A Dull Democratic Party
Discredited and traumatized by the debacle of 1980, the Democrats who gathered in Philadelphia for their midterm convention saw everything coming their way, and no one wanted to mess up the prospects. They are looking toward the congressional elections this fall, and drooling. Jobs, the economy, the environment, equality for women, social security, nuclear arms control – these issues have already locked in major constituencies for November, so the new buzzwords from the party gurus, the pollsters and the media consultants are “fairness” and “balance.” With the notable exception of Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts, most Democrats are still afraid to attack Ronald Reagan in personal terms, preferring to portray his administration as right-wing extremists and themselves as the responsible center. No fussing or fighting, no gouging or kneeing.
Therefore, the performance in Philadelphia was not only dull but fraudulent. The Democrats do not have their act together. They are not unified. They seem like a dead circus whose weary performers suddenly see the crowds streaming back into their tent and are not sure how to react. Circuses depend upon illusion for their thrills, but in the Democrats’ case, it may be the performers, not the audience, who are deceived.
Wherever Democrats convene, the hotel elevators do not work, nor does the air conditioning. This tradition, at least, endured in Philadelphia. In the lobby of the Bellevue Stratford, a swarm of sweaty delegates was elbowing and bumping onto crowded elevators. One overloaded car jammed on the fourth floor –– Philly firemen to the rescue –– and aggravation was rising. The delegates’ destination was the 19th floor, where Walter Mondale, putative candidate for president in 1984, was holding a big reception in the Rose Garden room. Mondale is so popular among his fellow Democrats that in the last Gallup poll, all of 12 percent of them named him as their favorite. Still, free drinks and handshakes with an ex-Veep pull stronger than the Hispanic caucus.
Surrounded by TV lights, Mondale was doing “hi-ya’s” with a long line of people on their way to the bar when suddenly his smile glazed over. “There’s a politician behind you,” Mondale said to the man whose hand he was shaking. Next in line was Teddy Kennedy, who got 45 percent in the same Gallup poll. They exchanged stilted greetings, then Kennedy swung off into the room, pulling all the electricity with him – the crowd, the TV cameras, the scribbling reporters and autograph seekers, all captivated by the Kennedy magic. It was a playful demonstration of a political reality. Mondale is wobbly. Kennedy is still the star. Poor Fritz.
Afterward, some were clucking with disapproval. “I’m political myself,” grumbled one delegate, “but I thought that was in bad taste.” Since when have Democrats been worried about bad taste? Bad taste used to be the party’s middle name, especially at these midterm conventions, where everyone poured bile and discontent on one another. In 1974, a fight over a new party charter angered labor delegates and other old regulars. In 1978, Kennedy put a match to the bonfire with a rousing speech that ignited the party’s latent hostility toward its own president, Jimmy Carter.
This year, they were overcome by rampant moderation. For Democrats, this was unnatural, like a go-go dancer in a baggy suit, and the results were predictably dull. For three days, the six or seven middle-aged white males who would like to be the Democratic presidential nominee in 1984 peddled amiability and earnestness at cocktail parties and luncheons, while the 900 delegates wandered from workshops on campaign mechanics to long and boring platform-drafting sessions. Party chairman Charles T. Manatt presided like a boorish schoolteacher, shushing delegates who chose to make conversation over the boilerplate speeches.
Billie Carr, a grandmotherly national-committee member from Texas who still believes in old-fashioned brawls, sat in the front row of her delegation, scratching her foot and denouncing the empty deliberations. Chairman Manatt had just scolded her by name from the rostrum for talking too much. “We’re operating under martial law here,” she said. “They know who the dissidents are, and they’ve got us all scattered so we can’t do anything. I guess I could scare up 300 people who would raise hell, but, shit, it’s tiresome getting hit in the head.”
There was no incentive for steamy oratory on behalf of lost causes: The rules guaranteed that only agreed-upon drafts of party positions would be adopted by any workshops or ratified by the full convention. “That whole platform thing,” Carr said, “I can sum it up for you: ‘Reagan is bad. We are good. We don’t like crime.’ I really think we’re selling people short when we’ve got economic chaos in the country and we don’t want to say anything more than that.”
In a few respects, the Democrats did advance gingerly beyond those sentiments, but it was done in such a manner that the hard arguments were evaded. The economics task force, for instance, nodded toward the neoliberals by endorsing the idea of a simplified income tax that would undermine the progressive structure liberals have always defended. The old liberals have chosen not to fight it, but in return, they want endorsement for their old-fashioned jobs program, the sort that neoliberals denounce as fiscally irresponsible. This is a marriage of contradictory ideas that can’t last.
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