by Ira Shapiro
Unsurprisingly, Wisconsin voters were worried that economic conditions “also pose a threat to the American way of life.” Inflation and the cost of living was the item mentioned most often. “Other economic threats,” Hart noted, “include welfare spending and abuse, credit buying, union power, and big business controls.” His bottom line on the economic threats was particularly sobering to a liberal Democrat like Nelson: “These economic threats are more commonly identified with the failures of liberal policies than with the failures of conservative policies.”
Wisconsin voters also perceived major threats to the American way of life on the political front. “Leading the list is government’s interference in people’s lives,” Hart noted. “Other threats of a political nature include government spending; bureaucracy and waste; high and unfair taxes; government corruption; lack of unity and patriotism; women’s rights; ERA gone too far; liberalism; government leadership, representatives and Communism.”
None of this came as a surprise to Nelson. He knew that people were anxious and that 1979 had been a terrible year. He understood the vulnerabilities of an incumbent senator running at a time when voters were disillusioned with government. He had run in 1968, when the country was virtually torn apart by divisions over the Vietnam War and violence in the cities. Still, he believed that Wisconsin voters liked and trusted him, and that his progressive record showed him to be on the cutting edge, part of the solution, not the problem.
But Hart’s polling included some troubling indicators about Nelson in particular. He had been a liberal and extraordinarily popular governor. He had won five consecutive statewide elections. He had been an early opponent of the Vietnam War, a tough critic of the automobile and pharmaceutical industries, and the first great environmentalist in the Senate—the father of Earth Day in 1970. Yet, even with those achievements, only 47 percent of those polled said he was doing an “excellent” or “good” job; 41 percent rated his performance as “fair” or “poor.” Two-thirds of the voters agreed with Nelson on the issues, but he did not get much credit for his effectiveness. Nelson got high marks in several areas, including work on the environment, but low grades on the issues of most concern to the voters—inflation, energy, welfare, and foreign policy.
Hart was polling for nine other Senate Democrats in 1980, and he offered Nelson at least some encouraging news. Wisconsin was more centrist and more resistant to the rightward trend he was seeing in other states. However, he also pointed out Nelson’s special problem: the constant visibility and extraordinary popularity of Wisconsin’s senior senator, Bill Proxmire. Nelson had not kept up with his hyperactive colleague. Overall, Hart saw his unimpressive job performance rating, after seventeen years in the Senate, “as a serious liability . . . in light of the voters’ generally pessimistic mood.” “We cannot overstress,” Hart noted, “the necessity of an active, aggressive and hard-hitting campaign to assure Gaylord Nelson of victory.”
NELSON WAS HARDLY THE only senator facing a difficult battle. Frank Church, for one, operated under no illusions about how hard his race for a fifth term was going to be. The liberal Church was an outlier in one of the most conservative states in the nation. In 1976, as Jimmy Carter had been elected president, Gerald Ford had crushed Carter in Idaho by a lopsided 60–37 percent margin. The right wing had been gunning for Frank Church for years, particularly since his investigation of the intelligence community. He had further stoked their anger by his leading role in “giving away” the Panama Canal and “selling out” Taiwan.
The National Conservative Political Action Committee (NCPAC), a creation of Jesse Helms’s former staffer Charles Black, had targeted Church early, eighteen months before the election. “By 1980,” Terry Dolan, the twenty-eight-year-old NCPAC director predicted, “there will be people voting against Church without remembering why.” Defeating Church was NCPAC’s highest priority, because his chairmanship of the Foreign Relations Committee gave him such high visibility. “Defeating him would send a shiver down the spines of every liberal in the Senate,” Dolan observed.
The Republicans had a strong candidate in Congressman Steve Symms, who managed to combine an affable personality and an impressive military record with hard-edged right-wing views and a willingness to do whatever was needed to win. In 1971, Symms had been so disillusioned with America’s drift toward socialism that he gave serious thought to moving his family to Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. He decided instead to run for Congress, won a seat in 1972, and had become a leading congressional conservative. Church had traditionally shown great political courage on the big issues, such as Vietnam and the Panama Canal. Now, unsurprisingly, he seemed to be looking for ways to placate conservative voters as the election neared. In 1979, he had voted against Carter’s two most admired liberal judicial nominees, Congressman Abner Mikva, who was vehemently opposed by the gun lobby, and Patricia Wald, who was not. Columnist Mary McGrory rebuked Church, quoting one of his colleagues who said: “There must be some limit to what a man will do to come back here.”
Worse, Church’s attempt to take a tough stance on the Cuban brigade had misfired, winning over none of his opponents and disillusioning many of his admirers. “The Soviet brigade,” McGrory wrote, “offered him a chance to show that he could stand up to those Commie canal-rustlers.” Church’s former speechwriter, Bill Hall, said: “It was not a proud moment to have the Senate Foreign Relations chairman from Idaho trying to outdo every right-wing wacko in the Senate.” SALT II had failed for many reasons, but Church’s bellicose intervention was so visible and striking that many people, starting with Jimmy Carter, would always blame him, unfairly, for its demise.
The campaign showed every sign of becoming vicious. Symms intended to hammer the traditional pocketbook issues of inflation and unemployment, leaving NCPAC and ABC (Anyone but Church) to slam him with an unending series of harsh negative ads. The New Right would also bring to Idaho former intelligence officers and government officials who would rip Church for undermining U.S. security. Retired General John K. Singlaub blasted Church for “emasculating” the CIA. Former ambassador to Chile Edward Korry accused him of suppressing evidence regarding Chile in order to protect the Communists and the Kennedy and Johnson administrations. “I have often stated publicly,” Korry noted, “that if I could ever use my voice to . . . remove Frank Church from public office, I would put aside everything to travel to this state.” So he did—and Church’s race only got tougher as a result.
UNLIKE IDAHO, THE NEW Right did not have a strong presence in the state of Washington. Many people admired Warren Magnuson for his extraordinary legislative accomplishments and his service to the country. But at seventy-six years old, Maggie was slowing, weakened by diabetes and a sore foot that caused him to shuffle rather than walk. A Peter Hart poll of the state showed significant weaknesses, and a particular vulnerability to opponents arguing that it was time for a change. His closest advisers urged him not to seek reelection, sparing himself the strain of an ugly, uncertain campaign. Maggie promised to consider their views, but ultimately decided that he would run again. “You told me that I shouldn’t run again last time,” he was heard to growl.
“The boss loved his job, loved his work,” a former adviser recalled. “He couldn’t imagine himself not being a senator,” another noted. “It’s what I like, what I can do, and what I know,” said Maggie. His decision to run again would set up a contest with Washington Attorney General Slade Gorton, a moderate Republican, and a lean, vigorous candidate whose devotion to running contrasted starkly with Maggie’s increasing inability to walk.
Magnuson could still raise money; he was, after all, the chairman of the Appropriations Committee and the former chairman of the Commerce Committee. One evening, Ed Muskie had agreed to stop by a fund-raiser at the Mayflower Hotel that Magnuson was doing with corporate lobbyists. Muskie came in and saw Magnuson, aged, exhausted, and unfocused, standing in a receiving line shaking hands automatically with the lobbyists that filed by. After staying
a few minutes, Muskie went out to his car, and described the scene to Leon Billings, his administrative assistant. “Don’t let me do that,” Muskie implored. “Don’t let me stay too long.”
Jack Javits, one of the only senators whose accomplishments rivaled Magnuson’s, spent the early weeks of 1980 wrestling with the same question of whether to run again. Javits had intended to not seek a fifth term, but now, as the time for decision loomed, he vacillated. Politically, he recognized that he might be vulnerable to a challenge from a right-wing conservative in the Republican primary, of the sort that had defeated Clifford Case. He had no independent political operation around the state for he had always relied on the powerful machine of his friend, Governor Nelson Rockefeller. Now Rockefeller was no longer governor. Javits was a Washington and world figure but had done very little in recent years to cultivate his home base.
Much more serious was his deteriorating health. Javits had developed a slackening in his abdominal muscles, which made it difficult for him to walk and climb stairs; the condition was diagnosed as motor neuron disease. He consulted the best doctors, and they told him the ailment tended to be slowly progressive but would in no way affect his mind. Although he did not name the ailment in his autobiography, Javits had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), often known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, the progressively crippling nerve disorder that would ultimately paralyze and kill him.
By itself, Javits’ condition should have decided the issue. Still, he wavered. America was in crisis, and he believed, understandably, that no one could bring his combination of intellect and experience to the problems at hand. In February 1980, he remained inclined not to run. But a State Department briefing convinced him that the effort to bring the hostages home was going badly. As he later wrote in his memoirs, Javits “began to wonder whether the United States was doing all it could.” From that question it was only a small step for Javits “to ask whether [he] had any business leaving his post of duty while the troubles of the United States proliferated.”
In the last week of February, he made a list of the pros and cons and found it came out perfectly even. He drafted a statement saying that although the decision was “close and agonizing,” on balance, he thought he should not run. A close friend advised him that whatever he decided, he should not use a “deathbed statement” like the one he had devised. Javits realized that he would feel terrible leaving the Senate and reversed his decision at virtually the eleventh hour. He announced for reelection and disclosed his affliction with motor neuron disease.
He would write in his autobiography: “I thought I had benefited millions of Americans through my legislation on domestic matters and that I had aided my country by helping to shape foreign policy on some of the greatest events of our time. . . . What took over my thinking was the call of duty and conscience—and the call of what I knew how to do best, which was to be a United States senator. . . . There was no argument to stand up against that.”
In truth, Javits, like Magnuson, could not conceive of the Senate without him, or his life without the Senate.
AS THE SENATORS GEARED up for their races, Ted Kennedy was absorbing one devastating blow after another in his challenge to President Carter. In presidential politics, unexpected things happen all the time. Many candidates who look very strong before a campaign can fade in the crucible of the spotlight. Kennedy certainly had weaknesses as a candidate, particularly the vulnerability that Speaker O’Neill had pointed out—the “moral issue,” arising out of voters’ doubts about his conduct at Chappaquiddick. But even more important, the events of November and December had completely transformed the political landscape.
Jimmy Carter was the president and commander in chief at a time of national crisis. Carter had responsibility for dealing with the hostage crisis, the first challenge from militant Islam, and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, a return to the darker days of the Cold War. The White House had skillfully gained political advantage from these very real crises, claiming that Carter could not leave the White House to campaign. The president withdrew from a Des Moines Register debate that he had accepted months before. The public understood and supported this decision. They rallied behind Carter. Under the circumstances, Kennedy’s challenge to Carter seemed almost unpatriotic. The polls showed Kennedy going from a 2:1 favorite to a 2:1 underdog.
Kennedy struggled to find his footing. His speeches were generally lackluster, as he muted his liberal themes in an effort to build support more broadly. Former senator Dick Clark of Iowa had given up his position as refugee coordinator in the Carter administration in order to join the Kennedy campaign. Clark’s son attended Grinnell College in Iowa and was excited that Kennedy would be speaking there. But after the speech, Clark’s son expressed disappointment at Kennedy’s speech; it was tepid and uninspiring. He advised Clark that all of his friends had felt the same way. The internal workings of the campaign worried Clark as well. Kennedy would sit around with a group of consultants, getting conflicting advice from all of them. At one point, Clark recalled, a lengthy debate took place between the consultants about whether, or under what circumstances, Kennedy should wear glasses.
When Kennedy finally did take a strong position, it seriously backfired. On December 3, in a San Francisco interview, Kennedy said that the shah “ran one of the most violent regimes in the history of mankind—in the form of terrorism and the basic and fundamental violations of human rights, in the most cruel circumstances, to his own people.” He also said that the shah had “stolen umpteen billions of dollars from his country.” This was a tremendous misstep. Whatever the shah’s failings, and they were enormous, critics could now paint Kennedy as giving aid and comfort to the Khomeini regime by focusing attention on the shah. Peter Hart, polling for the Kennedy campaign, found that 54 percent of the public agreed with the statement: “I feel that Edward Kennedy has hurt America by speaking out against the former Shah of Iran.”
Meanwhile, the press hammered him on Chappaquiddick. Even the Boston Globe, his hometown newspaper, editorialized: “Chappaquiddick was not just an auto accident. Many Americans suspect, not without reason, that Kennedy’s handling of its aftermath is another case of a politician stonewalling. And they wonder whether Kennedy would lie to the American people in a more public crisis.”
In January, Carter responded to the Afghanistan invasion by imposing an embargo on grain sales to the Soviet Union. Kennedy attacked him, arguing that the embargo would hurt Iowa’s farmers but not the Russians, who could easily buy grain elsewhere. It was a transparent attempt to win over the Democratic base in a crucial early primary state—and his criticism had no effect. Iowa’s farmers wanted nothing more than to do their part to help Carter stand up to the Soviet Union. On January 21, the Iowa caucuses took place, with an enormous turnout of more than 100,000 people on a freezing winter night. Carter smashed Kennedy, winning 59 percent of the precinct delegates.
Shortly before the Iowa caucuses, Kennedy, sensing defeat, had urged John Culver, Iowa’s senator, to abandon his neutrality and endorse him. Culver was not just any Senate colleague; he was one of Kennedy’s best friends, a Harvard classmate, and a former Kennedy staffer. However, Culver, facing his own difficult race for reelection, gave it a night’s thought, and told Kennedy that he would have to remain neutral.
In fact, beyond the early statements of Jackson and McGovern, Kennedy received very little support for his challenge to Carter from his Senate colleagues. Joe Biden, who maintained close ties with the White House, advised Carter that out of fourteen Democratic senators running for reelection, only one, John Durkin of New Hampshire, favored Kennedy. Kennedy’s advisers were embittered that Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who had urged him to make the race and promised to support him, never did.
Kennedy’s challenge to Carter presented a difficult choice to Senate Democrats. Overwhelmingly, they liked Ted; he was both a colleague and a friend. They admired the way he worked in the Senate and his resilience in coming back from a series of personal
tragedies. Many of them questioned Carter’s performance as president and did not have close personal ties to him. Throughout 1979, they certainly did not see Carter as an asset at the top of the ticket.
But even before Kennedy’s rocky start and the dramatic change in the political climate, many Senate Democrats had their reservations about his challenge. They understood that the country was moving to the right and recognized the need for Democrats to pursue their longstanding goals through other approaches. Carter’s efforts to find the center may not have been successful, but most Senate Democrats doubted that Kennedy’s full-throated liberalism pointed the way to success.
Even more fundamentally, Carter was a Democratic president. The senators believed he should be challenged only under certain special circumstances. It had been agonizing but probably necessary in 1968 for Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy to challenge Lyndon Johnson; they responded to a profound moral issue and a disaster for the country: the Vietnam War. In 1980, for many senators, it was difficult to find a similar justification for Ted Kennedy’s challenge, even if the liberal wing of the party disliked Carter. And even in 1968, senators remembered that Democratic fratricide took its toll; the divisions in the party did not heal quickly enough and cost Hubert Humphrey the presidency. Overall, the Democratic senators would stay neutral, either because they had their own races, or because they saw no compelling reason to support Kennedy.
JIMMY CARTER HAD SHOWN great restraint in avoiding possible military actions, earning the respect and support of the American people. But by the end of March, the American people were growing frustrated and angry. So was the president. Iranian militants had held more than fifty Americans hostage in the U.S. embassy for almost five months.