In Praise of Serious Pols

I am allergic to political gatherings. You are not likely to discover me at movement rallies, rubber-chicken circuit banquets, or victory parties (more commonly weep-in-your-drink defeatathons). I treasure the quietude of the old voting booths where one could think one’s civic thoughts while surrounded by worn fabric. I enjoyed the experience so much that I annually decided to change at least one intended vote just because that choice would mean that casting a ballot was an act of deliberation.

Still, nineteen years ago on a bright September afternoon, I made my way to the train station in Norcross, Georgia, near where I resided at the time. That day Al Gore was coming to town. I no longer recall whether Gore was riding a whistle-stop train or merely using the station as a nostalgic background. Given Atlanta’s transportation mess, I imagine it was the latter. The idea of rearranging my schedule to hear Senator Gore declaim might seem an act of perversity, or at least desperation.

But it was not. It was lovely and sweet and purposive, not only because of the flags and the band and National gemeinschaft and Southern gemutlichkeit. Without yelling, Al Gore was eloquent, passionate and true. At least true enough for campaign purposes. I left persuaded that the order of the Democrats’ 1992 ticket should be reversed. I voted standing on my head.

I tell this tale because of current discussions of Indiana’s Mitch Daniels and Minnesota’s Timothy James Pawlenty, both of whom being regarded as a bit wonkish and “Gorish.” Apparently Daniels homelife was slightly Gothic, and he decided that he could miss the attentions of Perez Hilton, Gail Collins, Larry Flynt, and Matt Drudge, but T-Paw has decided to make a go of it. It is too early to trek to a local rail station, if there are any stations left, but from what I have heard, T-Paw is, despite his nickname, a serious man.

The web is filled with accounts questioning whether one so measured can be measured as presidential timber. In competition with Donald Trump, Newt Gingrich, Ron Paul, Herman Cain, and Michele Bachmann – not to mention a certain raging rogue elephant with fire in her belly – seriousness, modesty, and respect is a virtue in the public sphere. Presidential Obama, of whom some liberals despair, seemingly unwilling to rise to the heavens or sink to the mud, also seems rhetorically appealing.

I have previously written with some warmth of a lusty, rugged, prickly political discourse which does not always observe kindly civility. But there should be a distinction between those who critique and those who wish to lead, a division between fire and nice. And even these so-called boring candidates are not above throwing a few good jabs amidst all the clarity. Certainly Gore did on that afternoon, and so too do Governor Pawlenty and President Obama. Some red meat is healthy for a rhetorical meal, just as long as one abjures the political equivalent of a Paleo-diet (all raw moose). I call for a candidate with a core of commitment to public debate and to political process. Yes, a candidate who is passionate about values and goals, but also one who recognizes that one’s opponents are similarly and properly passionate.

And so without any endorsement, I am glad that good-ol’-worn-sock Tim Pawlenty is running for president. I am glad that he has a vision, however imperfect it might be, just as the same could be said for the pre-Clintonized Al Gore. Many reasons might be adduced as to why a Vice-President will never be the President. Failures have many fathers, but I have long felt that part of what doomed the Gore candidacy was that by 2000 he lost sight of the willingness to take us seriously and to speak in themes that made us consider, not just proposing bubba-Redux.

We will be blessed, if, as the Republican nominating process heats up, it doesn’t incinerate those candidates whose quieter, clever, wiser voices we need, even if, in the end, we determine that the incumbent has the edge. Let us hope for an election in which our decision will not be certain until we close the curtain of the musty, old voting booth.