Барак Обама - The Audacity of Hope

SUCH LATE-NIGHT meditations proved unnecessary in my immediate decision about George W. Bush’s nominees to the federal court of appeals. In the end, the crisis in the Senate was averted, or at least postponed: Seven Democratic senators agreed not to filibuster three of Bush’s five controversial nominees, and pledged that in the future they would reserve the filibuster for more “extraordinary circumstances.” In exchange, seven Republicans agreed to vote against a “nuclear option” that would permanently eliminate the filibuster — again, with the caveat that they could change their minds in the event of “extraordinary circumstances.” What constituted “extraordinary circumstances” no one could say, and both Democratic and Republican activists, itching for a fight, complained bitterly at what they perceived to be their side’s capitulation.

I declined to be a part of what would be called the Gang of Fourteen; given the profiles of some of the judges involved, it was hard to see what judicial nominee might be so much worse as to constitute an “extraordinary circumstance” worthy of filibuster. Still, I could not fault my colleagues for their efforts. The Democrats involved had made a practical decision — without the deal, the “nuclear option” would have likely gone through.

No one was more ecstatic with this turn of events than Senator Byrd. The day the deal was announced, he walked triumphantly down the halls of the Capitol with Republican John Warner of Virginia, the younger members of the Gang trailing behind the old lions. “We have kept the Republic!” Senator Byrd announced to a pack of reporters, and I smiled to myself, thinking back to the visit that the two of us had finally been able to arrange a few months earlier.

It was in Senator Byrd’s hideaway on the first floor of the Capitol, tucked alongside a series of small, beautifully painted rooms where Senate committees once regularly met. His secretary had led me into his private office, which was filled with books and what looked to be aging manuscripts, the walls lined with old photographs and campaign memorabilia. Senator Byrd asked me if it would be all right if we took a few photographs together, and we shook hands and smiled for the photographer who was present. After the secretary and the photographer had left, we sat down in a pair of well-worn chairs. I inquired after his wife, who I had heard had taken a turn for the worse, and asked about some of the figures in the photos. Eventually I asked him what advice he would give me as a new member of the Senate.

“Learn the rules,” he said. “Not just the rules, but the precedents as well.” He pointed to a series of thick binders behind him, each one affixed with a handwritten label. “Not many people bother to learn them these days. Everything is so rushed, so many demands on a senator’s time. But these rules unlock the power of the Senate. They’re the keys to the kingdom.”

We spoke about the Senate’s past, the presidents he had known, the bills he had managed. He told me I would do well in the Senate but that I shouldn’t be in too much of a rush — so many senators today became fixated on the White House, not understanding that in the constitutional design it was the Senate that was supreme, the heart and soul of the Republic.

“So few people read the Constitution today,” Senator Byrd said, pulling out his copy from his breast pocket. “I’ve always said, this document and the Holy Bible, they’ve been all the guidance I need.”

Before I left, he insisted that his secretary bring in a set of his Senate histories for me to have. As he slowly set the beautifully bound books on the table and searched for a pen, I told him how remarkable it was that he had found the time to write.

“Oh, I have been very fortunate,” he said, nodding to himself. “Much to be thankful for. There’s not much I wouldn’t do over.” Suddenly he paused and looked squarely into my eyes. “I only have one regret, you know. The foolishness of youth…”

We sat there for a moment, considering the gap of years and experience between us.

“We all have regrets, Senator,” I said finally. “We just ask that in the end, God’s grace shines upon us.”

He studied my face for a moment, then nodded with the slightest of smiles and flipped open the cover of one of the books. “God’s grace. Yes indeed. Let me sign these for you then,” he said, and taking one hand to steady the other, he slowly scratched his name on the gift.

O NE OF MY favorite tasks of being a senator is hosting town hall meetings. I held thirty-nine of them my first year in the Senate, all across Illinois, in tiny rural towns like Anna and prosperous suburbs like Naperville, in black churches on the South Side and a college in Rock Island. There’s not a lot of fanfare involved. My staff will call up the local high school, library, or community college to see if they’re willing to host the event. A week or so in advance, we advertise in the town newspaper, in church bulletins, and on the local radio station. On the day of the meeting I’ll show up a half hour early to chat with town leaders and we’ll discuss local issues, perhaps a road in need of repaving or plans for a new senior center. After taking a few photographs, we enter the hall where the crowd is waiting. I shake hands on my way to the stage, which is usually bare except for a podium, a microphone, a bottle of water, and an American flag posted in its stand. And then, for the next hour or so, I answer to the people who sent me to Washington.

Attendance varies at these meetings: We’ve had as few as fifty people turn out, as many as two thousand. But however many people show up, I am grateful to see them. They are a cross-section of the counties we visit: Republican and Democrat, old and young, fat and skinny, truck drivers, college professors, stay-at-home moms, veterans, schoolteachers, insurance agents, CPAs, secretaries, doctors, and social workers. They are generally polite and attentive, even when they disagree with me (or one another). They ask me about prescription drugs, the deficit, human rights in Myanmar, ethanol, bird flu, school funding, and the space program. Often they will surprise me: A young flaxen-haired woman in the middle of farm country will deliver a passionate plea for intervention in Darfur, or an elderly black gentleman in an inner-city neighborhood will quiz me on soil conservation.

And as I look out over the crowd, I somehow feel encouraged. In their bearing I see hard work. In the way they handle their children I see hope. My time with them is like a dip in a cool stream. I feel cleansed afterward, glad for the work I have chosen.

At the end of the meeting, people will usually come up to shake hands, take pictures, or nudge their child forward to ask for an autograph. They slip things into my hand — articles, business cards, handwritten notes, armed-services medallions, small religious objects, good-luck charms. And sometimes someone will grab my hand and tell me that they have great hopes for me, but that they are worried that Washington is going to change me and I will end up just like all the rest of the people in power.

Please stay who you are, they will say to me.

Please don’t disappoint us.

IT IS AN American tradition to attribute the problem with our politics to the quality of our politicians. At times this is expressed in very specific terms: The president is a moron, or Congressman So-and-So is a bum. Sometimes a broader indictment is issued, as in “They’re all in the pockets of the special interests.” Most voters conclude that everyone in Washington is “just playing politics,” meaning that votes or positions are taken contrary to conscience, that they are based on campaign contributions or the polls or loyalty to party rather than on trying to do what is right. Often, the fiercest criticism is reserved for the politician from one’s own ranks, the Democrat who “doesn’t stand for anything” or the “Republican in Name Only.” All of which leads to the conclusion that if we want anything to change in Washington, we’ll need to throw the rascals out.