Outsider in the White House (11 page)

The general ignorance surrounding the issue of campaign financing is frustrating. My opponents call me a “hypocrite” for accepting PAC money. How can I accept PAC money, they say, and then claim that I am fighting against “special interests”? Isn't a PAC, by definition, a “special interest”? Aren't all PAC contributions the same? Does it make any difference who the PAC represents?

Such questions, which are repeated ad nauseam in the media, reflect a lack of understanding of the role of money in politics. So, let me be very clear about this. I do
not
believe that working people are a special interest. I do
not
believe that hungry kids are a special interest. I do
not
believe that fighting for the right of women to control their own bodies is a special interest. I do
not
believe that protecting the environment is a special interest.

Believe me. The problem with Washington, and politics in the United States, is
not
that ordinary people have too much power and influence. It's not that too much attention is being paid to low-income children. It's not that the needs of the rich and large corporations are ignored.

The problem, for those who have just crawled out from under a rock, is that groups representing the wealthiest people in this country are able to decisively influence the legislative process so that public policy reflects the interests of the privileged few and not the needs of the general population. And if you don't understand this simple fact, you haven't a clue as to what politics in America is all about.

In this campaign, my opponent has been promised $153,000 from the Republican national party, which will come directly from some of the richest people in America. She has already received, and will undoubtedly continue to get, heavy contributions from some of the largest corporations in America and from groups that represent multi-billion dollar corporate interests. She is obtaining significant support from some of the wealthiest people in Vermont. She indicated at the very beginning of the campaign that she did not want a limit on the amount that could be spent.

Bottom line. If people, including the media, do not understand the difference between one candidate who receives the bulk of his support from organizations and individuals who represent working people and the middle class, and another candidate who receives the bulk of her support from the wealthy and large corporations, then they do not know much about what goes on in Congress. I am going to do my best to prevent the wealthy and corporate interests from buying this election.

In 1986, I ran for governor as an Independent. I was still in my third term as mayor of Burlington. I ran because the state legislature continually denied Burlington and other communities the democratic right to reform their regressive property tax system. We voted for change but, despite all the lip service to “local control,” the legislature and the governor refused to allow us to change our city charter and implement progressive legislation. They simply nullified what we were attempting to do. In Burlington, we were showing that grassroots democracy could work. In the state capital, they were thwarting our efforts and trying to destroy our momentum.

I also ran for governor because I feared that the “Burlington Revolution” would suffocate if we didn't expand beyond one city. People all over the state believed in progressive politics and wanted to be involved in electoral activity. We needed new energy. We also needed to make a political connection between the rural and urban areas of the state.

Madeleine Kunin, the former Democratic lieutenant governor, had been elected the first woman governor of Vermont in 1984, and was running for reelection in 1986. Peter Smith, the lieutenant governor, was the Republican candidate. Kunin was a liberal, strong on women's issues and the environment. We had very serious disagreements, however, not only on the issue of “local control” and the need for Vermont to break its dependence on the property tax, but on health care, child care, utility rates, the needs of the poor, and involving working people in the political process. In any case, I mounted a campaign to become the first Independent governor in Vermont's history. The campaign was a near disaster, and came very close to ending my political career.

The major tactical error that we made was transferring our campaign office from Burlington to Montpelier, where we had a strong but inexperienced base of support. I wanted to physically separate my work as mayor from that of the campaign office, and allow a new group of progressive activists to play leading roles. I also wanted Vermonters to feel that this was a statewide effort, not something emanating from the Burlington progressive community.

It just didn't turn out the way it was supposed to. Our central Vermont activists were smart, hard working, and dedicated, but they lacked the day-to-day experience of running a campaign. Further, and even more importantly, the race against Kunin was very difficult. Liberals were angry that I was running against a female Democrat, as were some environmentalists.

Midway through the campaign, as we were running out of money and going nowhere in the polls, my campaign manager resigned. There was a growing feeling from supporters, and the media, that I should and would drop out of the race. This was the lowest point in my political career. What to do?

I did not quit the race. After a lot of soul-searching and planning, what was left of the campaign limped back to Burlington and regrouped. The campaign was now back in the hands of people who had been with me through the mayoral elections.

Jane and I flew to California, where I gave speeches in Los Angeles and San Francisco. Through the efforts of such progressives as Sherri and Leo Frumkin and Peter Camejo, we were able to raise $6,000. Not a great deal of money, but it all helped. Our fundraising in Vermont also began to pick up.

Some of the people who worked with me at City Hall decided to use their free time to help out. Forty hours at City Hall, forty hours on the campaign. A long week. Jane, city treasurer Jonathan Leopold, Sue Trainer, and a few others jumped head first into the campaign. They were joined by Jeff Weaver, a young man from St. Albans, Vermont, who had been expelled from Boston University for protesting racial discrimination. Jeff would work with me for much of the next eight years.

Slowly the campaign rejuvenated. There were a number of debates, some on television, and I did well. We held lively rallies. Despite the fact that the polls put me far behind and that conventional wisdom suggests that a third-party candidate will fade under such circumstances, we kept gaining momentum right up to Election Day.

Kunin received 48 percent of the vote, Smith 37 percent. I ended up with 14.5 percent. We had lost badly, but, if the truth be known, we felt pretty good. We raised the right issues, won the support of many working-class people from all over the state, and had come back from near political death. It could have been a lot worse.

In 1988, Senator Robert Stafford retired after sixteen years, and Republican Congressman Jim Jeffords ran for the vacant post. Vermont's sole seat in the U.S. House was open, and I decided to run for it. Peter Smith, who finished second in the governor's race against Kunin in 1986, was the Republican candidate, and Paul Poirier was running for the Democrats after winning a tough three-way primary.

In many ways that congressional campaign was the turning point for me in statewide politics. I began the race as the “spoiler.” (Oh, how I love that word, with all its implications about the sacrosanct nature of the two-party system.) Would I take enough votes away from the Democrat to elect the Republican? But a funny thing happened on the way to Election Day. I wasn't the spoiler after all. The Democrat was.

Looking back, the 1988 campaign was actually a lot of fun. Smith was a moderate Republican who had received positive recognition for helping to start the Vermont community college system. Poirier was the majority leader in the Vermont House, a moderate-to-liberal Democrat. He was a former teacher and was widely considered a decent, down-to-earth guy. And then there was me.

Vermont is a small state, and Smith, Poirier, and I knew each other pretty well. In fact, we liked each other. That campaign was what Vermont politics should be about. The three of us had strong differences of opinion, but we ran civil, issue-oriented campaigns. The debates were respectful and there was no negative advertising, no desire to “destroy” the other person. Boy, does that seem like a long time ago.

That fall, Harry Reasoner and the crew of
60 Minutes
came to Vermont to film me and the campaign. They had heard that an Independent, and a democratic socialist, had a chance to win a congressional race. It was a good story for them. While they were there, I held a press conference about agricultural issues on a farm in central Vermont. The Associated Press, the most important print media organization in the state, did not show up—which was getting to be a habit with them.

When you're a politician dealing with the media, life is difficult. If you're getting screwed by the media, you don't have much recourse. Who can you complain to? They own the camera. They print the news. What are you going to do about it?

Finally, for the one and only time in my life, I did have recourse. I had
60 Minutes
following me around. I could expose the AP to the world. A politician's dream come true.

“Come on guys,” I told my staff. “We're going to visit the AP and talk about fair news coverage.” Ten minutes later I was walking up the stairs of the AP office in Montpelier, the camera and microphone of
60 Minutes
right behind me. This time
I
was asking the questions. “Okay, how come you never cover my press conferences? You have time for the Republicans. You have time for the Democrats. Why not an Independent?” The AP had heard it all before. Except this time the cameras of
60 Minutes
were rolling, and AP was on the defensive. It was delicious.

I had a lot of fun that afternoon. Of course, I paid for it later. You never beat the media. After I was elected in 1990, the AP chief went to Washington to do a long series on whether or not I was an effective congressman. Guess what he concluded?

But that's all over now. It's water over the dam. It's hardly worth remembering. The AP and I are friends now, and we have a truly professional relationship. Right? Right? Hello. Hello.

While I was heavily outspent by Smith, our campaign did a good job of raising money. Unfortunately, we ran out of funds one week before Election Day and were going to have to take our TV ads off the air. Jane and I discussed the matter, went to the bank, took out all the money we had—$10,000—and gave it to the TV stations.

On the evening before the election I bumped into Smith as we were campaigning in Montpelier, our state capital. We embraced and congratulated each other on a good campaign. Election night was an emotional roller coaster. The returns first came in from Burlington and surrounding towns, where I usually do well. We were ahead by ten points. Then, as the night wore on, our lead dropped to five points. Then we were in a dead heat. Finally, three points behind. And that's where we stayed, hour after hour. Three points. At one o'clock in the morning, I called Smith and conceded. We were very disappointed, but we had run an excellent campaign. The final results: Smith 41 percent, Sanders 38 percent, Poirier 19 percent. I would never again be called a spoiler.

Needless to say,
60 Minutes
did not run the profile on Bernie Sanders. This is America. Winner take all. Who wants a story about a guy who
almost
became a congressman?

Aside from my own campaign, 1988 was an interesting political year for me because I became a Democrat—for all of one night. This was the year that Jesse Jackson waged an exciting and strategically important battle for the Democratic nomination for president. Within the progressive movement in Vermont, there were differing opinions as to what our role should be in Jackson's efforts. While almost everyone was impressed by his campaign, some progressives thought that we should not get involved because Jackson was running within the Democratic Party. On the other hand, strong Vermont progressives like Ellen David Friedman, Liz Blum, Chris Wood, and others had formed a Vermont chapter of the Rainbow Coalition, which was working hard and effectively for Jackson. After a good deal of debate, the Burlington Progressive Coalition decided to endorse Jackson.

The Rainbow Coalition garnered significant support for Jackson statewide. In central Vermont, they mobilized a huge crowd for his appearance in Montpelier. Burlington and Chittenden County progressives also worked hard, and I campaigned with Jackson when he visited Burlington. On the evening of the nonbinding Vermont Democratic Party caucus, which was held in towns throughout the state, I participated in a formal Democratic Party function for the first and last time in my life. (In Vermont the primary process was then absolutely open. Anyone could identify with any party.) Along with many other progressives, I attended the Democratic Caucus in Burlington.

As mayor of the city, I gave the nominating speech for Jackson. Governor Madeleine Kunin, who also lived in Burlington, gave the nominating speech for Dukakis. Given that progressives had replaced Democrats as the governing party in Burlington, not everyone there greeted my presence with enthusiasm. In fact, a number of old-line Dems staged a silent protest by standing up and turning around as I delivered my speech. And when I returned to my seat, a woman in the audience slapped me across the face. It was an exciting evening. By the way, Jackson won the Burlington caucus overwhelmingly. He also carried the state.

By the spring of 1989, my term as mayor of Burlington was over. I was unemployed and began looking for a job. Unlike some former elected officials, I was not flooded with invitations to prestigious institutions. Actually, I didn't get
any
job offers. My particular skills, it seems, were not too marketable. Panicking a bit, I sent off letters to every college in the country. I was interested in both speaking engagements and a teaching job. I also had illusions about writing a syndicated column.

In the fall of 1989, I taught at the Institute for Policy Studies at Harvard University's Kennedy School of Government. They offer a sensible program that brings real-life politicians (not infrequently folks who have lost their last election) to the campus to give students a sense of real-life politics. I taught a course on third-party politics that was well attended. Jane took some courses at the Kennedy School, and two of our children, Carina and David, attended the local public schools. I went to more football games that fall than I had in twenty years, and became addicted to the cinnamon raisin buns at Au Bon Pain at Harvard Square. I know that conservatives worry a great deal about Harvard. They see it as a bastion of progressive thought, the brain trust for the revolution. Trust me. They can stop worrying. Harvard has many wonderful attributes, but the revolution will not start at Harvard University.

In the spring I went to Hamilton College in Clinton, New York. Dennis Gilbert, a professor of sociology there, arranged for me to teach in his department for a semester. I taught one course on politics and another on urban issues. Dennis has since become a very good friend, and remains a part of our political family. I also taught a course for adults at a satellite location through the State University of New York in Binghamton.

In May 1990, I had to make a decision about my future. I had three options. The first was to do what almost any sane human being would choose—drop out of politics. I had served eight of the last twenty years as mayor. I had run in ten elections with my name on the ballot, and I had played an active role in another five or six. I could give the people of Vermont, myself, and my family a break—and return to producing radical educational media, which I had enjoyed so much in the years before I became mayor. The idea of making videos, records, and tapes was attractive. I loved the work, and could probably bring in a decent income. I could also teach, lecture, and write—and spend time with my wife and four kids. All in all, this was a very appealing option.

My second option was to run for governor. In 1990, Governor Kunin decided not to seek a fourth term. Former governor Richard Snelling became the leading candidate and a number of Democrats were considering a run. Within the progressive movement, there was a lot of interest in having me run for governor. The truth is there was (and is) a lot more interest in what happens at the state level than in that faraway place called Washington, D.C. A “Sanders for Governor” campaign would create a great deal of excitement, bring together the various elements of the progressive coalition, sharply raise political consciousness in the state, and might very well result in victory in a three-way race. It was an option that I, and other progressives, gave serious consideration.