Among the things you don’t normally say when you are a Republican who is likely to face a primary challenge:
“Schumer’s been incredible. He’s a worthy successor to Ted Kennedy, and that’s saying a lot.”- Lindsey Graham of South Carolina
I appreciate it that a lot of the older senators on the Republican side, and even some not so old, like Graham, are willing to acknowledge that Teddy Kennedy was a great and legendary senator. What’s rare is for any of them to identify what made him great. Because, on the right, he was mainly the object of moral condemnation and ridicule up until the very last years of his life. And he was always the poster boy for “extreme liberal.” So, how did it happen that Kennedy came to the end of his life and all these senators suddenly realized that they had been in the presence of greatness all along?
And how does Chuck Schumer fit into that picture? I am not sure that he does, but being an effective senator involves more than being ideologically pure or completely consistent. To leave your mark on the Senate, you have to put your name on legislation. And, to do that, you have to be able to work across the aisle. Yet, it’s more complicated than simply compromising and finding some kind of meet-in-the-middle solution. We have plenty of senators who are disloyal and cast the vote the other side needs to do essentially what they wanted to do anyway. The key is to get senators to do essentially what you wanted to do all along. This is more difficult in the present political environment than before, but it begins with personal relationships. Knowing that your colleague has a grandson with down syndrome or a kid in the navy or personal experience with cancer can give you an opening to break through the ideological divide. Even something as simple as the Federal Funding Accountability and Transparency Act of 2006 had it’s origin in freshman orientation, when Michelle Obama and Carolyn Coburn became friends and their husbands followed suit.
I get impatient with the fools who argue that senators need to socialize more, like they used to, to get anything done. But it’s not the socializing that is the problem. It’s the outside forces that disincentivize any bipartisan collaboration on any issue.
Here’s a tale from 1988.
Orrin Hatch, the conservative Utah Republican who is also a Mormon, tells this story with what he describes as “a tremendous brotherly affection.” Two days before the Senate adjourned in October 1988, Hatch took a call from Frank Madsen, a former aide who had moved to Boston to supervise 200 young Mormon missionaries. Would Hatch come speak to them? Would he bring Kennedy? Would he ask Kennedy to reserve Faneuil Hall for the event?
With some misgivings, Hatch agreed to try. Shortly before midnight, he found Kennedy and Chris Dodd in the Capitol. Neither was feeling any pain.
“Ted, I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Kennedy wrapped an arm around Hatch. “Done!”
Hatch held up a restraining hand. “No, hear me out. You remember my aide, Frank Madsen — “
“Great fellow! Great fellow!”
“He’s now in Boston — “
“My home town! My home town!”
Hatch eventually made his request. Kennedy assented. Hatch returned to his office, typed out the agreement and sent it to Kennedy’s office. The next day, Hatch spied Kennedy reading the memo. “Orrin,” Kennedy called in mock horror, “what else did I agree to?” Three months later, in January 1989, Hatch and Kennedy stood elbow-to-elbow in Faneuil Hall, addressing the Mormon missionaries.
Senators don’t forget courtesies like that. When Kennedy died, Senator Hatch explained:
When cigar smoking during committee meetings was in vogue, the degree to which we were fighting was evident by the cloud of smoke Ted would send my way. He would puff away, knowing he was giving me a headache that was more than merely political. (Mormons don’t smoke.) For my part, I did my best not to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how irritated I was.
We disagreed on nearly every issue, and continued to do so for all the years we served together in the Senate. But to our mutual surprise, during our service on the Senate Labor, Judiciary, and other committees, we soon realized that we could work well together. If the two of us—positioned as we were on opposite sides of the political spectrum—could find common ground, we had little trouble enlisting bipartisan support to pass critical legislation that benefited millions of Americans.
As the years passed, our legislative achievements piled up. We spearheaded passage of the State Children’s Health Insurance Program (CHIP) to provide health insurance to children of the working poor. Our Orphan Drug Act provided tax credits to spur treatment of rare diseases, and the Ryan White Comprehensive AIDS Resources Emergency Act improved the availability of care for low-income, uninsured and underinsured victims of AIDS and their families, as did our other two AIDS bills.
There was the Americans With Disabilities Act, which protected individuals with disabilities from discrimination. We also worked successfully to provide more affordable and available drugs to fight diseases such as multiple sclerosis, anemia, etc., over the many years. Earlier this year, we led the fight to secure passage of the Serve America Act. And the list of our legislation enacted into law goes on and on.
Orrin Hatch is still in the Senate and working on the periphery to pass the comprehensive immigration reform bill that Chuck Schumer is spearheading. But Hatch doesn’t have the free hand he used to have. Only a few years ago, he saw his conservative colleague Bob Bennett lose to Mike Lee in a Republican convention.
But let’s say you are a progressive senator who wants to be great. Should you spend all your time grabbing headlines with provocative ways to highlight key issues? Or should you examine how Kennedy operated?
I remember a time in my life when I was falsely accused of impropriety and was being savaged in the press. At the same time, my father, Jesse, was dying, and he slipped away in the midst of this tumult.
Sadly, many of my Senate colleagues avoided me until I was cleared of all wrongdoing. But not Ted Kennedy. He called and consoled me, talking about his struggle to come to terms with the death of his father and brothers. Concerning the press battles, he said, “Ah, Orrin, everyone knows you did nothing wrong. Everything will work out.” He was the only one, Republican or Democrat, who did that.
When Ted’s mother, Rose, died in January 1995, I flew to Massachusetts unannounced to attend the funeral and pay my respects to this grand matriarch. Upon my arrival, I slipped into the cathedral as unobtrusively as I could and tried to sit in the back. But Ted and the rest of the Kennedy family heard I was there and motioned for me to sit with them. When my own saintly mother, Helen, died two months later, Ted and his wife, Vicki, flew to Salt Lake City for the funeral. That meant a lot to me and my wife, Elaine, and other members of the Hatch family.
It is a good idea to study Kennedy’s methods, but there are limitations. Kennedy was able to entice Hatch into helping him use the federal government to solve problems. A willingness to do that, even if only rarely, is a precondition for getting things done. In today’s Republican Party, that willingness is almost entirely absent. But, on immigration reform, Hatch is still in the game, working this time with Schumer.
