Leadership and Crisis

by Bobby Jindal

  Speaking of odd, try asking all your friends, family members, pretty much everyone you have ever met, and thousands of total strangers for money. Now that’s a real blast. I’ve heard a few candidates actually enjoy fundraising, but I don’t want to meet them.

  Governor Foster was immensely helpful on this front—his loyal contributors got my campaign off the ground. But after that, I had to sink or swim on my own. I decided to swim—but it wasn’t easy.

  Every year we see some wealthy folks get trounced in elections. In fact, in my successful race for the governorship in 2007 I beat two gentlemen who each spent more than $10 million of their own fortunes on the race. But while money does not guarantee victory, the lack of money does guarantee defeat. I was determined not to let this happen to me. So I steeled my resolve and despite my personal discomfort, I began asking folks to invest in my candidacy.

  Our fundraising was incredibly amateurish at first, but we occasionally had some pleasant surprises. One of my first fundraisers was held at my in-laws’ house. After I gave my speech, my first question was from a fairly liberal woman, a medical doctor, who asked me my position on abortion. I told her I was pro-life and we exchanged views. I remember thinking I was going to have to return all the money I had raised even before I started! But amazingly, she became a financial supporter despite our differences over abortion. It turns out she already knew I was pro-life; she just wanted to see if I would be honest about my position or if I would waffle in order to get her money.

  A wealthy Florida doctor held another memorable fundraiser for us. He spent a lot of money to throw a fancy party at his beautiful estate ... and one person showed up. So I decided not to give a speech. To make matters worse, I was scheduled to spend the night at his house. I don’t know if I’ve ever been in a more awkward situation.

  Our campaign would go anywhere to raise money. My dentist even hosted a fundraiser for me, which turned out to be a neighborhood crawfish boil that yielded zero dollars and zero cents.

  For the first month of my campaign I was convinced the post office was inept. So many folks had told me they were sending a check, but we never seemed to receive them. You hear so many stories of corruption in politics, stories of people trying to buy candidates, particularly in Louisiana. That was no problem for my campaign, I can assure you; when folks don’t think you can win, they don’t bother trying to buy you off.

  I learned three things about raising money in that first campaign. First, if your friends won’t give, you have no chance. Luckily, my friends were generous. Second, forget all that nonsense about finding one big donor who will open the doors for you. It doesn’t work that way, you have to do it yourself. Third, you have to ask for support if you want to win. If you don’t believe in your ideas enough to ask for money, you should not run.

  In fundraising you are asking people to commit an unnatural act—to give away their money. And not to a charity either; donors get no tax deduction. You are asking them to believe that your candidacy matters, that you can win, and that after you do win you will make their community a better place.

  Our campaign had many first time donors who had never been involved in politics. We adopted a cardinal rule that was a little radical in Louisiana politics—you cannot give to my campaign if you want something in return. All you are going to get back is honest, competent government. Oh, one more thing, we had pledged radical ethics reforms to root out corruption in politics in Louisiana. Anyone who opposed that was encouraged to give to someone else. Many did.

  When the dust cleared on primary night in 2003, I had come in first with 33 percent of the vote, a full 15 percent ahead of the second place challenger, Lieutenant Governor Kathleen Blanco, a Democrat. It’s hard to pinpoint the reason for my victory. I think it was a combination of hard work, discipline, people power, and the power of ideas. One of the greatest things about our country is the simple fact that Americans are dreamers, we want to improve our lot in life, and we are forever optimistic that we can accomplish anything we set our minds to.

  Our campaign had many volunteers, and even though we didn’t organize them well, they carried us a long way. How did we develop this kind of people power? It was simple, really: voters will rally behind good ideas. They will give their time, talents, and resources if they have a cause worth fighting for.

  Everyone associated with my campaign was thrilled by the primary result except one person—my dad. He was disappointed we didn’t get more than 50 percent and win the whole shootin’ match that night. We had just shocked the nation, but that didn’t satisfy my dad. There’s a story, I don’t know if it’s true, that when a young Bobby Kennedy told his dad he wanted to be a Catholic priest, his dad replied, “Well, that’s great. We’ve never had a pope in the family before.” That’s exactly my dad.

  But the Republican establishment wasn’t disappointed at all. One thing about Washington political hacks—they are flexible. The day after we won the primary, I was suddenly the White House staff’s new best friend.

  Still, the election wasn’t over. My advisors had warned me we did not want a runoff with the perfectly positioned Kathleen Blanco—she didn’t have a controversial record to defend, she seemed non-threatening, and she could attract bipartisan support as a Democrat campaigning as a cultural conservative. She was widely known and I was not. She was likeable—everyone’s aunt or grandma, and I was some new young guy who talked too fast and didn’t look like he was “from around here.”

  At the very end of the campaign, Blanco went on the attack, running a TV ad that featured a voice shouting, “Wake up, Louisiana!” Displaying an unflattering picture of me, the ad warned that people were in danger of electing some guy no one really knew. The ad played to Blanco’s strengths as a safe, status quo candidate, which was a good place to be at the time, pre-Katrina. In the end she beat us, 52 to 48 percent.

  I am a competitive person, and I hate losing, at anything, ever. But I immediately accepted the defeat and decided to move on. I’ve seen losing candidates nurse grudges for years, and I really didn’t want to go that route. Not enough people knew me, I figured, so I’d have to change that before my next run for public office.

  My family, friends, and staff were devastated on election night. But it was a chance to prove my mettle, to be strong in a tough situation. And as I looked around the room, it was clear no one else was going to do it. As we walked onto the elevator to go down to the ballroom and make the concession speech, I told everyone, “No tears on the elevator.” I felt we’d fought hard and had no reason to be ashamed. And I didn’t want to hear any excuses either. My dad always taught us that life isn’t fair, so quit expecting it to be; when you encounter a setback, just work harder and do better next time. Make your own breaks in life.

  I’m not interested in looking backward. Being a leader in the good times is easy, but leadership is tested in times of adversity. I decided to be relentlessly positive. Make no mistake, this was a conscious decision—it never comes naturally in that kind of situation. Such is the human condition, where the natural instinct is to blame others and consider yourself a victim.

  One of my advisors suggested I subtly blame the consultants, the staff, and even advisors like him. His exact words were, “You should just throw us overboard.” I felt like snapping at him, “Do you guys not know anything about me?” President Truman had it right: the buck stops here.

  Many observers have claimed I lost because of my Indian ethnicity. It’s an easy narrative that fits various stereotypes, but I reject it completely. The people of Louisiana have always been completely fair to me—kind, generous, and just plain decent. During and after Hurricane Katrina, the whole world saw what Louisianians are really made of. When the government failed, individuals, families, churches, and businesses put everything on the line to help their neighbors—with zero regard for race or creed.

  Not only do I refuse to offer excuses, I’m not real good at hearing them either. I always tell my staff not to bring problems t
o me. Don’t simply try to kick your problems upstairs. Bring me solutions, and we will get them done. That’s what my dad would do.

  I had suffered a tough loss, but I put it behind me. I knew there were other opportunities to serve my state, and I found one pretty quickly. For better or worse, I joined the U.S. Congress.

  CHAPTER 6

  CESSPOOL OR HOT TUb?

  Harry Truman famously derided the “do-nothing Congress” of his time. Well, based on my time in Congress and its actions during the first couple years of the Obama administration, I’m all in favor of a do-nothing Congress. If Truman were alive today, I expect he’d long for the “good old days” when Congress had a measure of self-restraint.

  A year after I lost the governor’s race, I was elected to the first of two terms in the U.S. House of Representatives. In Washington, I witnessed first-hand how America is governed by a bipartisan, permanent political class that feels entitled to special status, influence, and power. We have to break the back of this elite clique by returning Congress to the role our Founding Fathers intended for it.

  When I first arrived in Congress, I got a fair amount of attention because, well, I looked a little different than your average congressman. I was easy to spot, so several hundred members and aides would greet me with “Good morning, Bobby,” or “Good morning, Congressman Jindal,” while I still hadn’t learned their names. (My idea for requiring congressmen to wear nametags never gained traction.) After I had been in Congress for several months, a good friend asked me, “Have you seen my friend, Congressman such-and-such?”

  “White guy, mid-fifties?” I asked.

  “Yep,” my friend said.

  “Balding, slightly pudgy?”

  “Yes, that’s him. When did you see him?”

  “Only several hundred times,” I said.

  What’s important in Congress, though, is not how its members look, but how they think and act—many have an unbounded sense of entitlement that I noticed as soon as I arrived in Washington in January 2005, just before President Bush’s inauguration speech on the steps of the U.S. Capitol. While a huge crowd stood on the Mall for hours in the freezing cold, members of Congress went from their offices through a heated tunnel, then to their reserved seats up front. We were told to wear special “Member of Congress” pins on our lapels so the Capitol Police and Secret Service would know who we were. Walking in front of me was a veteran congressman who was not wearing his pin.

  “Sorry sir, you can’t go in here,” a security official told him.

  He threw an absolute fit, screaming, “Don’t you know who I am?!”

  Another officer recognized him and quickly came over to smooth things out. “Sorry,” he said, “We didn’t recognize you.”

  The congressman snapped back, “Well, it’s your job to recognize us!”

  These security officials were trying to protect us, and this congressman was treating them rudely. And it never seemed to bother him that while he was sitting comfortably up front, his constituents were literally out in the freezing cold, waiting in line for a turn in a Port-a-Potty.

  Members of Congress receive all sorts of perks that reinforce this attitude of privilege and arrogance: special elevators, reserved parking spaces, dining rooms, etc. It’s well-known on Capitol Hill that members of Congress can often get out of traffic stops simply by flashing their congressional I.D. I also remember one White House meeting when a senator threw a childish tantrum—and even threatened to oppose us on a key healthcare vote—just because the senator was not seated at the same table as the president. We rearranged the chairs and got the vote.

  To be clear, not all members of Congress get caught up in this culture of privilege, but many do. Based on my three years in Congress, I can tell you that as a group, congressmen are not smarter than ordinary Americans, nor do they have unique insights or capabilities. A senator once told me a lot of the state legislators in his state would probably need public assistance if they weren’t in politics. The same holds true for more than a few members of Congress. As they say, dumb people need representation too ... and they surely have it in Washington.

  Although congressmen are anxious to regulate more and more of the economy, you wouldn’t want many of them running your business. As George McGovern admitted after he left the Senate, started a business, and went bankrupt, “I wish I had known a little more about the problems of the private sector.... I have to pay taxes, meet a payroll—I wish I had a better sense of what it took to do that when I was in Washington.”1 And he was the Democratic Party’s nominee for president! Likewise, in announcing his decision in 2010 to retire from the Senate, Indiana’s Evan Bayh explained, “If I could create one job in the private sector by helping to grow a business, that would be one more than Congress has created in the last six months.” This was a rare moment of clarity from Washington.2

  Still, for all its faults, Congress does have some capable, intelligent legislators. It’s like that old Clint Eastwood movie, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. There are some brilliant folks, and there are some that couldn’t pass a CAT scan. Some have impeccable integrity, and others will end up in jail. Some display great humility, and others are supremely arrogant.

  Nevertheless, Americans don’t have a high opinion of Congress right now. Polls show that only 21 percent of Americans believe Congress is doing a good job. (I want to know who those 21 percent are and find out what’s wrong with them.) When it comes to ethics and morality, studies show Americans rank congressmen barely above car salesmen. (An unfair comparison, in my book—at least most states have lemon laws to protect you from dishonest car salesmen.)

  Believing they’re unpopular because Americans just don’t understand the great job they’re doing, congressmen send out more letters, fight for more pork and earmarks, and make more TV appearances. But the American people dislike congressmen precisely because they know what they’re doing—they’re spending our country into oblivion.

  Congress has lost touch with the people they are supposed to serve. Many members are influenced far more by Washington than by their constituents back home. A city full of government employees, lobbyists, and government supplicants views the world differently from the rest of us. When congressmen do return home, it’s for brief, campaign-style appearances. They don’t have time for meaningful contact with regular citizens to learn about their everyday challenges. Before arriving in Washington, I decided to skip the reception and party scene, the sort of insider socializing that comes with being a congressman. As a wise old Washington hand once said, when you first get to Washington, it’s a cesspool. But if you stay long enough, it becomes a hot tub. Well, there are plenty of people, both Democrats and Republicans, who have been soaking for too long.

  In Congress, you have to resist a lot of suck-ups. You’re constantly flattered by endless numbers of people—staff, lobbyists, other members of Congress, bureaucrats, media figures, and others—all of whom ultimately want something from you. Eventually, many members of Congress start spending more time with these ego-strokers, and less time with their family and friends who are still willing to speak to them honestly. And that’s how they begin to lose touch with the real world.

  I had to work hard to stay grounded in reality. My brother Nikesh is a lawyer in Washington, so I would crash at his place. His furnishings rightly belonged in a dorm room and the dinners were mostly microwaved, but it was all I needed. I also took every opportunity to fly to Louisiana to see Supriya and the kids. She made sure I didn’t take myself too seriously. “I don’t care if you’re a congressman,” she would tell me. “Go change your child’s diaper.” (When they need changing, they are always my children.) “And take out the trash while you’re at it.”

  Congressmen tend to be insulated from the real world by their staffers, who often really run the show. Staffers are writing increasingly complex bills that members usually don’t even read. The first federal highway act in 1956, which started our national highway system, was less than
one-tenth the length of most highway funding bills passed these days.3 Former vice president and Minnesota senator Walter Mondale once recalled about his Senate staff, “I felt sorry for them, so I would try to work with them. Pretty soon I was working for them.”4

  Some people think members of Congress are lazy. In truth, they work long hours, but too many of them frequently place their own political interests ahead of their constituents. Congress engages in a lot of political showmanship, especially in committee meetings, which often amount to political actors reciting well-rehearsed scripts for the cameras. As Arizona Senator John McCain once put it, “Washington is Hollywood for ugly people.” And as C-SPAN watchers can testify, this ain’t Hollywood.

  In committees, congressmen ask witnesses “questions” by giving twenty-minute speeches. The witnesses are there to make a point, but you’ll rarely see anyone change his mind. To attract media attention, celebrities are often invited to testify, regardless of their actual knowledge of the topic.

  Floor “debates” are run in a similar way, with legislators typically talking to an empty chamber. Each side talks past the other, and speakers often refuse to yield for questions because, well, that would cut into their time in front of the microphone and the cameras.

  It became obvious to me that the hearings and house floor proceedings people see on C-SPAN are more orchestrated theater than true debates that people care about. I quickly realized the most productive use of committee meetings was to catch up on some reading or send out emails on my Blackberry. Some members, I kid you not, would just sleep right through the meetings.