The Magazine

From Gene to Dean

The children's crusade in American politics.

Jan 19, 2004, Vol. 9, No. 18 • By ANDREW FERGUSON
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But not wholly self-defense, of course. Anyone who's ever worked on a political campaign before the age of, say, twenty-four knows where the real interest lies, and it's not in a "serious discussion of the issues in hopes of advancing a progressive agenda for the future of this country" or whatever. It's the cold pizza at four A.M., it's the naps stolen on the headquarters floor, it's the fast friendships, it's the sex--real if you're lucky, hypothetical otherwise. It's the best of dorm life, and no classes the next morning. It is like this in every Children's Crusade, in 1968 no less than in 2004.

Yet there are more substantial similarities between then and now. McCarthy saw, as Dean later did, that in the view of many party members the party establishment had grown flaccid and corrupt. Analysts marvel that so many of Dean's supporters seem unaware of his political positions, if not flatly opposed to them. McCarthy is remembered today as an antiwar candidate, and of course he was, but in 1968, polls in New Hampshire and elsewhere showed that a large minority of his voters, especially older ones, either misunderstood his position on Vietnam or disagreed with it. What they did understand was that he wasn't Lyndon Johnson. He offered a way around a distant political apparatus that had disengaged from the people to whom it was theoretically beholden. The mismanagement of the Vietnam War from Washington was just one sign of the disconnection. Johnson and Humphrey, in their day, had no sense of this free-floating disenchantment, and Gephardt and Kerry couldn't see it in theirs. McCarthy did, and so did Dean.

And there the parallels draw to a close. You can't think about political insurgencies too long before you come up against the character of the insurgents themselves, and in this regard Dean fares less well in the comparisons--or perhaps better, depending on your taste.

THROUGHOUT HIS CAREER, when the professorial mood was upon him (as it often was), McCarthy had called for "the de-personalization of politics"--a phrase that sounded just as pompous then as it does now, but which nonetheless expressed a thought-through belief about how self-government should work. McCarthy thought institutions deserved more care and attention than the men who run them, and that a political campaign should be bigger than its candidate. His favorite politician, he said, was Edmund Burke--pompous again, may- be, but revealing. His reticence seemed principled as well as personal. He attended Mass every day, for example, yet never spoke in public of his private faith--a blessed contrast to candidates who seldom go to services yet won't shut up about how much religion means to them. McCarthy despised charisma, deemed it dangerous and undemocratic--Bobby Kennedy horrified him, partly for this reason--and his disdain, paradoxically, made him all the more charismatic. When he campaigned in 1968 huge crowds would greet him, rafter-swinging crowds, roof-raising, thunderous crowds, and he would refuse to amplify the enthusiasm that poured over him. He never played to the crowd. The crowd loved him for it.

"Crusading zeal," Sandbrook correctly writes, "was not merely something with which McCarthy felt uncomfortable; it was also something he regarded as irrational and insidious."

THE CAMPAIGN was inevitably bizarre. The candidate declined to hire a professional campaign manager, for one thing. In a nine-month slog, he never once spoke from a prepared text. The larger and more important his audience, the duller and longer his speech would be. He stoutly resisted the grand gesture. A big break came when he appeared on the "Tonight Show" with Johnny Carson, who asked whether he thought he'd be a good president. "I think," McCarthy said after a pause, "that I would be adequate." When Johnson withdrew from the campaign, reporters rushed McCarthy for a comment, an occasion to rally the troops: "Things have gotten rather complicated," he said, and left it at that. Why didn't more blacks vote for him, a columnist once asked. "I don't know," he said. "I haven't really made much of an argument that they should." Early on he abandoned that staple of industrial-state politicking--greeting the sunrise shift at factory gates--because, he explained, "I'm not really a morning person." At fundraisers he would routinely appear, shake a few hands, then retire to the bar.

His idiosyncrasies wore badly on the few professionals on his staff. "Even Caesar could kiss the ass of somebody who would be useful to his cause," said one, "but not Gene." They blamed laziness, personal pique, selfishness--the same motives that, thirty-five years later, his biographer ascribes to him. And McCarthy was waspish indeed. But there was more to it than that. He didn't like pressing the flesh, it's true, especially at factory gates at sun-up, but he campaigned twenty hours at a stretch when he had to, and though his showcase speeches were invariably dull, in small groups, in living rooms and church basements, he would reach for eloquence and often find it. He didn't make special plays for black votes--or farm votes, or factory votes--because "I will speak the same to all." When Kennedy boasted that his state-of-the-art campaign had assembled more than thirty advisory committees, each assigned to a specific demographic subset of the general population, McCarthy was agog. "I knew that Baskin-Robbins had thirty-one flavors of ice cream," he said. "I hadn't known there were thirty-one different types of American."

The political professionals got him wrong. Norman Mailer, a political idiot, came closer to the truth when he saw in McCarthy's diffidence a hint of "the most serious conservative to run for nomination since Robert Taft." The British journalist Henry Fairlie called him "the nearest thing there is to Calvin Coolidge." Barry Goldwater considered him one of his favorite politicians--"a gentleman and a scholar, who has done things in a calm and reasonable way." There was enough emotional gas in the air in 1968, McCarthy later said, without him trying to light a match to set it off.

"Calm and reasonable" is not, of course, the style of our present politics--and certainly not of the leader of our latest Children's Crusade. It is impossible to imagine McCarthy in one of Dean's artery-popping harangues. For that matter, it is impossible to imagine him uttering any of the oily self-advertisements that have become essential to the modern campaign. Think of George W. Bush in 2000: "I'm a very compassionate person"; or John McCain, the same year: "I just get very angry about social injustice--I'm sorry, but it's who I am." Of course, as Dean supporters will point out, the things that made McCarthy appealing to many people were inextricable from, maybe identical to, the things that made him a loser: the ambivalence and cool detachment, the irony and wit, the range of learning and intellectual curiosity. His detractors always said that McCarthy thought he was too good for politics. His admirers thought he was right to think that.

WHAT EFFECT did this first Children's Crusade have? Did it--to ask the most obvious question--meet its intended object of hastening the end of the war? Sandbrook, in this new biography, says no, and he's probably right. Then he goes a step further to say that it actually lengthened the war, by crippling Humphrey's chance for election and clearing the way for Nixon's narrow victory--an absurd claim. Nixon, always with one eye on reelection, made sure to have most of the troops out by 1972 and damn the larger consequences (just as, in 1971, he imposed wage and price controls to stymie inflation till the ballots were safely counted a year later, leaving his successors to reap the inflationary whirlwind). It is not at all certain that Humphrey, an enthusiastic supporter of the war from the start, would have wrapped things up so hastily. Even McCarthy suggested during the campaign--in his typically desultory fashion: kind of here and there, sort of once in a while--that under his own peace plan some U.S. soldiers might have to remain in Vietnam for five more years.

Undeniably, however, the 1968 Crusade hastened the self-destruction of the Democratic party's old regime, as it existed under Lyndon Johnson. In political parties old regimes are always being destroyed and replaced by new regimes that then grow old themselves, to be destroyed and replaced in their turn, and by now, after three and a half decades, the layers of rubble are too deep to trace a line of influence from McCarthy's campaign to the Democratic party's present condition. Yet the havoc of 1968 did inspire wholesale reform of the party's system for selecting convention delegates. By design the new rules removed power from the party's professionals and placed it squarely in the hands of the dewy-eyed innocents who nominated George McGovern four years later.

At least one electoral catastrophe, therefore, can be traced to McCarthy's Crusade. And maybe more. As Sandbrook points out, the McCarthy campaign also foreshadowed the party's separation from its traditional bedrock constituency--Southern whites and blue-collar males--in favor of the rich liberals, college professors, graduate students, and childless yuppies who became the most reliable constituencies of many subsequent campaigns: John Anderson's, Gary Hart's, Michael Dukakis's.

As it happens, these look to be Howard Dean's most reliable constituencies, too. If Dean wants to know where a crusade like his is headed, he can always ask McCarthy, who is (wonderful to say) still alive and thriving, dividing his time between a retirement home in Georgetown and his farm in the Virginia Piedmont. The number's in the book if the doctor wants to make the call.

Andrew Ferguson is a senior editor at The Weekly Standard.