On January 13, 1972, Daddy announced he was running for president as a Democrat, joining a crowded field of eleven other candidates. It was the kind of mash-up that Daddy enjoyed. Divide and conquer was his specialty. As his new and improved campaign geared up, his fundraising numbers were impressive, the campaign staff was experienced, and Daddy’s appearance and dress were overhauled, Southern-style.
Light-colored double-knit suits were lucky to have three wearings before the front of the pants legs were pockmarked with melt holes caused by hot ashes from Daddy’s cigar. There was a closetful of replacements. Buckle shoes replaced shoestrings, and wide ties—paisley, of course—eliminated the need for a napkin tuck at mealtimes to help keep his shirt free of splatters.
The Wallace campaign was a juggernaut. On March 14, record numbers of Floridians turned out to vote in the Democratic primary. Not only did Daddy win the primary, he carried every county in the state. Daddy was a viable candidate, and he was on his way to be at least a kingmaker at a brokered convention, perhaps a vice presidential running mate or even a nominee.
While a few political highbrows acknowledged that Daddy might have a chance, others said “this just can’t happen in America.” But tell that to shouting crowds of angry and dispossessed voters, and they would tell you to go to hell. Daddy understood the power of hate and fear and exploited these feelings to gather support.
Daddy’s politics was more than just bombastic style. The establishment and other politicians viewed him as a demagogue. Nobody will buy what he is selling, they declared. Just take a look at him. Take him out of those Alabama backwoods and he’ll be finished. That was a mistake. And forty-eight years later, disaffected voters responded similarly to Trump. They rebelled against the same intellectualism and paternalism that Daddy railed against.
Daddy tapped into a complicated network of political ideals and cultural values. He was aware of the somewhat perverse attitude of the white middle class toward power. He understood that when middle-class whites perceived that the American Dream was no longer within reach, they would become blindly loyal to the person they believed could reclaim it for them. In 1972 and again in 2016, white working-class Americans needed to feel vindicated. No more handouts or political favors to the elites, no illegal immigrants stealing our jobs, stand up when the flag goes by, anger and fear are justified—get real! Stand Up for America. Make America Great Again.
Daddy and Donald Trump would have agreed on at least one thing. While powerless people may sometimes be skeptical of those who have the power, powerful people are the ones they most often worship, accepting their authority without question and teaching their children that respect for authority is a moral absolute. And that is at the heart of the appeal of both “Stand Up for America” and “Make America Great Again.”
Daddy’s strategy of articulating and mobilizing the grievances of the dispossessed would become one of the core strategies of the Trump campaign forty-four years later. It was the politics of rage and fear. It was resentment for no particular reason. It was a tent revival in the dead of summer, slapping mosquitoes and singing “Amazing Grace” while the preacher was fooling around out back.
On March 13, 1972, the New York Times published an article written by the reporter James T. Wooten that focused on the psychological and political culture of the Wallace campaign. Using a Wallace rally the day before in Orlando as the context, Wooten described the essential elements of the brew of patriotism, evangelism, political poetry, imagery, a dash of fear, and a bit of hate that made a George Wallace rally so powerful. The article was entitled “Wallace’s Rallies Blend Evangelism, Music and Salesmanship.”
Mr. Wallace’s Florida campaign, which has consistently outdrawn those of the other 11 candidates, moves by day from one town to the next in cars and campers, station wagons and jet planes—but the thrust of all of its energies is inevitably pointed to The Rally.
These rallies for Governor Wallace, who has forged a career out of Southern segregation and states’ rights, are a mix of old-time rural evangelism, slick country‐music salesmanship and tried and true.
The Baptist preacher is George Mangum, a 38-year-old minister who has a parish near Selma, Ala., and has worked in Wallace campaigns since 1966. His huge shock of gray hair and his deep, booming voice are enough to attract the initial attention of those who attend the Wallace rallies. Throughout the affairs, he raises his hands above his head, whirling them energetically, calling for applause, and the people consistently respond.
The religious emphasis of the campaign was never more clearly characterized than in the opening prayer at last night’s rally here. “May every head be bowed as we begin a spiritual conversation with our God about some of the political problems in our country,” the Rev. John Book, also a Baptist clergyman, prayed. “We give you thanksgiving, O Lord, for men of courage like George Wallace.”
GRAMMER ON GUITAR
From the prayer, the rally moves quickly to the music of Billy Grammer, a veteran country music star from the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville who is a fixture on the Wallace campaign trail this year. Although he is frequently joined on the stage by other stars, such as Hank Snow, Ferlin Husky, and Grandpa Jones, it is Mr. Grammer whose skill with the guitar and whose broad repertoire of country songs pleases the people night after night. Like many of the other country musicians who have appeared at Wallace rallies, Mr. Grammer seems committed to the Wallace campaign. “I don’t mind anybody knowing how I feel,” the 46-year-old native of Southern Illinois told the crowd last night. “I think a whole lot of things are basically wrong with this country and I think that a lot of them can be cured by a good Christian man like George Wallace being in the White House.”
The rural-church emphasis continues into the middle portion of the rally when Mr. Mangum begins his appeal for campaign funds. As he speaks, young girls with plastic buckets circulate throughout the audience accepting anonymous donations, and when the collection is finished Mr. Mangum continues to exhort the people to sign fundraising petitions.
Meanwhile, in the lobby at every stop, a team of Wallace staff men hawk various souvenirs of the campaign including bumper stickers, lapel pins, and a caricature watch.
It is not known how much money is collected at these rallies. The Wallace campaign has been asked to provide that information but has not.
The people who come to Wallace rallies seem to share a complete disaffection with government at all levels. They are white, blue-collar families. They are old, and they are young, and throughout the evening they show little hesitance about expressing the anger they feel toward the “bureaucrats, hypocrites and uninterested politicians” whom Mr. Wallace castigates in his speech.
“Give it to them, George,” they frequently yell. “That’s right, George,” comes the call. “We love George,” another woman screams.
On the stage, amid the clutter and disarray of camera and sound equipment, four Alabama state troopers stand stolidly at either end, peering intently into the crowd. Their watch seems unnecessary, for throughout the campaign Mr. Wallace has spoken only to sympathetic audiences and has been interrupted three times by hecklers, who were quickly silenced and soon left.
When the speech is finished, Mr. Wallace moves, rather hesitantly at first, to the edge of the stage where the people often flock, their hands raised and stretched toward the candidate.
CUFFLINKS DISAPPEAR
“Glad to see you, glad to see you,” he chants as he moves down the chain of hands, a state trooper moving behind him and holding to his belt. As is the case with many other politicians, cufflinks are often missing after the round of handshakes.
“It seems to me that these rallies ought to tell this country and you newsmen in particular something important,” Mr. Wallace said last week. “If I’m getting all these people out every night, and the other candidates are having to struggle to draw a crowd at all, doesn’t that say something about the truth of what I’m telling these folks?”
Wh
ether that thesis is true or not, The Rally is indeed important to Mr. Wallace. It seems to underscore the confidence that he and his supporters have in the outcome of Tuesday’s voting.
“If he doesn’t win,” a middle‐aged woman wearing at least 17 Wallace buttons across her bodice said last night after The Rally, “there’s not a cow in Texas.”
“Your daddy is back in the dining room eating his breakfast,” Mary, the cook, said as I walked through the mansion’s back door and stepped into the restaurant-sized kitchen. “What you want to eat this morning?” she asked.
“The usual,” I replied.
“You traveling with your daddy today, or do you have school?”
“School,” I replied. “Mondays are one of my long days. My last class doesn’t start until four.”
“Well, today is May 15. At least you don’t have much more time before you get through. Go on in there and sit with your daddy. I’ll bring your breakfast right out.”
After eating, I gave Daddy a kiss on my way out of the dining room. “What time will y’all be home?” I asked.
“Won’t be late,” he replied. “They’re already saying we are going to win Maryland and Michigan tomorrow.”
Daddy looked at his watch and rang the buzzer for the kitchen. “Go tell Cornelia I’m leaving in a few minutes with or without her.”
“You have a good day, be careful on that road,” Mary said as I passed back through the kitchen. “You want a little something to take with you for a snack?’
“I’m fine,” I replied.
“Well, I’ll have something real nice for supper tonight when all y’all get back home.”
Daddy’s car was parked close by, with the engine running. “Have a safe trip,” I said to the driver as I walked down the back steps of the mansion.
“We will,” he replied. “You have a good day. It’s supposed to be beautiful weather all the way up and back.”
I was standing in the front room of the guesthouse when I heard the kitchen door open.
“Let’s go,” Daddy said.
I could hear the sound of his footsteps as he hurried down the stairs.
19
The Book of Lamentations
The events of our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order … the continuous thread of revelation.
—Eudora Welty
I glanced at my watch. I was going to be early for my three o’clock class. I stood by the window on the second floor of the education building, not far from my classroom door. I was thinking about what I was going to wear the following day for the election returns rally in Montgomery. No doubt Daddy’s grumbling attitude about his quick trip would turn to immodest smiles if he won the primaries in Maryland and Michigan the following day.
“I’m surprised to see you here!” said one of my classmates, walking toward me.
“I got here early,” I replied.
Her eyes grew wide as she lifted her hand to her mouth. “You don’t know, do you?” Her face was pale, and her voice sounded breathless as if she had been running.
An overwhelming sense of clarity seemed to surround me. I was hyperaware of the way the sunlight was coming through a window, the distant sound of a truck straining as it climbed a hill, a door slamming followed by a fever of loud voices.
“Know what?”
“Your daddy has been shot.” She began to cry.
Was it relief that I felt? That what I knew was eventually going to happen had in fact had happened? The day Mama had paced when Daddy had made his stand in the schoolhouse door was the first time I had felt fear about his safety, but that fear had been there on and off from that day until the day he was struck down.
A professor ran toward me, gathered me up, and took me to the university president’s office. Ralph Adams and his wife, Dorothy, were both stoic in the face of the news reports on the shooting.
“First Lurleen and now this,” Dorothy said as she took me in her arms. “I have no words to say.” Benita Sanders, a friend of mine, drove me back to Montgomery.
The radio blared in her car as we careened along the road, flashing the lights to make cars move over. Whipping wind from open windows helped keep nausea at bay. The street in front of the mansion was impassable. News trucks with blaring horns scattered people gathering on the sidewalks and in the street. Police cars with flashing lights blocked the mansion gates.
“This is still my house!” I shouted as I opened the passenger door and began to run. “This is still my house!”
Cornelia’s secretary was standing under the portico. She grabbed me by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” she said. “Your daddy is not dead. He is at a hospital in surgery. He is going to pull through this.”
I stared at her with blank eyes.
“There is a plane waiting at the airport. Go get what you need.”
There was little to be said as the plane took off and headed north. Daddy’s physician avoided conjecture about Daddy’s condition. “Let’s just wait until we get there before we jump to any conclusions. He is alive and in good hands. That’s all we need to know right now.”
We had learned that an Alabama state trooper on Daddy’s detail, a Secret Service agent, and a local Wallace supporter were also wounded in the attack. The troopers assigned to Daddy’s detail were like members of our family, and E. C. Dothard was no exception. His wife was on the flight with us.
As we were boarding the plane in Montgomery, Ruby roared into the parking space in front of the aircraft hangar. With an oversized purse in one hand and a small suitcase in the other, Ruby began running toward the plane.
“She is not getting on this plane,” one of Daddy’s security guards said. “How do I close this door?” Even Ruby’s screaming was no match for the mounting noise of the jet’s turbines. “God help us when she does get there,” the trooper said. Even in the midst of agony, we were briefly consumed with laughter.
It was less than six hours between the time I found out about the shooting and our arrival in Maryland. Holy Cross Hospital was bathed in garish light as we approached it by way of a residential street. The front yards of upscale houses had become haphazard parking lots for media trucks and cars. People crowded the streets. Oversized media trucks clawed through the hospital’s front lawn. A statue of the Virgin Mary, bathed in soft light, was surrounded by chaos.
Our cars were besieged when we arrived at the hospital entrance. Even the Secret Service could not keep the cameras at a distance. Cornelia was waiting for us in a private room on the surgical floor. Other than scattered bloodstains on the hem of her yellow dress, there was nothing else to suggest the horror of that day. Her composure and calm demeanor were a welcome respite.
“He is still in surgery, but he is holding his own,” she said. Just after three in the morning we were allowed to see him. The doctors were guarded in their conversations. “Thankfully your father was in excellent health. Otherwise, he would have never reached the hospital. It is too soon to give you a prognosis. We are optimistic, but he needs assurances from all of you that he is going to get through this. You need to go see him.”
The large surgical recovery room was obviously meant to accommodate more than one patient at a time, but it was completely stripped except for a single hospital bed in the middle of the floor. A battery of surgical lights suspended from the ceiling over Daddy’s bed cast beams of pure white. Humming machines with blinking red and green lights and tubes sprouting from their bottoms and sides stood haphazardly about. I shivered in the cold. Armed Secret Service agents stood in the shadows.
Daddy opened his eyes and looked at us when he heard Cornelia’s voice. “We are all here with you, George. You are going to get over this. I promised you we were going to take you home and we will,” she said.
Daddy’s right arm where he had been shot was bruised and swollen to twice its size. Bags of medicine hung on IV poles stationed on one side of the bed.
“Hey, Daddy
. This is Peggy,” I said. “I came to see you as fast as I could.” I began to cry. Daddy looked my way. “Now, sweetie, don’t you cry. It’s going to be all right.”
Later, they told me the person who shot Daddy was a man named Arthur Bremer.
The following day, Daddy was removed from the critical list. He had won the Michigan and Maryland Democratic primaries. We were told that he would be a paraplegic for the rest of his life.
Daddy remained hospitalized at Holy Cross Hospital for fifty-three days. Thousands of letters poured in to the hospital as well as the governor’s office. Even with volunteers and additional staff, the volume was overwhelming. Over twenty thousand responses were sent on directly to his office for reply, thousands more diverted to two colleges for handling, while thousands more were never acknowledged at all.
Some of the letters suggested miracle cures, special diets, medical devices, and the laying on of hands to heal him from his paralysis. They were reminiscent of many of the letters that Mama received in the midst of her struggle with cancer. It was inspiring to know that so many people cared.
On July 7 a military hospital plane touched down at the Montgomery airport. A large crowd cheered and cried as they saw Daddy in a wheelchair for the first time. Although his voice was weak, the well-wishers buoyed his spirits. He had come to reclaim the governor’s office from the acting governor, Lt. Gov. Jere Beasley, amid the rumors of a Beasley power grab that were being fostered by Wallace insiders who were buried deep in the piggy banks of state service contracts: food providers for state cafeterias, road-building and printing contractors, administrators of the state’s health insurance and pension funds, state boards, bridge construction and maintenance companies, university and community college services, and more.
The Broken Road Page 14