Believer: My Forty Years in Politics

by David Axelrod

  Rouse, Gibbs, and Alyssa had flown in from Washington for the meeting. My partners Plouffe and Kupper were there, as was Steve Hildebrand, an experienced operative who had run Iowa for Al Gore. It was a mighty small group, I thought, considering such a huge undertaking, but if Obama decided to run, this impressive team represented a solid start. Every consultant or staffer in the room had presidential campaign experience, and most shared the chippy DNA of insurgents. Going in, however, few of us believed that Barack would actually run.

  “All this hype has been flattering,” he began. “But running for the presidency, much less being president, is a serious business, so I want to give this the consideration it deserves.”

  He spoke of three separate areas of concern on which he would focus in order to make a decision, including the impact on his family and the sheer feasibility of such a race. Then he began making an eloquent case for why it was even worth exploring.

  The country, he said, was in a perilous place, confronted by big, long-term challenges such as health care, climate change, and frayed alliances in the world. The special interests were strong and getting stronger, and the middle class was under siege. Against this, we were hamstrung by small, divisive politics that made solving big problems virtually impossible. It was a critical moment in the nation’s history. Could he bring something different, something more useful than just fresh and moving rhetoric, to the daunting challenges facing America?

  “That’s a question I am wrestling with,” he said. “Because if the answer is no, Hillary is a very capable person and there are other good folks running.”

  Most of the conversation was nitty-gritty politics. Having ceded so much early ground to Hillary, Barack questioned whether it was possible to close the gap. Could we raise the money? Hillary’s team was boasting of reaping one hundred million dollars for the primaries alone. Could we build organizations to compete in states in which Obama had barely set foot? Obama was particularly concerned about whether we could build out a team to compete with a Clinton organization already a quarter century in the making. “I just don’t know if we can attract the kind of talent we need this late in the game,” he said, woefully underestimating his appeal to the young campaign warriors who are the backbone of such efforts. The consensus was that it was possible, and Barack made testing that proposition a priority.

  Still, as he surveyed the room, few sugarcoated the magnitude of the challenge or the personal sacrifice it would require. Hillary was an imposing, well-financed front-runner, and Edwards remained a significant obstacle in Iowa, where he was popular with the left-leaning caucus crowd. The harder-edged populism he had now fully embraced sold well there. To succeed, we would have to pitch a nearly perfect game and demand total commitment from everybody involved in the effort—and if we pitched the perfect game and won, Gibbs pointed out, well, that would just be the beginning.

  “You shouldn’t think of this as a one- or two-year commitment,” he told Obama. “Because if you get in, I presume you get in because you think you have a reasonable chance to win. So you kind of have to think of this as, possibly, a ten-year commitment, not one.”

  Everyone in the room believed that Barack had special gifts and a unique ability to inspire a nation desperate for change. The daunting challenges notwithstanding, we agreed that if ever there was a time for such an insurgency, this was it. Nevertheless, we didn’t want to leave the meeting without having offered an honest portrayal of the downside of the endeavor for the Obamas. Presidential campaigns are endurance tests. The physical, emotional, and intellectual demands are extraordinary and, quite often, excruciating, as befitting a contest for the world’s most difficult job. If Obama ran, the experience would be exhilarating, but it would unquestionably be a relentless ordeal, too. We did not want to be in a position, months down the line, to have either Obama say, “Why didn’t you warn us?”

  The only outlier in this was Hildebrand, who let his emotions cloud his judgment. He was so painfully eager to see Barack run that he painted a comically idealized portrait of campaign life. When an apprehensive Michelle asked about the demands on her and the children, Hildy’s description sounded more like a trip to Disney World than two years of unstinting sacrifice.

  “Barack will be able to take some weekends off, at least in the beginning,” he said. “And in the summer, it will be great for your girls to come along the campaign trail. There will be fun state and county fairs. They’ll love it.”

  We all stared at Hildebrand in disbelief as he spun this fantasy, and politely worked to paint a more realistic picture of what would be required. Plouffe, in particular, made no attempt to dance around the issue.

  “Let’s not have any illusions: this is going to be a miserable slog for one year or, if you’re lucky, two,” he said in his best Joe Friday “Just the Facts” tone. “You, Senator, will be on the road constantly, and away from the kids. There won’t be any weekends off. And with all due respect to Hildy, you’re not going to want to drag your kids along that often. So there will be a lot of separation.”

  I was impressed with David’s forthrightness, and was sure the Obamas would be, too. Barack didn’t really know Plouffe, who had played a very limited role in his Senate race; Michelle had never met him. No one could accuse David of trying to inveigle Barack into the race under false pretenses. He offered a clear, direct analysis unfettered by sentiment, one that would appeal to a politician whose soaring idealism and high principles lived side by side with a pragmatic willingness to do what was necessary in the heat of battle.

  As the meeting broke up, Barack assigned Rouse and Plouffe to probe deeper into the logistical challenges of mounting such a campaign: budgeting, fund-raising, available personnel. Alyssa and Gibbs would work on a sample schedule for the first few months of a campaign, and I would undertake a strategic memo on messaging.

  Plouffe and Gibbs were convinced that, at the end of the day, Obama would not run. David called me from a cab headed to O’Hare for his flight back to Washington. “I just don’t see him pulling the trigger.” I wasn’t so sure. It was plain that Barack had been giving this endeavor serious thought, and even after our overheated disclaimers, he was continuing our investigation into the process. Michelle was skeptical and, quite naturally, reluctant, but her participation in the meeting and the questions she raised suggested more openness to the possibility of a candidacy than I had suspected.

  As I reflected on the possibility, I wrestled with my own ambivalence. Some of it was on behalf of my friends Barack and Michelle: I knew better than they did what a life-changing commitment this could be for them. I also had more personal reservations, born of sheer exhaustion. Having just finished another grueling campaign cycle, I had been looking forward to 2007 and 2008 as transition years into the next phase of my life, whatever that might be. I knew from experience what a presidential race would demand of me. Moreover, the Clintons had been good to me and my family. I could never forget Hillary’s willingness to be there when Susan launched her charitable crusade against epilepsy, and I knew that the Clintons would see my role in this Obama insurrection as an unforgivable betrayal.

  However, I also believed that Barack offered the country something Hillary could not: a fresh start. At a time of growing cynicism and division, he was a healing figure who was stirring a sense of hope and possibility, a phenomenon I hadn’t witnessed since the Bobby Kennedy campaigns of my youth. Also, as in the ’60s, it was the young who were responding most enthusiastically. They saw in Barack an authentic, contemporary leader who, like Bobby in my day, was willing to challenge the cramped dogmas that had come to characterize politics. They saw in him a chance to end the wars, both abroad and in Washington, and lift the nation’s sights toward higher goals. So did I.

  Also, the more I contemplated it, the more I became convinced that Barack could actually win. The “remedy, not replica” theory I had developed around mayoral races was even more germane t
o presidential campaigns, and no one in the field represented a cleaner break from the divisive politics of George W. Bush than Obama. I was not one for long memorandums. My insights tended to come in stream-of-consciousness riffs, which I would turn into catchphrases or thirty-second ads. Yet given the gravity of the decision ahead and the assignment I had been given, I set out to write a thorough analysis, beginning with what I believed would be the most critical dynamic.

  “The most influential politician in 2008 won’t be on the ballot,” I wrote, in a twelve-page strategic memo I delivered to Obama shortly after Thanksgiving. “His name is George W. Bush.”

  With few exceptions, the history of presidential politics shows that public opinion and attitudes about who should next occupy the Oval Office are largely shaped by the perceptions of the retiring incumbent. And rarely do voters look for a replica. Instead, they generally choose a course correction, selecting a candidate who will address the deficiencies of the outgoing President . . .

  Now we are entering a campaign that will be defined by vivid perceptions of Bush, his record and style of leadership. And that is our opportunity.

  Where Bush is hyper-partisan, ideological and unyielding, voters will be looking for the next leader to rally and unify the country around our common interests and mutual obligations as Americans . . .

  Where Bush’s “Ownership Society” has turned a blind eye to the economic challenges facing many Americans in the new global economy, voters desperately want policies that will put wages, retirement security, health care and educational opportunity at the top of the national agenda.

  Where Washington under Bush is a cauldron of special interest favors and inside deals, voters will demand honest, transparent government that puts the nation’s interest first.

  Where Bush and the Blame Government First crowd have bungled every major challenge since 9/11 while running up massive deficits, voters are asking for smart, frugal and efficient government.

  Where Bush’s bull-headed policies have created a foreign policy disaster in Iraq and weakened our overall defenses, voters will be asking for a new American foreign policy that is both strong and wise, emphasizing our ideals as well as our might and the multilateralism the neo-cons scorn.

  The bottom line is this:

  Voters are primed to turn the page and choose a candidate who offers an inspiring, inclusive, confident and HOPEFUL vision for America in the 21st Century.

  They want to believe again in themselves, their country and their future. They want to believe again in America’s exceptionalism, of which you are both a champion and a reflection.

  For all these reasons, you are uniquely suited for these times. No one among the potential candidates within our party is as well positioned to rekindle our lost idealism as Americans and pick up the mantle of change. No one better represents a new generation of leadership, more focused on practical solutions to today’s challenges than old dogmas of the left and right.

  Obama’s lack of high-level government or executive experience was an obvious concern and an inviting target for opponents, I wrote. In a section entitled “The Experience Trap,” I argued that if ever there were an election in which Americans would value energetic, new leadership over years of Washington experience, 2008 would be it. What seemed to be Obama’s biggest vulnerability could prove to be an asset.

  Substantive ideas, judgment and gravitas are essential. But we should not get into a white paper war with the Clintons, or get twisted into knots by the elites. The insiders will never accept it, but this is a splendid time to be an outsider. That’s one of the principal reasons to run now.

  Unlike experience, strength is an indispensable quality voters would demand in a president, I wrote, and neither McCain, who endured more than five years of torture in a Vietnamese prison, nor Hillary, who had run a gauntlet of her own during her years in the public eye, needed to certify theirs. Obama’s story—the son of a single mother and someone who rose from modest beginnings and youthful challenges to excel—was one reflection of his strength and character.

  But the campaign itself also is a proving ground for strength . . . How you respond to the inevitable challenges you’ll face will reveal much about your strength and preparedness for the job.

  I also offered Obama my assessment of his most prominent potential opponents:

  Hillary Clinton is a formidable candidate, who should be considered the frontrunner for the nomination because of her strength, intellect, discipline, and, of course, access to an array of assets far in excess of any other candidate.

  As a city kid, I am no golfer, but I knew Obama was, so I faked it to make a point about Hillary’s advantages.

  She and her team have played this course many times before. They know every bunker, sand trap and the lay of the greens. And she has the best caddy in the business.

  But for all of her advantages, she is not a healing figure . . . The more she tries to moderate her image, the more she jeopardizes herself in the nominating fight and compounds her exposure as an opportunist. And after two decades of the Bush-Clinton saga, making herself the candidate of the future will be a challenge . . .

  Edwards was “not to be discounted,” I wrote, because of his strong populist appeal in Iowa and his experience as a presidential and vice-presidential candidate. Having left the Senate soon after his run in 2004, he, too, would offer himself as an “outsider.” Nonetheless, Edwards still had a gravitas problem.

  In our discussions, the candidate about whom Obama was most wary was not a Democrat, but McCain. Barack had watched McCain’s spirited, insurgent “Straight Talk Express” primary challenge to Bush in 2000, during which the Arizona senator had shown significant appeal to independent voters. He was not afraid to buck party orthodoxy, most notably taking on moneyed interests through campaign finance reform measures. He had opposed the Bush tax cuts, which he argued skewed toward the rich and, later, because they were irresponsible in a time of war. The crusty, cantankerous former POW had shown political courage, and if any Republican could escape the stigma of Bush and offer a promise of change, it would be McCain. In his desire to be the nominee, however, McCain had begun to trim his sails, risking his maverick brand.

  The GOP hierarchy, which almost always gets its man, seems resigned to McCain. But his nomination won’t come without a fight or a cost.

  He remains anathema to many activists within the party, from the Religious Right, which is deeply suspicious of his secular politics, to the tax cut purists to K Street. He knows he will have a fight, and this has caused him to make a series of Faustian bargains with the Right. From the dalliance with Jerry Falwell to his embrace of the anti-immigration panderers and gay marriage militants . . . McCain’s Straight Talk Express has taken many awkward detours. It will be interesting to see how the irascible Senator, who prides himself on his image of courageous principle, reacts when he’s challenged on this down the line.

  And at the age of 73, he also will have a problem presenting himself as the candidate of the future.

  McCain is formidable, to be sure. But he is not unbeatable.

  Finally, I dealt with two issues that related to Obama himself: timing and temperament.

  I strongly rejected the counsel of those advising Barack to wait and get some “seasoning” in the Senate before running for the presidency. I pointed out that the most common mistake made by other hopefuls in the past was passing on opportunities—waiting too long rather than running too soon.

  You will never be hotter than you are right now. And with the longevity favored by the Washington establishment comes all the baggage. You could wind up calcified in the Senate, with a voting record that hangs from your neck like the anchor from the Lusitania.

  For all the virtues and excitement of running for president, I warned,

  it also is a relentless, bone-wearying, pressure-filled, degrading and often miserable gauntlet, in which you will be challenged and tested, p
oked and prodded. Every statement and proposal will be parsed and matched against past votes and pronouncements for inconsistencies. You will be locked in a constant game of Gotcha with a press corps, egged on by your opponents, who will see their role as challengers of the Obama Icon they helped create.

  I continued:

  At the risk of triggering the very reaction that concerns me, I don’t know if you are Muhammad Ali or Floyd Patterson when it comes to taking a punch.

  You care far too much what is written and said about you. You don’t relish the combat when it becomes personal and nasty. When the largely irrelevant Alan Keyes attacked you, you flinched.

  It had to be said. Neither Obama nor any of us knew how he would react to the intense, sometimes absurd scrutiny presidential contenders—and, even worse, their families—get. It is part of the test, and there is no way to simulate the pressures of it, or predict how any candidate, particularly a newcomer like Obama, would handle it. He needed to think about whether he was willing to commit himself to a regimen of irritation and worse.

  Plouffe had been doing prodigious work assessing the challenges and logistics of such an ambitious start-up, and his managerial chops were something of a revelation to me. While he was a splendid partner and brilliant counselor, he generally deferred to me as the firm’s senior partner on strategic and management issues. So when Rouse first suggested David as the manager, I was hesitant. He was an operational wizard, I thought, but could he take command? “I just don’t know if he’s a number one guy,” I said, proposing that Rouse play the manager’s role, with David as his deputy. Yet Rouse, a career government hand still smarting from Daschle’s loss, had no interest in managing a campaign. He knew Plouffe from his stint as head of the DCCC, and thought he was right for the job. Maybe I simply hadn’t seen Plouffe in that role. I asked Del Cecato, who had worked for him at the DCCC. “Are you kidding?” he replied, stunned by the question. “Plouffe’s a brilliant manager. Best I’ve ever seen.”