Common Ground

by Justin Trudeau

  A week or so into the new year, Jean Lapierre announced that he would be stepping down immediately, and therefore there would be a by-election in Outremont. Perfect, I thought, somewhat naively. It’ll be a tough fight with lots of attention, and we’ll really show that the Liberal Party is serious about generational change.

  Within days, however, the level of internal Liberal intrigue around the riding had escalated from the standard “merely unpleasant” to “outright toxic,” and it was made known that the Outremont riding association vehemently opposed even the rumour of my running there. The leader’s office wasn’t so keen, either. So for me it became a clear no-go.

  I wasn’t as put out as I might have been. Indeed, following my brother’s advice, I had already begun to look around for other suitable Montreal ridings to run in, and two stood out clearly: Papineau, farther north and east, around Parc Jarry, and Jeanne-Le Ber, south of downtown in Verdun. Both were diverse urban ridings with significant economic challenges. Most important, both had been won by the Bloc Québécois the year before, so a win in either would not just be holding a Liberal seat but would be taking a riding back from the sovereigntists. What better way to prove my worth?

  Of the two, Papineau just felt right. I already knew well the great range of ethnic restaurants in Parc-Extension, had been to friends’ weddings in the Orthodox churches, had enjoyed memorable sunny days in Parc Jarry and, like many Montrealers, had shopped for curtains along Saint-Hubert. Walk the length of the riding along Rue Jean-Talon and in addition to French you’ll hear English, Greek, Punjabi, Bengali, Tamil, Urdu, Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, Creole, Vietnamese, and Italian. I could keep up my world travels simply by crisscrossing the riding!

  On the cusp of Montreal’s east end and near the geographic centre of the island, Papineau borders Outremont to the south and my father’s old riding of Mount Royal to the west. At just nine square kilometres, Papineau covers the smallest area of any federal riding in Canada. According to the 2006 census, it had the lowest average family income of any constituency in Canada, and although it has as wide a range of language and ethnic representation as you could expect to find anywhere in the country, it is also solidly and indubitably francophone first. Although Liberal for many decades, Papineau had fallen to the Bloc Québécois in 2006, when a Haitian-born star candidate named Vivian Barbot defeated Liberal foreign affairs minister Pierre Pettigrew in a close race.

  It was the ideal setting to prove my electability. Papineau was just the sort of vibrant, multicultural riding the Liberals needed to win if they were going to become competitive in major urban centres in the next election. It had the francophones that Liberals would need to win over to regain Quebec. And its compact size suited an energetic, shoe-leather candidate willing to knock on doors from one end of the riding to the other.

  But then Dion’s people indicated to me that Papineau was not right for me either, as they had earmarked it for an “ethnic” candidate. Clearly trying to dissuade me, they told me that it was going to be an open nomination, which suggested to me that they thought it unlikely I could win a contested nomination race.

  It soon became clear that Dion’s team was leaning toward the locally beloved Mary Deros, who had represented Parc-Extension on city council since the late 1990s. I suspected they saw me as someone who wouldn’t be willing to put in the elbow grease it would take to win such a challenging riding.

  None of the obstacles in Papineau discouraged me. On the contrary, I considered it an excellent opportunity to prove myself in a difficult situation. I didn’t want a cakewalk. I wanted a serious test of my political abilities.

  But as much as winning the nomination was going to be about my individual political abilities, I knew that I needed to show from the start that I was a team player. Loyalty and respect for the leader was something I believed in deeply; indeed, I believed it was key to the party’s regaining the respect of Canadians. So when, one morning in late February 2007, I heard that a rumour was beginning to circulate about my interest in Papineau, I immediately asked Dion’s team for guidance on how to handle it. I knew that it was just a matter of time before a reporter asked me directly, and it would be big news when I confirmed, so I felt a need to coordinate with Liberal Party communications.

  The answer I received was straightforward, and somewhat dismissive: answer journalists’ questions however I chose. Furthermore, they gave me the distinct sense that I was a bit full of myself for contacting them about such a piddling matter. I sighed. I obviously had much to learn about politics.

  Within hours, a Radio-Canada reporter called me at home to find out if, indeed, I was planning to run in Papineau. When I said that I was, she asked if they could interview me on camera. I said fine, but it would have to be at the airport, as I was on my way out west for an avalanche safety event.

  When I arrived at the terminal, a number of cameras had gathered from various outlets, and I gave a quick press conference. I then boarded my flight for Vancouver, feeling that all had gone quite well.

  When the press followed up with Stéphane Dion, he confirmed my decision, told reporters he admired my courage, and proclaimed that I was proving I wasn’t taking “the easy way” toward election as an MP.

  But by that evening, his people were livid. Mr. Dion had been in Montreal the same day, delivering a major speech on terrorism, which the media barely touched on. The news was all about my decision to run. Over the next days, many senior Liberals accused me publicly of deliberately upstaging Mr. Dion just as he was trying to get his footing as the party’s new leader.

  It was for me a tough but illuminating introduction to the internal workings of the Liberal Party of Canada, where infighting, personal agendas, and lack of coherence were the norm.

  But far from turning me off from the hard work that lay ahead, it had simply whetted my appetite. Bring it on, I thought. This is gonna be fun.

  Chapter Six

  Papineau: Politics from

  the Ground Up

  My career as a politician began in a parking lot. A grocery store parking lot, to be precise, directly across the street from a shawarma restaurant and a barbershop. The cameras and reporters who had come rushing to the airport to breathlessly relay that I planned to seek the Liberal nomination in Papineau were nowhere to be seen. Now it was just me with a clipboard, approaching strangers to ask if they would pay ten dollars to purchase a Liberal Party membership. Welcome, I thought, to the glamorous world of Canadian politics.

  This wasn’t the actual election campaign. It was the opening days of the nomination battle to choose the candidate who would carry the Liberal banner in Papineau once the election was called. I was in the fight armed with limited money, barely any retail-politics experience, a couple of friends as volunteers, and a staff of one, who happened to be my wife. Sophie was full of enthusiasm and support for me, helping plan the approach and joining me on the ground from time to time, both of us learning the ropes together.

  Most Canadians are unaware of the clashes that can occur during the party nomination process at the constituency level. It’s behind-the-scenes stuff that remains hidden compared with all the hoopla generated when an election is in full swing. In some cases these contests are bypassed when incumbents and high-profile challengers win their nominations unopposed. But for would-be candidates involved in a battle to secure nomination votes from party members, it can be a gruelling contest. It begins with each candidate recruiting as many members as possible in advance of the nomination meeting, then inducing these members to show up at a community hall, school, or arena on nomination day to cast their vote. It may sound like drudgery. But I loved it.

  After experiencing the drama and manoeuvring of the 2006 Liberal leadership convention, this brand of up-close-and-personal politicking quickened my pulse. I’m a social being by nature. I’m also someone who enjoys physical activity, which campaigning in Papineau required in large degree. Walki
ng the streets of the riding from dawn till dusk to sign up members was enormously appealing to me, and I could hardly wait to get started each day. I understand the importance of working the phones, but all things considered, when it comes to campaigning I prefer to wear out a pair of shoes, meeting people and getting things done at street level.

  The work was rewarding for another reason. The grassroots of the Liberal Party had shrivelled through a combination of hubris, overconfidence, and neglect. In many regions of Canada, some Liberal candidates didn’t even bother to walk the neighbourhoods and knock on doors; they considered the Liberal Party more of a brand than an expression of political vision. This attitude was at the core of our reduced support. We needed to move beyond that kind of thinking. We needed to remind voters of the values and philosophy behind Liberal Red. More important, we needed Canadians to remind us of their hopes and expectations for their community and country. That may sound like an obvious thing, but it’s amazing how often and how easily people in politics forget it.

  It is often said that politics is a “contact sport,” by which people mean it is rough business. That’s true. It is not for the faint of heart or thin of skin. But I think of it in another way: politics is a tactile business. You need to spend time, real time, with the people you seek to represent: in coffee shops, around kitchen tables, at backyard barbecues. You have to listen, and absorb the views and values of your community. You have to work at it. I wanted to instill this as a core ethic over the course of my campaign in Papineau, both for its own sake and because the Liberal Party needed this kind of rejuvenation. Badly. As a rookie candidate, I couldn’t do much about this nationally, but I could locally, and I set out to get it done with a direct, vigorous, and personal way of delivering the message. I knew this was the right way to do things.

  I knew this approach would be particularly important in my home province of Quebec. The sponsorship scandal and consequent Gomery Commission had painted a gruesome picture of the Liberal Party for my fellow Quebecers, and it stung. Perhaps the main reason I had supported Gerard Kennedy in the 2006 leadership campaign was that, as an outsider to federal politics, he seemed to understand just how disconnected and imperilled the party had become. The party’s basic integrity had been called into question, and I was convinced that the only way to fix that was the old-fashioned way: look people straight in the eye, listen to them, and tell them the truth.

  Of course, enthusiasm and good intentions can take you only so far. In Papineau, they had brought me as far as this grocery store parking lot. The experience stood in stark contrast to being on the floor at the leadership convention elbow to elbow with several hundred Liberals. Many of them had been supporting candidates other than my own, but we all shared the same party identity and ultimately the same goal. On the streets of Papineau, I could never assume anyone’s politics. In fact, I could never assume they would respond to my greeting and invitation with anything more encouraging than a quick smile and a shake of the head.

  Whenever I could persuade someone to stop and discuss things with me, I would talk about my concerns about Stephen Harper’s approach to leadership and the way his party was running the country. I would explain the ideas on education, youth involvement, volunteerism, and the environment that I had developed during my years as a teacher and as chair of Katimavik.

  Most important, I did a lot of listening. The only real way to expand my understanding of the issues voters were facing was by asking them what concerned them and listening carefully to their answers. I heard parents tell me how hard it was for their children to land jobs, I heard immigrants describe the difficulties they were having securing visas for visiting relatives, and I heard about the economic challenges that many of the residents faced day to day. Their debts were growing but their incomes weren’t. Many of the shoppers emerging from that grocery store could barely afford the food to feed their families.

  I also learned about some of the concerns that some residents had about the changing nature of the riding. Greek and Italian immigrant communities in Papineau were well established and accounted for much of the area’s vitality. The influx of new arrivals from other nations was leading to a blossoming of ethnic restaurants, festivals, and community centres, which elevated Papineau’s overall liveliness. Many long-time residents, however, told me they worried about friends and neighbours being crowded out by the newcomers.

  The range of cultural viewpoints constantly amazed me. Some residents reminded me that Villeray, the increasingly Latino neighbourhood at the heart of Papineau, traced its roots back to French-Canadian farmers and quarry labourers who first worked the land in the days of horse and buggy. Greeks in Papineau’s Parc-Extension neighbourhood were watching their children and grandchildren move to distant off-Island suburbs, while their houses were being bought by immigrants from South Asia, and in the traditionally Italian Saint-Michel neighbourhood, newcomers from Haiti and North Africa were moving in. Added to this mix were the job challenges, not just for newcomers but for young people as well. Communities all across Canada have been similarly transformed in recent decades, but Papineau’s multicultural mosaic was far more complicated than most. I loved the vivacity of the riding, but grew concerned about the tensions developing.

  I was battling two other candidates for the Liberal nomination in Papineau: the party leadership’s preferred choice, Mary Deros, and Italian-language newspaper publisher Basilio Giordano, who also had the backing of influential Liberals. Both had well-organized political machines that successfully recruited large groups of members by working with local community leaders. Lacking those kinds of connections, I had to work at bringing in members by ones and twos while my competitors corralled them by the dozens.

  To make matters more difficult, the president of the Quebec wing of the Liberal Party announced to French media that I had no business becoming a candidate, as I had nothing to offer. And it was not just the Liberal establishment that wrote me off before I even started: political pundits and columnists announced to the world that I had shown already that I was out of my depth by picking a riding in which I had no chance of winning even the nomination, let alone an election against a star like the Bloc Québécois’s Barbot. My inevitable failure, they explained, proved that I was young, foolish, and obviously not half the politician my father had been.

  Indeed, the math didn’t seem to be pointing in my favour, and with two months to go before the nomination meeting, it became clear that I needed help. It arrived in mid-March when a dear friend, Reine Hébert, agreed to join our two-person team. Reine was a veteran Quebec-based political campaigner who had worked with the federal Liberal Party since my father’s era. I also recruited Franco Iacono as my campaign director, and together they helped maximize my exposure to Papineau residents. With their help, I managed to track all the one-time Liberals in the riding who had let their memberships lapse. We visited them at their homes and encouraged them to rejoin the party, and though a few weren’t interested, many liked what I had to say and came aboard. By April 29 we had sold almost twelve hundred Liberal Party membership cards, about the same number as the other two candidates. It was still anybody’s race. The winner on nomination night, it became clear, would be the candidate whose speech won over enough of the members who had been recruited by the other two nominees.

  As the meeting date approached, I grew increasingly optimistic. At the end of April, I started to win over some critics, largely because they recognized the sheer doggedness with which I worked the riding. I also believe I had better insight than my competitors into the changing nature of politics and media. When a local blogger asked each candidate a series of questions about poverty, identity politics, immigration, and other issues, I responded with lengthy, personal replies that drew on my experiences in the riding. The other candidates chose not to respond to him at all, presumably assuming that few voters bother to read political blogs. But even in 2007, I knew that the Internet was becoming a crit
ical tool for expanding a political party’s outreach, especially to younger supporters.

  To my delight the blogger, who had been telling his readers I was destined for failure, gave me a respectful nod on his website for taking the time to answer his questions. This was a small thing—I doubt that it swayed more than a handful of votes—but it reinforced my belief that today’s activists and supporters expect and deserve direct engagement through the digital media.

  The nomination meeting was held at Collège André-Grasset, just across the riding boundary. Despite the unpredictability of the outcome, I felt calm when I entered the auditorium, comforted by the presence of the people I loved most in my life. My mother was there with Sophie, and my brother arrived carrying his four-month-old son, Pierre. Sacha was busy with his young family and his career as a documentary filmmaker, so I greatly valued his support.

  From the beginning I had been identified as the underdog in the race, and this helped relieve some pressure on me. I had entered a tightly contested race against two experienced candidates. If I made it to the second round of balloting, many observers predicted that the Deros and Giordano supporters would combine forces to defeat me, which seemed likely. This was, after all, the hard-knocks school of politics. I wanted to win, but under the circumstances there would be no shame in losing.

  Looking out over the crowd that evening, I was struck again by how different I was from my father when it came to this kind of thing. He hadn’t spent a lot of time hanging around grocery store parking lots meeting voters or fighting nomination battles in school auditoriums. Of course, politics was different in his day. Back then, high-profile candidates were drawn from elites such as bankers and lawyers. They earned the confidence of voters through their stature in the community, with a perspective extending far beyond their own riding to encompass all of Canada. My father suited that description perfectly. He thought of himself primarily as someone who represented Canadians and their values in a broad national sense, as opposed to representing one riding. He was a good MP, and the issues he fought for were consistent with the interests of the voters in his riding of Mount Royal. But he didn’t aspire to have the personal connection with voters that I was determined to forge on the streets of Papineau.