Core of Conviction : My Story (9781101563571) (2 page)

My five minutes were up. I sat down, and the incumbent senator said gruffly: “You paid your twenty dollars, and now you just had your entertainment.”

Your “entertainment”? Did he really say that? The “entertainment,” in his reckoning, was me—as if I were a sideshow. Chilly silence hung in the room. Nobody could believe that the senator had just said something so demeaning. After all, even people who weren't planning on voting for me had seen that I was sincere. At age forty-four, I had lived, worked, and raised a family in the area for a long time. Why was he so publicly condescending?

The folks in the room now began to see the senator with new eyes. Maybe, they thought, he had been in the legislature too long. Maybe he had a bad case of “incumbent-itis”—or “RINO-itis.” And if he was capable of throwing such cutting words at one of his constituents, what had he been thinking, really, about
all
of his constituents? In a single instant, his tongue had revealed what appeared to be in his heart. We had gotten a glimpse too of what he was like when he was making deals and clinking glasses with the Democrats in St. Paul. We Republican voters back in the boonies had finally gotten the message—right between the eyes. We were now saying to ourselves,
That's a pretty high horse you're riding, Senator, looking down on us, and now we're going to take you down.

Other than that gruff opening line, I don't think anyone remembered anything he said. Having finished his talk, he sat down. But the chill remained. He had frozen—and snapped—his connection to his voters.

Meanwhile, outside the auditorium, a political crisis was heating up. I found out later that his political operatives in the room had realized immediately that their man had messed up, and so they had gone into instant damage-control mode. They had picked up their cell phones and called the leading state senate Republicans, telling the big bosses that one of their members was down—and wasn't going to get up without a lot of political help. So GOP apparatchiks jumped in their cars and hightailed it to Mahtomedi, hoping somehow to save their man.

Inside the auditorium, it was time to vote: the incumbent versus Mrs. Bachmann. Each person handwrote his or her choice on a white slip of paper and handed it to his or her precinct leader. Then the convention chairman requested that representatives from the two campaigns come to a back room and witness the ballot counting. “Could someone from the Bachmann campaign come to the counting room?” he asked.

Sitting in the audience, I thought to myself,
What Bachmann campaign?
So far, at least, I was it—I was the whole campaign. So I turned to the woman seated to my right and asked, “Would you be willing to be my representative?” That was Barbara Harper, one brave lady.

Barbara immediately agreed to act as witness. And when she got to the back room, she found it swarming with political operatives, all eager to “help” with the counting. For well over an hour, Barbara was in there with them, and it's a good thing she was. When one politico “discovered” an envelope full of “ballots,” Barbara challenged them on the spot—and won. A few operatives seemed to wish to try “creative balloting,” but the Republicans of district 56—even if they didn't support me—wanted an honest count. This was Minnesota, not Chicago.

In the meantime, out in the auditorium, folks were growing impatient. They would walk up to the microphone and ask, “Mr. Chairman, why is it taking so long to count a few hundred ballots?” The Republican operatives, meanwhile, could be seen chatting on their cell phones—and yet it wasn't us local Republicans they were talking to; they were talking instead
about
us to their wheeler-dealer pals in St. Paul. They were trying to figure out how to use the convention rules to invalidate the voting.

As for me, I sat in my seat. There was nothing I could do. I went to find a pay phone—I didn't have a cell phone in those days—and I called my sweet, nonpolitical friend, Ann, the greatest walking partner I ever had. I explained to her what was happening and implored her, “I really want you to come over. I am sure to lose this thing, and I need you, please, to be with me.” Ann was doing the dishes with her husband, but, kind as always, she drove over to offer moral support. I felt better, and yet I still had no inkling that my life was about to change.

Finally, after an hour and twenty minutes, Barbara came bursting out of the back room, running toward me in my seat in the auditorium. She had written the results in blue ink on the palm of her hand. “You won!” she exclaimed, waving her hand in front of my face. “And you won with a supermajority.” That is, over 60 percent of the vote! So I had just become the officially endorsed Republican candidate; the longtime incumbent had lost the mandate of Republicans in his district. As I said, this was grassroots politics at its rootsiest—the people had spoken. Decisively.

The senator, a sheaf of papers in his hand, then tried to disqualify the balloting. But now there wasn't just a chill in the auditorium; there were boos and shouts. We, the spontaneous insurgents, had done everything by the book, and now, at the end of a long count, we had won—and nobody wanted to hear gripes from the senator.

Eventually, the chairman had to announce the obvious. He climbed to the podium, moved toward the microphone with obvious reluctance, and then, speaking in a pained voice, said: “I guess we've got a result.” Pause. “And, uh, I guess it's Michele Bachmann.”

The audience—most of it—cheered. Nobody in that auditorium was more surprised than me. Amid the tumult, someone said, “You have to go back up onstage and thank the delegates.” And so I did. Those delegates were now my supporters, and I needed to thank them.

In that moment, I felt honored, humbled, blessed, and challenged all at the same time. I thanked everyone, reiterated the critical issues, and then reminded the audience that the bigger electoral battle lay ahead. And as it turned out, I faced two elections. Not only would I have to confront a Democrat in November, but the incumbent senator had not conceded his defeat at the Mahtomedi convention; he eventually chose to run against me in the September Republican primary, as he had a perfectly legal right to do.

In that auditorium, I had become an accidental politician. I hadn't planned on going to the convention, hadn't planned on running for anything, hadn't planned on speaking—and certainly hadn't planned on winning. And yet there I was. My friends joked that our slogan for the upcoming campaign would be “We know nothing about campaigning, and we can prove it.”

Ann and I drove back home to Stillwater, and then, to catch our breath, we sat on a bench in a park overlooking the St. Croix River. We looked at the beautiful flowing water, then at each other. I said, “Ann, we had better pray.” We prayed together, giving this remarkable turn of events over to the Lord. We both asked for guidance, and I asked one more thing: How would I tell Marcus?

It was April 1, and this poor man was in northern Minnesota, along with the girls, Elisa, Caroline, and Sophia. Attending a wedding, fulfilling obligations, looking out for his family, he had no idea what his wife had just done.

There was no way for me to contact him; neither of us had a cell phone then. How should I break the news that I had left the house in the morning as a full-time mom, a homemaker, and a retired tax lawyer—and was coming back in the afternoon as the Republican-endorsed candidate for the state senate? And that I was facing an uncertain future in the coming election, to say nothing of an uncertain future if I ended up sitting in the Minnesota legislature?

I got home, and the house was empty. I could see that the answering machine was filled up but didn't have the heart to listen to the messages. Marcus and I had always worked as a team; it's the only way we could get through graduate school, raise our twenty-eight biological and foster children, and work in business. I knew I had stepped outside our long-established norm. It was one thing to go to a political convention; it was quite another to launch a political career. My husband would have told me if he'd been thinking about starting up a new clinic, so why hadn't I told him that I was starting up a new career? It was an accident, of course, albeit a happy, challenging accident. Still, I knew that the first thing I needed to do was make things right with Marcus and my family.

So I went upstairs and waited in the bedroom. Actually, the bathroom. And I thought about how I would tell him the news.

After a while, I heard the garage door open. The Bachmanns were back, even if Mom hadn't made the trip. I was always elated to hear everyone come home; the familiar sounds were like music to me: the jingling of keys, the tramping of feet, the whoosh of coats being taken off and put away—or flung on the couch. All the happy sounds of a homecoming. But this time it was different. Marcus thought I was asleep, and so, always thoughtful, he didn't come bounding up the stairs.

But I was awake, of course. I was just dreading the moment of truth.

Downstairs, I could hear Marcus clicking on the answering machine. “Congratulations, Michele!” the first message rang out. “Congratulations on your victory!” I thought to myself that Marcus must be assuming this was all some sort of elaborate April Fools' joke—on me, on him, on all of us. Yet after the second or third congratulatory message, I could sense that he knew something real was up.

Marcus called up to the second floor: “Michele?”

“Yes?” I was trying to sound as innocent as possible.

“Is there something you'd like to tell me?” It was one of those moments we've all seen on TV—a Lucy and Ricky Ricardo moment from the old
I Love Lucy
show. All that was missing was Marcus-as-Ricky saying to his wide-eyed wife, “Lucy! You've got some 'splaining to do!”

“Well,” I answered, “I am the endorsed candidate for state senator. I made a speech at the convention . . . and . . . I won the balloting.”

“No!” Marcus said. He wasn't being harsh—he is never harsh. He really thought this was some sort of April Fools' joke.

“You did
what
?” My victory was not an overly happy piece of news for Marcus. After a lot of hard work, having gone through much sacrifice and deferred gratification, we had built a wonderful family and successful careers. And yet unilaterally I had just moved forward into a new endeavor that he had had nothing to say about. We had always planned everything together, but not this. His life, the kids' lives, all would be affected, and he hadn't received the courtesy of being consulted. Now I would have to be off campaigning—and then, if I won, legislating. Inevitably an extra burden would be on all of us, but mostly on him.

However, being the wonderful man that he is, he took three days to think these things through. He knew that issues such as improving education, protecting life, and lowering taxes were important. They were important to me, and they were important to him. He just needed a few moments to recalibrate his already strenuous schedule. Now it would be even more strenuous.

“You know,” he warned, “you can't take this back.” And he was right. I was in. And when I am in, I am 100 percent in. All the way.

But for my part, I made a commitment to Marcus and to my family: Every next step in politics, whatever it might be, would be made in full and prayerful consultation with the family. I would only proceed with their full agreement—and, of course, asking for the Lord's blessing.

So how had I gotten this far? How had I been so fortunate as to have Marcus and all our kids? And to be at that podium in a little corner of eastern Minnesota? And then, later, to see a new future in politics—the state legislature, the U.S. Congress, and the national stage?

Well, that's a long story.

The personal story begins in Iowa, but before I tell it, I should make this point as clear as the Stillwater night sky: At every step of my life's journey, I believe that God has been with me. He has prepared me for the next challenge, lesson by lesson. God gently prepares all of us, if we want His help, for our small struggles—and our big battles. I learned back in Sunday school the story of David, how he was a shepherd boy and how, as he grew toward manhood, he learned to kill the lion and the bear. Only then was he ready for his epic confrontation with Goliath. One thing led to another, but only God planned the full story in advance.

So I didn't have a plan when I went into that convention in Mahtomedi. But I did have experience and the strength of core principles. I had the strength, in fact, of a movement of liberty-loving people, all the concerned voters whom I had met across the state of Minnesota. They were all reasonable, fair-minded citizens, living carefully and conservatively. And they were folks who wanted for the next generation what every American has wanted—a better life and a brighter hope. Movements can create their own energy. And they can produce new candidates, one of whom was me.

So that was the first political lesson: With the right kind of popular energy, ordinary people can make a difference. You can fight city hall. That is, you can take on the establishment and win. The political waters back home in Stillwater have not been still since.

But a second lesson was even more important: Nothing can succeed without faith. Faith is being sure of what we hope for, even as it provides assurance of what we do not see. I took a leap of faith that Saturday, and yet I always knew that if I failed in my political bid, God would still catch me.

Third, I was reminded that I would be lost without my family. Even if I am in a faraway place, they will always be right there with me, heart and soul. Marcus, our children—they have all been so good to me. And while I have tried to do right by them, I am blessed to have their solid support in my career, and I never want to take them for granted. So someday, I promise, we'll all take that long vacation!

And here's a fourth lesson, gained from that political battle in a little corner of Minnesota eleven years ago: Principle is more important than partisanship. I am a proud Republican, fully committed to the profamily, pro–free enterprise, prodefense policies of my party, but if I see a GOP leader failing to fight for our party's principles, I will not hesitate to speak out—and, if necessary, stand up.