRZHUIXO Ă€JXUHKHDG ² DORQH LOO and nervous, working to gather his nerves. I quickly exited and found two of the former governor’s aides blocking the entrance. They hadn’t realized I was in there. I slipped
way to the stage, and our entou- rage was prepared to exit. The conference table was littered with laptops, folders, markers, cookie crumbs, empty water bottles, and paper cups of cold coffee. An aide adjusted the candidate’s tie for the last time. The room was hot. My palms were sweaty. Our candi- date tilted his head and chin, and rolls his shoulders like a boxer leaving the dressing room. I clung to a large binder stuffed with “de- bate prep� materials. There was no more time for practice. O
HOBART AND WILLIAM SMITH COLLEGES
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