Away from the barricades, riot police and the generally embarrassing show going on in St Paul I had the opportunity to look into the real world of the RNC – the world of fund raising luncheons and celebrity galas happening all over the city. Removed from the overly indoctrinated morons, made for TV speeches and corny documentaries at the Xcel center, these little satellites of influence across the city showcased the unique exchange of money and ideas that is party politics.
I would be having lunch with Newt Gingrich, at a fund raising luncheon sponsored by the American Cancer Society. On the car ride to the luncheon, with a bemused smile, Don King’s voice ricocheted in my head – “Only in America.” Only in America could I, having the previous night joined my fellow patriots in a protest against the war and near clash with an overbearing police force, find myself dressed in suit and tie and on my way to sit down with one of the most famous/notorious figures of the modern Republican Party. I confess to knowing little of Mr. Gingrich. During his rise and fall in the mid nineties I was in my early teens, more concerned with Kirby Puckett’s batting average than white men in suits bearing contracts with America. From watching some of his commentary on the Fox News Channel I had come to see him as a typical partisan blowhard, Sean Hannity’s long lost father.
The previous evening Newt appeared on both the Daily Show and Fox News being at once charming and offensive, humorous and blunt. During Joe Lieberman’s speech on Tuesday night the camera cut to Newt several times. It would seem as if this relic of 90’s partisanship was seeing his celebrity restored, or as the media relations man for the ACS put it: “it’s like Baskin Robbins and he’s the flavor of the month.”
The flavor of the month was running late. At the Minnekhada Country Club roughly fifty people stood around in the lobby, in groups of two to four talking quietly. Their name tags had titles denoting their congressional status or affiliation with various groups like Blue Cross or the drug company AstraZeneca. My name tag said simply “table 7.” Some glaringly well-groomed persons navigated their way through the room, shaking hands, making introductions. I was intent on studying their ways, nervously clenching on to my glass of iced tea and trying not to make any noticeable action that would give me away as a socialist. Schmoozing is an exact and transparent art from. Those familiar with each other will greet with a “hey” or some other informal salutation, using nicknames as often as possible. Introductions are made with an overly aggressive hand shake, intense eye contact and the well acted pretense that this meeting is a cornerstone of one’s life. Thirty seconds are then spent discussing a random snippet of politics, witty observation or insider gossip. The next thirty seconds are devoted to personal affairs, like bike riding trips and golf, and, well, golf and more golf. With an almost impeccable internal clock the schmoozer, after a minute, finds some excuse to wander on, politely walking away to more handshakes and phony chatter - the inner workings of politics based on the sheer amount of people you know.
Newt Gingrich’s entrance was anticlimactic; he simply walked in the door like any mere mortal, head down and made a streamline for the bathroom. He looked exactly as he does on TV; an overly large head and facial features that seem drawn to his nose by some strange gravity - the spitting image of a Nazi SS Officer in any World War II movie. Event organizers beckoned us to our tables, where a plate of cold plastic chicken pasta salad awaited. Newt would not be doing a “meet and greet,” to the amazingly restrained disappointment of the people who had paid an extra $250 for that very privilege.
The people sitting at table 7 were a weird assortment of old men and women in business suits. A woman in red seemed unnaturally flustered probably due to some pharmaceutical triggering that made finding her glass of iced tea a life and death matter. The man to my right bore a striking resemblance to my dentist and kept repeating in my ear how much he wanted to be retired so he could be drinking a couple of beers right now.
“But that wouldn’t do, drink two beers and go to the office.” It was at once a statement and a question. I thought of several responses, most of them involving the words ‘fuck it,’ but held my speech. This was obviously some Republican litmus test the old bastard was using on me. I simply smiled.
Thankfully the speeches started. A woman introduced a man from Astra Zeneca, a multi-billion dollar drug company that, according to the speaker, was solely devoted to helping people. I wasn’t paying much attention, self-consciously picking away at the horrible food on my plate, comforted by the fact that no-one else in the room seemed to pay much attention either, save the lone person my age who was obscenely nodding at everything the speaker said (this wretched young Republican would be doing his bobble-head impression throughout the lunch, being a constant distraction and embarrassment to my generation). Someone then introduced the introducer of Newt Gingrich who finally introduced the man himself.
A standing ovation at a luncheon is a strange thing. People were indeed on their feet and the joining together of hands to make sounds was there, but the energy just wasn’t. The standing reception was like some collective six year old forced to dress up and take a family portrait - a tedious formality. Newt stood stoically on the podium, seeming to gather himself.
From the moment he opened his mouth I had developed a new found respect for the man. In the context of the previous speakers Newt was like John Coltrane next to a high school marching band. His posture, his tone, the velocity of his speech and the obvious mastery of captivating a room was self-evident. He began with a wonderfully told anecdote about how he became Speaker of the House. The story was at once self-deprecating and self-aggrandizing, funny and informative. The words flowed as if he was telling you his tale as a friend; the deceptive informality utterly spellbinding to an audience wearing name tags and trying to stomach terrible pasta salad.
Then the sublime happened. Newt began to talk about how cancer was a personal issue in his life – his father and step-father had died of lung cancer, as had his grandfather, and his wife had battled with breast cancer. When he came to talking about his daughter with rheumatoid arthritis it happened. His voice broke, he choked up and visible, from fifteen feet away, tears began to well up in his eyes.
Watching Newt Gingrich cry is a supernatural thing. I am not one for making lists of things to do before I die, but if I were to write one seeing New Gingrich crying in person would be near the top. At first I reacted like an intelligent child at a magicians show, looking for the secret string, or some sign that these tears were a product of a masterful political figure. But, I realized, this was Newt Gingrich, not some cry-baby liberal – he would no more cry for political purposes than Mother Theresa would personally perform an abortion. Newt Gingrich was indeed a real person after all, and the spaghetti on my plate seemed to spin…
When Newt gathered himself what followed was a half hour dissertation on the problems confronting health care in the twenty-first century. I was startled by his mastery of the subject. His arguments were well-thought out and substantially backed. With every word you could sense that the man had taken great lengths to study his subject, and while I consider myself fairly intelligent much of what he said sailed over my head. He talked of the need for electronic health records, the inability of the medical world in keeping up with the rapidly accelerating advances in science and technology, and, of course, some Republican admonishment of government fraud and the inability of public bureaucracies to compete with the private sector.
The standing ovation at the ending of the speech was a true ovation. Newt had come in and worked the crowd like an adept performer, and in doing so made the pathetic pasta worth the hundred dollar donations. He took several questions, answering each with mastery. A good looking Italian man to my left asked a question. Newt proceeded to answer it constantly looking my way, seeming to stare into my being while delivering a succinct answer, raining down three letter acronyms with the confidence of a man that could navigate the federal bureaucracy with his eyes closed.
I was the first one to flee the country club. On the ride home the bemused, confident smile was gone. For the first time I could see the distinct line between the public and the political process. Newt Gingrich is to the public the very same partisan swine I thought him to be. But to the insiders of the government, the informed advocates, the elected representatives, and lobbyists – those people who know what the three letter acronyms mean and who are honestly more curious about how to realistically implement a system of electronic health records than whether Sarah Palin’s daughter is pregnant – Newt Gingrich is a man honestly trying to fix a system the best way he can conceive how. The real shit happens in the midst of overcooked pasta and fund raising checks, with congressmen, people from drug companies and singular outsiders at table 7. The public, unaware and uninterested in the intricacies of the political moment are fed a political dialogue as substantial as anything Hollywood might offer. Behind the scenes people actually know what the fuck it is they are talking about. Behind the scenes people are actually thinking not about abstract terms like “change” but thinking about how to fundamentally update the government to deal with the problems of the modern age. And behind the scenes Newt Gingrich is a man who cries.
