Leadership and Crisis (12 page)

In Louisiana we run elections a little differently. All the candidates run together in a primary, regardless of their party affiliation. If no candidate gets over 50 percent, the top two vote-getters then compete in a runoff. Of course, nobody was going to get a majority in a crowd of seventeen people that included a lieutenant governor, an attorney general, a really wealthy guy, a former and the current president of the Louisiana Senate, a former House speaker, and a former governor, so the primary was really a sprint for one of the top two slots.

Our biggest rival for Republican votes was a well-known state legislator named Hunt Downer. Hunt is a decent guy and was a worthy opponent. He was also the chosen candidate of the White House staff and the Republican Party establishment in Washington. After all, Hunt had switched parties and campaigned aggressively for President Bush. He had been speaker of the Louisiana House and served as a senior officer in the Louisiana National Guard. Potential Republican donors in Louisiana were letting me know that Hunt was the preferred guy—Karl Rove had told them so.

Expecting me to go nowhere, top Republicans in Washington thought I’d drop out of the race. When it became clear I wouldn’t quit,
some White House political officials contacted one of my advisors, Curt Anderson, cussed him out good, and threatened to make his life miserable. Luckily for me, Curt can be very ornery, and he told the White House staffers exactly what he thought of them. Years later a former White House staffer told me they were in complete shock that Curt didn’t buckle under the pressure.

Push came to shove in the race when a group of the biggest GOP donors in our state decided to vet the various Republican candidates through personal interviews. They would then endorse one candidate, and it was assumed the others would drop out.

This goes to a larger issue that is crucial to success: loyalty. There is just no substitute for it. But loyalty is in short supply in the world of politics, which is largely populated with political transients who routinely change horses in mid-stream.

Many of my supporters initially approved of this process—they figured I would go in there and blow them away, and all the hotshots would agree I was the guy. Money would start to flow into my campaign, and we would all live happily ever after. But a trusted friend pulled me aside and suggested that, this being Louisiana politics, I couldn’t count on getting an honest hearing—the process was probably rigged from the start. In hindsight, I believe some of these big donors were sincerely looking for the best candidate, but others clearly had different motives. So I think I made the right decision when I rejected the entire vetting process and moved forward with the novel idea of taking my campaign directly to the voters.

Aside from the pre-determined outcome, I didn’t like the idea of all the “smart guys” getting together to pick the candidate. Letting the voters have a say seems rather fundamental in a democracy. And truthfully, some of these guys are really just horse traders whose
biggest concern is making sure they have an “in” with whoever gets elected, regardless of that person’s plans or ideology or even party affiliation.

Successful advertising requires repetition, or so the adage goes. This was a problem for me. After giving the same speech twice I would get terribly bored with it, and I still do today, to be honest. But to win an election, a candidate has to deliver the same message before twenty-five different audiences to even make a dent. People who follow politics closely tend to forget that normal folks are out there living their lives, working hard, taking the kids to soccer practice, looking after their parents, and going to movies. They are not glued to the TV anticipating the next campaign commercial. Anyone who does that is a little odd.

Speaking of odd, try asking all your friends, family members, pretty much everyone you have ever met, and thousands of total strangers for money. Now that’s a real blast. I’ve heard a few candidates actually enjoy fundraising, but I don’t want to meet them.

Governor Foster was immensely helpful on this front—his loyal contributors got my campaign off the ground. But after that, I had to sink or swim on my own. I decided to swim—but it wasn’t easy.

Every year we see some wealthy folks get trounced in elections. In fact, in my successful race for the governorship in 2007 I beat two gentlemen who each spent more than $10 million of their own fortunes on the race. But while money does not guarantee victory, the lack of money does guarantee defeat. I was determined not to let this happen to me. So I steeled my resolve and despite my personal discomfort, I began asking folks to invest in my candidacy.

Our fundraising was incredibly amateurish at first, but we occasionally had some pleasant surprises. One of my first fundraisers was held at my in-laws’ house. After I gave my speech, my first question was from a fairly liberal woman, a medical doctor, who asked me my position on abortion. I told her I was pro-life and we exchanged views. I remember thinking I was going to have to return all the money I had raised even before I started! But amazingly, she became a financial supporter despite our differences over abortion. It turns out she already knew I was pro-life; she just wanted to see if I would be honest about my position or if I would waffle in order to get her money.

A wealthy Florida doctor held another memorable fundraiser for us. He spent a lot of money to throw a fancy party at his beautiful estate ... and
one
person showed up. So I decided not to give a speech. To make matters worse, I was scheduled to spend the night at his house. I don’t know if I’ve ever been in a more awkward situation.

Our campaign would go anywhere to raise money. My dentist even hosted a fundraiser for me, which turned out to be a neighborhood crawfish boil that yielded zero dollars and zero cents.

For the first month of my campaign I was convinced the post office was inept. So many folks had told me they were sending a check, but we never seemed to receive them. You hear so many stories of corruption in politics, stories of people trying to buy candidates, particularly in Louisiana. That was no problem for my campaign, I can assure you; when folks don’t think you can win, they don’t bother trying to buy you off.

I learned three things about raising money in that first campaign. First, if your friends won’t give, you have no chance. Luckily, my friends were generous. Second, forget all that nonsense about finding one big donor who will open the doors for you. It doesn’t work that
way, you have to do it yourself. Third, you have to ask for support if you want to win. If you don’t believe in your ideas enough to ask for money, you should not run.

In fundraising you are asking people to commit an unnatural act—to give away their money. And not to a charity either; donors get no tax deduction. You are asking them to believe that your candidacy matters, that you can win, and that after you do win you will make their community a better place.

Our campaign had many first time donors who had never been involved in politics. We adopted a cardinal rule that was a little radical in Louisiana politics—you cannot give to my campaign if you want something in return. All you are going to get back is honest, competent government. Oh, one more thing, we had pledged radical ethics reforms to root out corruption in politics in Louisiana. Anyone who opposed that was encouraged to give to someone else. Many did.

When the dust cleared on primary night in 2003, I had come in first with 33 percent of the vote, a full 15 percent ahead of the second place challenger, Lieutenant Governor Kathleen Blanco, a Democrat. It’s hard to pinpoint the reason for my victory. I think it was a combination of hard work, discipline, people power, and the power of ideas. One of the greatest things about our country is the simple fact that Americans are dreamers, we want to improve our lot in life, and we are forever optimistic that we can accomplish anything we set our minds to.

Our campaign had many volunteers, and even though we didn’t organize them well, they carried us a long way. How did we develop this kind of people power? It was simple, really: voters will rally behind
good ideas. They will give their time, talents, and resources if they have a cause worth fighting for.

Everyone associated with my campaign was thrilled by the primary result except one person—my dad. He was disappointed we didn’t get more than 50 percent and win the whole shootin’ match that night. We had just shocked the nation, but that didn’t satisfy my dad. There’s a story, I don’t know if it’s true, that when a young Bobby Kennedy told his dad he wanted to be a Catholic priest, his dad replied, “Well, that’s great. We’ve never had a pope in the family before.” That’s exactly my dad.

But the Republican establishment wasn’t disappointed at all. One thing about Washington political hacks—they are flexible. The day after we won the primary, I was suddenly the White House staff’s new best friend.

Still, the election wasn’t over. My advisors had warned me we did not want a runoff with the perfectly positioned Kathleen Blanco—she didn’t have a controversial record to defend, she seemed non-threatening, and she could attract bipartisan support as a Democrat campaigning as a cultural conservative. She was widely known and I was not. She was likeable—everyone’s aunt or grandma, and I was some new young guy who talked too fast and didn’t look like he was “from around here.”

At the very end of the campaign, Blanco went on the attack, running a TV ad that featured a voice shouting, “Wake up, Louisiana!” Displaying an unflattering picture of me, the ad warned that people were in danger of electing some guy no one really knew. The ad played to Blanco’s strengths as a safe, status quo candidate, which was a good place to be at the time, pre-Katrina. In the end she beat us, 52 to 48 percent.

I am a competitive person, and I hate losing, at anything, ever. But I immediately accepted the defeat and decided to move on. I’ve seen losing candidates nurse grudges for years, and I really didn’t want to go that route. Not enough people knew me, I figured, so I’d have to change that before my next run for public office.

My family, friends, and staff were devastated on election night. But it was a chance to prove my mettle, to be strong in a tough situation. And as I looked around the room, it was clear no one else was going to do it. As we walked onto the elevator to go down to the ballroom and make the concession speech, I told everyone, “No tears on the elevator.” I felt we’d fought hard and had no reason to be ashamed. And I didn’t want to hear any excuses either. My dad always taught us that life isn’t fair, so quit expecting it to be; when you encounter a setback, just work harder and do better next time. Make your own breaks in life.

I’m not interested in looking backward. Being a leader in the good times is easy, but leadership is tested in times of adversity. I decided to be relentlessly positive. Make no mistake, this was a conscious decision—it never comes naturally in that kind of situation. Such is the human condition, where the natural instinct is to blame others and consider yourself a victim.

One of my advisors suggested I subtly blame the consultants, the staff, and even advisors like him. His exact words were, “You should just throw us overboard.” I felt like snapping at him, “Do you guys not know anything about me?” President Truman had it right: the buck stops here.

Many observers have claimed I lost because of my Indian ethnicity. It’s an easy narrative that fits various stereotypes, but I reject it completely. The people of Louisiana have always been completely fair to
me—kind, generous, and just plain decent. During and after Hurricane Katrina, the whole world saw what Louisianians are really made of. When the government failed, individuals, families, churches, and businesses put everything on the line to help their neighbors—with zero regard for race or creed.

Not only do I refuse to offer excuses, I’m not real good at hearing them either. I always tell my staff not to bring problems to me. Don’t simply try to kick your problems upstairs. Bring me solutions, and we will get them done. That’s what my dad would do.