RN

by Richard Nixon

  I was ready to take a stand on these social and cultural issues; I was anxious to defend the “square” virtues. In some cases—such as opposing the legalization of marijuana and the provision of federal funds for abortions, and in identifying myself with unabashed patriotism—I knew I would be standing against the prevailing social winds, and that would cause tension. But I thought that at least someone in high office would be standing up for what he believed.

  Since the advent of television as our primary means of communication and source of information modern Presidents must have specialized talents at once more superficial and more complicated than those of their predecessors. They must try to master the art of manipulating the media not only to win in politics but in order to further the programs and causes they believe in; at the same time they must avoid at all costs the charge of trying to manipulate the media. In the modern presidency, concern for image must rank with concern for substance—there is no guarantee that good programs will automatically triumph. “Elections are not won or lost by programs,” I once reminded Haldeman in a memo. “They are won or lost by how these programs are presented to the country and how the political and public relations considerations are handled.” I do not like this situation; I can remember a time in American politics when it was not the case. But today it is a fact of life, and anyone who seeks a position of influence in politics must cope with it; anyone who seeks a position of leadership must master it.

  I knew that as President my relations with the media would be at best an uneasy truce. Some of the problems were simply institutional. The media see themselves as adversaries of government, and consider it their obligation to be skeptical. The government knows that there is no such thing as a perfect program, and searches for ways to mitigate criticism sufficiently well and long enough to get something accomplished. Often the tension between the two results from nothing more than this. But in my case the problems were more than just institutional. The majority of New York and Washington newspaper and television reporters, news executives, columnists, and opinion-makers are liberals. I am not, and for many years we had looked at each other across an ideological chasm that Vietnam only deepened further. After the press treatment I received during the Hiss case and the fund episode, and after the flagrant media favoritism for Kennedy in 1960, I considered the influential majority of the news media to be part of my political opposition. Whatever the reasons—institutional, ideological, or simply those based on personality—my relationship with them was somehow different even from that of other political figures whom they disliked or with whom they disagreed. I knew that I must expect no generosity, even for mistakes; I knew that my conduct and that of my family would be held up to the most severe scrutiny; and I felt that if anything ever went seriously wrong, the media would jump in and give me a fight for my political life.

  I was prepared to have to do combat with the media in order to get my views and my programs to the people, and despite all the power and public visibility I would enjoy as President, I did not believe that this combat would be between equals. The media are far more powerful than the President in creating public awareness and shaping public opinion, for the simple reason that the media always have the last word.

  I also felt that it would be important to establish a more direct relationship with the media outside New York and Washington. I did not want all the views and opinions reaching me filtered through the Times, the Post, and the three television networks. Therefore I asked for a daily summary of the main ideas and opinions expressed across the country in news reports, editorials, columns, and articles from fifty newspapers, thirty magazines, and the two major wire services.

  Within the White House I created the post of Director of Communications for the executive branch. Herb Klein, who had served as my press spokesman in 1960 and 1962, headed this new office. One of his tasks was to stay in touch with the media in the rest of the country, bring their reports to me, and get my ideas out to them. I named Ron Ziegler, my twenty-nine-year-old campaign press assistant, as Press Secretary.

  As I assembled my Cabinet and senior staff during this transition period, I thought that one of our most important tasks would be to place our stamp on the federal bureaucracy as quickly and as firmly as we possibly could. Ever since Andrew Jackson and the era of “To the victor belong the spoils,” the Democrats had understood and excelled at acting on this premise. I could remember my concern when Eisenhower, upon entering office after twenty years of uninterrupted Democratic power, failed to press his Cabinet members and other appointees to Republicanize their agencies and departments. After the eight Kennedy–Johnson years the need was hardly less great, and at every meeting during the transition and the first months of my administration I urged, exhorted, and finally pleaded with my Cabinet and other appointed officials to replace holdover Democrats with Republicans who would be loyal to the administration and support my programs.

  Week after week I watched and listened while even the Cabinet members who had been in politics long enough to know better justified retaining Democrats in important positions in their departments for reasons of “morale” or in order to avoid controversy or unfavorable publicity. Looking back, I think that Eisenhower, because of his many years of experience with the Army, understood that the combination of human nature and the inertia of institutions will generally override even the most determined attempts to change them. Once the opportunity had passed, it was too late to correct this failure during my first term. I could only console myself with the determination that, if I were re-elected in 1972, I would not make the same mistake of leaving the initiative to individual Cabinet members.

  I knew that I was assuming the role of Commander in Chief at what was perhaps the most troubled time in the history of our armed forces. Never before had our fighting men been subjected to such criticism—and never to such obloquy—during wartime. Among the most serious effects of the antiwar movement in America was its effect on the morale and discipline of our armed forces both at home and on the battlefield, and the problem became worse as the expanded monthly draft calls began bringing in more young men who had been infected by antiwar attitudes. As I looked ahead to the end of the Vietnam war, I saw that we could end the recruitment of our armed forces through universal conscription and create an all-volunteer force. In 1969 I introduced this plan, and by 1973 the civilian draft had been completely eliminated.

  I addressed the problems of the military in a speech I gave a few months later at the Air Force Academy commencement exercises in June 1969. I said, “It is open season on the armed forces. . . . The military profession is derided in some of the so-called best circles of America. Patriotism is considered by some to be a backward fetish of the uneducated and unsophisticated.” While it was undeniably important to keep the power of the military firmly under civilian control and to check wastefulness in military programs, I also considered it important to let our armed forces know that their Commander in Chief stood behind them. I told the cadets in Colorado Springs, “The American defense establishment should never be a sacred cow, but on the other hand, the American military should never be anybody’s scapegoat.”

  By 1968 I had been dedicated to the Republican Party and its electoral fortunes for twenty-two years. Unfortunately the party had not emerged much strengthened from the 1968 election despite our victory at the top of the ticket. Perhaps the problems were too deep-seated for any easy solution. The fact was that the Democrats had controlled both houses of Congress for all but two of the past thirty years. From the outset of my administration, I decided that I would use the power of incumbency to help the Republican Party and to enhance its electoral prospects. I took it as a serious responsibility as leader of the party to inject some much-needed old-time partisan fire and spirit into Republican veins. Although off-year elections almost always go against the party in the White House, I hoped that we could at least hold our own in 1970. By 1972 I hoped to have restored vitality to the Republican organization and to h
ave identified and encouraged a new generation of winning Republican candidates.

  In the meantime I would also have to keep an eye on my own political position. The victory over Humphrey had been far too close for comfort. If it had not been for the debacle of the Chicago convention and the burden of Johnson’s unpopularity, Humphrey might have won. There was no reason to expect that the Democrats would be so obliging as to provide me with similar advantages in 1972. If they were able to unite around Teddy Kennedy or Muskie or even Humphrey again, they would be very hard to beat. Therefore I decided that we must begin immediately keeping track of everything the leading Democrats did. Information would be our first line of defense.

  I met with President Johnson again on December 12. I sat on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office while he sat in the king-size rocking chair that he had brought in to replace Kennedy’s smaller one. He began by stressing the need for maintaining secrecy on all matters involving national security. This comment was prompted by my recent announcement that I planned to revive the moribund National Security Council. Johnson was dubious about this decision, and as he warmed to his subject he sat on the edge of his rocker and leaned forward until his face was just inches from mine.

  Jabbing his finger at my chest, his voice raised, he said, “Let me tell you, Dick, I would have been a damn fool to have discussed major decisions with the full Cabinet present, because I knew that if I said something in the morning, you could sure as hell bet it would appear in the afternoon papers. It’s the same thing with the National Security Council. Everybody there’s got their damned deputies and note-takers with them sitting along the wall. I will warn you now, the leaks can kill you. I don’t even let Hubert sit in on some of those meetings for fear his staff might let something out. And even with all the precautions I take, things still leak.”

  Johnson shifted his massive frame to one side of the chair and rocked toward me again. “If it hadn’t been for Edgar Hoover,” he said, “I couldn’t have carried out my responsibilities as Commander in Chief. Period. Dick, you will come to depend on Edgar. He is a pillar of strength in a city of weak men. You will rely on him time and time again to maintain security. He’s the only one you can put your complete trust in.”

  I told Johnson that I knew one of his greatest disappointments was that he had not been able to end the war before leaving office. I assured him that we would do everything possible to bring the war to an early and honorable conclusion, and that when the goal was accomplished I would see to it that he received the credit due him. I told him he could be proud of having stood up to his critics, particularly those in his own party.

  Johnson mentioned, as he had at our meeting during the summer, the letter of support that David Eisenhower had written to him. He said, “That was a time when I wasn’t receiving a whole lot of letters like that from college students.” He looked over his shoulder at the Rose Garden. His eyes moistened and his voice softened. “I am mighty proud of my family and particularly proud of my two sons-in-law, who are fighting in Vietnam,” he said. “You can be equally proud of your family.”

  My daughter Julie first met David Eisenhower at his grandfather’s second inauguration in 1957, when they were both eight years old. They did not see each other at all during the early 1960s; it was a geographical coincidence that brought them together again. In 1966 David began his freshman year at Amherst College and Julie began her freshman year at Smith College, only a few miles away. One day he called her on an impulse and asked if he could come over to see her. They met, they fell in love, and just before the start of their sophomore year they told Pat and me that they planned to marry.

  On the night their engagement was announced I wrote a note for Julie and left it on her bed table.

  The wedding was set for December 22. I told Julie that she should give serious consideration to waiting until after the inauguration and being married in the White House. That was a unique privilege, and I wanted to be sure that she did not renounce it lightly. But both she and David felt that they wanted their wedding ceremony to be as personal and non-political as it possibly could.

  RICHARD M. NIXON

  Dr. Norman Vincent Peale’s Marble Collegiate Church in New York had played such an important and happy part in our family’s life since we moved to New York that Julie felt very deeply about being married there and about having all reporters and cameramen excluded from the ceremony.

  Just as the preparations had reached their height on the evening of the rehearsal and the wedding party dinner, I came down with the flu and had to be given medication to lower my fever. I was determined, however, not to miss any of the events and not to let Julie or David know that I was not feeling well.

  The church was beautifully decorated for Christmas with fresh pine boughs and red bows draped over the balconies and a large wreath behind the altar. Red and white poinsettias banked the entire front of the church and surrounded the small white prie-dieu on which David and Julie knelt during the ceremony.

  The most memorable moment for me was when I gave Julie away at the altar. She suddenly turned and kissed me. This impulsive, spontaneous gesture brought tears to the eyes of many in the church—including mine.

  It was not until I had joined Pat in our pew that the reality of what was happening hit me. Until now I had always thought of our family as a complete unit. Now it would be larger, but it would also be different. I could not help thinking back to one of my first conversations with Paul Douglas, the senator from Illinois, shortly after I had entered the Senate in 1950. One day we had lunch together and he asked me about my family. I told him about Tricia and Julie, and suddenly he became very pensive. He said, “I’ve got a little girl that all of a sudden became a teenager without my realizing it. It wasn’t long ago she was just a tiny girl. Now she’s a young lady, and I was so caught up in my work that I missed the years in between. Don’t let that happen to you.”

  Pat and I had always been careful to set aside time each day to spend with the girls. But there were all the times when we were away campaigning or on official trips or when we would suddenly be called on to fill in for the Eisenhowers and would not be able to have dinner at home.

  Our family time together in California before I embarked on the governor’s race had been far too brief. I knew that Pat and the girls thought that the move to New York would finally put an end to politics. But here we were, almost six years later, and I was the President-elect. I felt tremendous joy and pride watching my daughter get married but I couldn’t help wondering if it would not have been possible to have spent even a little more time with her, and regretting that I had not tried harder to do so.

  Mamie Eisenhower had been hospitalized a week earlier with a respiratory infection, so she as well as General Eisenhower saw the wedding from Walter Reed Hospital on a closed-circuit television hookup. Eisenhower had been unhappy about the length of David’s hair, and he told me that he had offered him a hundred dollars if he would have it cut short. David usually respected his grandfather’s wishes, but he got only a light trim. I could not help noticing at the ceremony that despite Eisenhower’s concern, David’s hair was considerably shorter than any of his college friends’ in the wedding party, and I thought that at least in comparative terms he might have put in a claim for the reward, but he never did—and Eisenhower never paid.

  The reception after the ceremony was held at the Plaza Hotel. David and Julie chose “Edelweiss” from The Sound of Music as their first dance. I do not think I have ever felt lighter on my feet than when I tapped David’s shoulder and cut in for my dance with the bride. In my toast I mentioned the joyous things that had happened that day: the Apollo VIII astronauts had gone into the first manned moon orbit; the North Koreans had released the crew of the Pueblo; and the wedding.

  When they were ready to leave for their honeymoon in Florida, Julie threw her bridal bouquet—into Tricia’s waiting hands. During the wedding Julie had worn the same thin blue garter that Mami
e Doud had worn on July 1, 1916, when she married Lieutenant Dwight Eisenhower. Julie had therefore given David a different garter to throw to the waiting groomsmen.

  That night Pat and I sat in front of the fire in our apartment and talked about the day and how beautiful Julie had looked and about how perfect the ceremony had been. But I know that we were both thinking about time: about how fast it goes, and about how little of it there is to do the important things with the people who really matter to you.

  As I anticipated becoming President, I found that I was awed by the prospect but not fearful of it. I felt prepared. I had the advantage of experience and of the detachment that comes from being out of office. The “wilderness years” had been years of education and growth.

  I had no illusions about either the difficulty of the challenge or about my ability to meet it. I felt I knew what would not work. On the other hand, I was less sure what would work. I did not have all the answers. But I did have definite ideas about the changes I felt were needed.

  As 1968 came to a close, I was a happy man. At Key Biscayne a wreath hung on the front door and a beautifully trimmed Christmas tree stood in the living room. David and Julie came over from their honeymoon retreat in Palm Beach to join Pat and Tricia and me for Christmas dinner. Far out in space Apollo VIII orbited the moon while astronaut Frank Borman read the story of the Creation from the Book of Genesis. Those were days rich with happiness and full of anticipation and hope.