Electoral candidates fasten masks on tight

ANNEX GLEANER: Fall 2000

Running for political office is a lot like trying to be the perfect son.

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It’s about saying the right thing, being seen with the right people, not going out in ripped jeans and never talking back to your parents, I mean, your leader.

All of this makes political campaigns a very conservative business. Everyone wants to be the first to try something new as long as its has been done successfully before.

The competition to litter the most front lawns in your neighbourhood with signs inexplicably proves your ability to make policies for the community. When I ran for office, I suggested using signs made of hemp … convert them to shopping bags afterwards. I might have proposed, with equal effect, streaking down Spadina Ave. 

The politician fears the voter’s rejection. This insecurity inspires the need to be perfect. It is the life-blood of the process. On the doorstep, the comments are often hurtful. “Politicians are all alike”. In the media, a candidate’s gaffes are the prize of a reporter’s effort. On a bad day, is Stockwell Day the only person who doesn’t know which way the Great Lakes flow?  And at the polls, the message can be definitively negative. The democratic process institutionalizes insecurity.

Perfect politicians, like perfect humans, are not common. Perfection in politics is about trying to look perfect. 

Some are puritanical. This is popular in the United States.

The puritanical loved Bill Clinton. They thought their attacks on him would make them look perfect. An excellent strategy until the scrutiny was turned back on the accusers.

In Canada, candidates vie for voter affection by telling us stories about what their competitors might or might not be planning to do.

Others turn to boasting. Bombast is the currency of campaigns. When I first entered politics, the prowess of my opponents intimidated me. Only when I learned to discount everything by fifty percent could I trade on even terms. “I will destroy you”, means “It’s going to be a close race”. “I am the most respected member in the party”, means “My spouse listens to me”. “I knocked on 500 doors today”, means “I knocked on 250”.

Before politics, I went to community events in ripped jeans and sat happily in the back row considering opposing viewpoints. This was no longer OK. I had to be noticed. I learned to admire politicians who had an opinion ready on any subject — especially those who, faced with an equally divided crowd, could speak passionately on both sides. “Look at me, I know everything!”

Some just hide. They surround themselves with loyal supporters. The conversation at the doorstep is limited to 8.5 seconds. Political parties prefer staged events. Volunteers are sprinkled along walkabouts and scripted to offer praise to the candidate. This is a defense against the critical media. Speeches are given to partisan crowds. Candidates fare more poorly in televised debates. The absence of applause means they might not be OK.

Many retreat to blandness. This is like hiding. Being bland is the best way to please everyone. It is why health care has been the top issue both federally and provincially. Few disagree with good health care. The finer but more crucial points are not debated.

The stars of campaigns become the pollsters, media consultants, fundraisers, organizers, and strategists. Those who want to talk about policy are dismissed as naïve.

The only really daring thing that the candidate does is to declare his or her candidacy. 

Finally, there is that apparently rare breed of politician who has the characteristics we think we deserve. One who proposes new ideas, who tackles the tough issues, who speaks frankly, and who has integrity — a real leader. We lavish praise on such politicians — but mostly when they are dead. When they serve us we call them arrogant, autocratic, out of touch, etc.

Pierre Trudeau was, perhaps, such a politician. At his death most of us had forgotten that during his political career we often loved to hate him. He reached new lows in opinion polls. We even threw him out of office in 1979. In politics love is never unconditional. Maybe we rejected him because he didn’t want enough to please us. We needed to control him. During the 1968 leadership race Trudeau was asked how much he wanted to be leader. “Oh, not very much”, he replied casually.  

Joe Clark never had as much integrity as he does today. Coincidentally, he no longer seriously aspires to be Prime Minister. In his first time around our attacks on him were merciless. He no longer tries to be perfect. He accepts that he can’t. We tolerate him.

We once thought we could love Brian Mulroney. He looked so much the leader we hoped for. He fooled us for a while. Then we learned that he only sought affirmation from the corporate elite. They made him feel OK.  

In truth, if our expectations were more realistic, our judgement less harsh, and our interest more sustained we would end up with the kind of politicians we hope for —perhaps even realize there are far more good people in public office than we bother to notice. The result would be a more well-adjusted lot in politics.

And in that world, we would kick people out of the House (or let them in) only when we have listened to them attentively at the door, made time for their all-candidates meetings and given them the benefit of the doubt when the press accuses them of misdeeds. A good parent would do no less.