CARPETBAGGING
New Yorkers knew they were in for a long hot summer this year
when Hillary Rodham Clinton made an early political foray into
their state and was greeted by demonstrators dressed as black
flies. Mrs. Clinton had made the mistake of remarking that the
First Couple would not be vacationing in the Adirondacks because
of the flies. Her presumed senatorial opponent, Mayor Rudy Giuliani,
was not about to let the public forget those were New York flies
she was talking about. The latest race of the century was on.
Actually,
New Yorkers are due for two long summers, thanks to the duration
of the modern electoral campaign. The Hillary-Rudy showdown may
achieve the epic quality most political commentators are anticipating
through endurance alone. Their expectations, though, seem to be
founded on the—shall we say—challenging personalities
of both Mrs. Clinton and Mayor Giuliani, and on Clinton's rare
status as a "carpetbagger"—that venerable American tradition
of packing up one's political suitcase and heading for where the
pickings seem best.
Yet
nothing is ever really new under the New York sun. There is already
quite a history of carpetbagging, not to mention out-and-out looniness,
in races for the very seat that Giuliani and Clinton are contesting
and which is now held by retiring Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan.
Moynihan's predecessor was that archetypal New Yorker James Buckley,
who won the seat in 1970 by running in a three-way race on the
Conservative party line. Buckley served one term, lost to Moynihan—and
then in the 1980s tried to return to the Senate from his more
familiar Connecticut. His New York sojourn was effectively used
against him by Chris Dodd, who claimed Buckley thought a Senator
should have two states, instead of the other way around. Still,
for controversy, comedy, and sheer audacity, no act of carpetbagging
is likely to measure up anytime soon against what happened when
Robert F. Kennedy invaded the Empire State in 1964.
For
those too young to remember him it is nearly impossible to convey
the depths of feeling that Bobby Kennedy evoked. Nor shall we
see his like again, now that we have banished politics to the
back channels of American life. By the brief zenith of his career
Robert Kennedy was a sort of combination rock star, saint, and
existential hero. His appeal was almost frightening for a democracy,
freighted as it was with so many quasi-mystical, inchoate longings—for
his murdered brother, for glamor and power, for a restored, reunified
America.
In
Bobby Kennedy the man and the time were met, and his allure was
no doubt in part a legacy of the turbulent 1960s, the murder of
his brother. But nearly all successful politicians are blessed
with good timing, and it doesn't explain the nooks and crannies
of the man, the way he could serve at once and the same time as
a lightning rod and a unifying force. He was fervently hated by
some—for his position, his privilege and his "ruthlessness,"
a term which would dog him throughout his political career. For
Jack Newfield, among many others, he was the last major politician
"who could simultaneously speak for the unemployed black teenager
and the white worker trapped in a dead-end job and misunderstood."
Above all he was imbued with a certain, diffident grace unusual
in a politician; the ability, affected or not, to imply that he
was on to all the contrivances of running for public office—yet
could still find something worthy in the effort.
In
August of 1964, Kennedy's star power shone through at the Democratic
National Convention. Introducing a filmed tribute to his late
brother he made a short, emotion-laden speech that consisted mostly
of his reciting five lines from Romeo and Juliet—and received
a teary, ecstatic ovation that went on for 22 minutes. Yet, just
38 years of age, Robert Kennedy found himself at something of
a vocational dead end. He still held his post as the country's
attorney general, but his relationship with new President Lyndon
Johnson had always been based upon mutual loathing and Johnson
had adamantly rejected pleas by the party faithful to make Bobby
his vice-president. Meanwhile, back in Massachusetts, the only
Senate seat up for grabs was the one held by his brother, Edward.
The
obvious place to go was—New York, and the U.S. Senate seat
then held by one-term, Republican incumbent Kenneth Keating. Actually,
the choice was not quite so outrageous as it might seem. Robert
Kennedy had spent about as much of his peripatetic life at his
family's Riverdale estate as he had in Hyannisport, Cambridge,
various prep schools, the Virginia suburbs, and the Court of St.
James. Moreover, New York's state party leaders were about as
demoralized as they are today, desperate for someone to save them
from the surging tide of Rockefeller Republicanism. It took no
more than a month of Stephen Smith's phone calls and arm-twisting
to bring them into line.
"I
think I shall respond to the spontaneous draft of my brother-in-law,"
Bobby told a journalist, trying to head off the carpetbagger issue
with the usual breezy Kennedy wit. Ethel Kennedy suggested "There
is only so much you can do for Massachusetts" as a campaign slogan,
while novelist Richard Condon proposed that Bobby end his speeches
with "Ich bin ein New Yorker."
Once
in, Kennedy moved with what be considered stunning alacrity in
our present politics. He declared for the Senate from New York
on August 26, resigned his position as a Massachusetts delegate
to the Democratic Convention the same day, and wrapped up the
nomination at the New York state convention on September 1. Polls
already showed him leading Keating by 17 points.
But
Ken Keating was no pushover. Sixty-four years old, a dignified,
white-haired veteran of both world wars and a graduate of Harvard
Law School, he had served six terms in the House before being
persuaded by Nelson Rockefeller to run for the Senate in 1958.
Bucking a national Democratic landslide, Keating had scored a
130,000-vote victory over Manhattan's legendary D.A., Frank Hogan,
and gone on to establish a solid record in the Senate as a hard
worker, a domestic liberal, and a staunch cold warrior.
"I
welcome Robert Kennedy to New York," he said when Kennedy announced.
"Indeed, as his Senator, I would be happy to furnish him a guidebook,
road map, and any other useful literature about the Empire State
which any sojourner would find helpful."
He
went on to flail away at Kennedy's carpetbagger status at every
opportunity, repeatedly pointing out that Bobby would not even
be able to vote for himself. Meanwhile, Kennedy's every early
move was tentative and wrong-footed. He seemed consumed with guilt
over the knowledge that only his brother's death had made his
bid for the senate possible. His courting of the entrenched Democratic
leadership had infuriated party reformers still trying to put
the last nail in Carmine DeSapio's Tammany Hall. Gore Vidal and
Lisa Howard organized a "Democrats for Keating Committee," and
a host of liberals including I.F. Stone, James Baldwin, Richard
Hofstadter, Paul Newman, Barbara Tuchman, and Nat Hentoff endorsed
the Republican incumbent. Most of the state's newspapers did likewise.
The New York Times mocked Bobby as a "young Lochnivar" and—twisting
the knife by using the "r" word—deplored "the ruthless swiftness
with which he has put together an irresistible personal political
machine in this state."
By
early October Kennedy's own pollster had Keating with a small
lead, and Bobby was futilely demanding a debate. But in fact Kenneth
Keating was a man fighting on quicksand. His campaign was being
slowly but inexorably drawn down by Barry Goldwater's highjacking
of the Republican party. In order to retain his liberal and moderate
support, Keating refused to endorse Goldwater—only to have
61-year old Clare Boothe Luce—usually a resident of Connecticut—threaten
to run for the Senate on the Conservative party line if Keating
did not back the Republican presidential nominee.
Two
carpetbaggers, and a race pitting Robert Kennedy against Clare
Boothe Luce? Alas, such treasures are beyond us in this life.
Luce eventually desisted but the G.O.P.'s schism continued to
undermine Keating's campaign—while the prospect of victory
was enough to drive even Lyndon Johnson and Bobby Kennedy into
each other's arms. Johnson campaigned with Bobby from Buffalo
to Brooklyn in two days of frenzied, jubliant motorcades and rallies,
squeezing a gamely smiling Kennedy to his chest and telling crowds,
"This is ma boy. I want you to elect ma boy." On October 29, some
half-million people gave Kennedy and Vice-Presidential nominee
Hubert Humphrey a tumultuous reception at Manhattan's traditional,
election-eve labor rally in the garment district. The day before
Keating had appeared before a Wall Street crowd of 500—some
50 of whom turned out to be Goldwater die-hards who booed the
senator and held up placards reading "We Want Barry!" and "Socialist!"
Kennedy
surged back into a commanding lead by mid-October, and Keating
began to make repeated references to his "ruthless" campaign.
Now Keating demanded a debate—and Kennedy demurred, he resorted
to an old tactic. Keating bought half-an-hour of time on WCBS-TV,
for 7:30 p.m. on the night of October 27, and announced that if
Kennedy did not show up, Keating and New York's senior U.S. Senator,
Jacob Javits, would spend the half-hour "debating" an empty chair.
"Let the man from Massachusetts meet me face to face," Keating
told newsmen. "I'll pin his ears back."
Men
from Massachusetts are not in the habit of having their ears pinned
back, however, and Keating was about to find out just how ruthless
Robert Kennedy could be. Kennedy bought thirty minutes of air
time on WCBS himself that night—beginning at 8 p.m. Then,
at approximately 7:25, he showed up at Keating's studio with a
phalanx of reporters and announced that he was ready to debate.
It
was a no-lose situation. Even if Keating agreed to debate, and
won, Kennedy could simply go on the air and spin things anyway
he wanted. And as it happened Keating and his handlers reacted
as if they had been poleaxed. His TV producer and three studio
guards adamantly denied Kennedy access to the studio, and a note
Bobby passed inside went unanswered. While Javits and Keating
lambasted an empty chair and a nameplate reading "Robert F. Kennedy,"
news photographers snapped shots of the flesh-and-blood Kennedy
staring grimly at a sign on the studio door reading "PLEASE KEEP
OUT." When the "debate" was finished, Keating literally ran out
of the room to avoid reporters, while his campaign workers tossed
folding chairs and potted palms in the way of pursuing newsmen.
Bobby
retired to his studio for his own thirty minutes of air time,
hosted by a professional broadcast commentator. There Kennedy
related what had just happened and told viewers with a straight
face, "I just don't believe that's the kind of politics we want
in New York." Later he joked, "There was Javits and Keating on
television really giving it to this empty chair. I've never seen
either of them better. They kicked that chair all over the room."
Keating
blustered that he had been the victim of "a fraud and a hoax."
He actually bought another hour of television time, three days
later, and again challenged Kennedy to debate him. In an object
lesson as to why politicians need media advisors, Keating spent
the whole sixty minutes speaking and taking phone calls while,
periodically, a giant clockface was superimposed on his head—ostensibly
to show that time was running out for Kennedy to appear.
Keating
finally did get to debate Bobby Kennedy—from 11:05 to 12:20
that night, on the radio. He spent much of his time—believe
it or not—attacking Kennedy on why Bobby hadn't debated him
earlier. Kennedy was generally cordial and conciliatory in response,
using the opportunity to blunt his now vaunted reputation for
ruthlessness. Asked at the end of the night if there would be
any more debates, Keating huffed, "That remains to be seen." Bobby
quipped, "Haven't we done enough?"
And
as if fate had not dealt Keating enough hard knocks, a small-time
hood known as "Murph the Surf" broke into New York's Museum of
Natural History that same night and walked away with the spectacular
sapphire known as the Star of India—thereby guaranteeing
that the great debate would be pushed even further into the back
pages of the next day's newspapers.
"Murph"
would eventually be caught. Bobby Kennedy would not. On Election
Day, he won by nearly 720,000 votes—although Keating could
take some cold consolation in the fact that President Johnson's
margin in the state was nearly 2 million votes more. Ted Kennedy
breezed to victory in Massachusetts, and the following January
4th he and Robert were sworn in as the first brothers to serve
in the Senate together since 1803.
Whether
Hillary and Rudy can come up with so delightfully rambunctious
a campaign is questionable, to say the least. Few doubt that they
have the ruthless part down, but for all their years of worthy
public service neither candidate seems to possess Bobby Kennedy's
gift for self-mockery. Speaking to the Women's National Press
Club the very night he was sworn in, Kennedy pretended to rifle
through his notes, telling the audience, "First of all, I want
to say how delighted I am to be here representing the great state
of...ah...ah..." He is still missed.
©
2000 Copyright Forbes Inc.
