Decision Points

by George W. Bush

  With Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip. White House/Joyce Boghosian

  Queen Elizabeth’s hospitality at Buckingham Palace during our 2003 state visit was exquisite. We received a forty-one-gun salute, inspected the royal troops in the courtyard, and slept in the immaculately appointed Belgian Suite. Our room had been occupied by Queen Elizabeth’s uncle, King Edward VIII, before he abdicated the throne in 1936 to marry an American divorcée. It included a three-hundred-year-old mirror, some 10 million British pounds’—$15 million—worth of antiques, and a beautiful view of the palace gardens. At our afternoon tea with Her Majesty and Prince Philip, I asked the queen about her dogs. A few minutes later, a royal footman appeared with her famous corgis. They were friendly and polite. My only hope was that if Barney ever met the queen, he would behave as well as they did—and not bark for Scottish independence.

  That evening, Her Majesty and Prince Philip gave an elegant state banquet in our honor. Our places were set with ten pieces of silverware and seven crystal wine goblets. Evidently, word hadn’t reached the royal pantry that I had quit drinking. Before I stood to make my toast in white tie and tails, I looked over at Laura in her beautiful burgundy gown. I wondered if she was thinking what I was: We’ve come a long way from that backyard barbecue in Midland.

  At Buckingham Palace. White House/Eric Draper

  The stateliness of Buckingham Palace marked a stark contrast to what awaited on the flight home. As Air Force One took off, legislative director David Hobbs called me with a list of about a dozen wavering House members, mostly conservatives. I started dialing for votes over the Atlantic. Several congressmen were unavailable to take my call. One junior member did answer. “I didn’t come to Washington to increase the size of government,” he told me.

  “You know what, I didn’t, either,” I answered. “I came to make sure the government works. If we’re going to have a Medicare program, it ought to be modern, not broken.”

  “This is just another entitlement that will keep growing forever,” he said.

  “So are you for abolishing Medicare?” I responded. “This is an opportunity to introduce competition into the system and hold down costs. Just so you know, this is a helluva lot better deal than you’re going to get from any other president.”

  He wasn’t persuaded. When I landed in Washington, I made another round of calls. We were making some headway, but it was going to be tight. When the House voted at 3:00 a.m., the initial count came up short. Speaker Denny Hastert took the rare step of holding the vote open in the hope he could persuade a few congressmen to change their votes. Just before 5:00 a.m., David Hobbs woke me up with a call from the Capitol. “We need two more votes,” he said. “Can you talk to a few more members?”

  He passed his cell phone around to several Republicans who might be persuaded to change their minds. I argued the case as best I could, given my jet lag. David called back a little while later. Miracle of miracles, the House had passed the bill, 220 to 215. The Senate followed a few days later. I signed the Medicare Modernization Act of 2003 on December 8, 2003, at Constitution Hall. Behind me on the stage was a group of seniors who would benefit from the new law. One was Mary Jane Jones, the woman from Virginia who had to reuse her needles to afford insulin. The prescription drug benefit would save her an estimated $2,700 a year.

  The new law called for the prescription drug benefit to take effect on January 1, 2006. Skeptics said that seniors would have trouble picking from all the competing private options. I disagreed. I believed that seniors were plenty capable of making decisions about their lives, and that the government ought to trust them to do so.

  My effective secretary of health and human services, Mike Leavitt, worked with Medicare Administrator Mark McClellan and his team on a massive public outreach campaign. It paid off. More than 22 million seniors signed up for a prescription drug benefit during the initial five-month enrollment period. In a 2008 survey, 90 percent of Medicare prescription drug recipients—and 95 percent of low-income beneficiaries—said they were satisfied with the program.

  Ultimately, Medicare modernization was a tradeoff. We created a needed new benefit but spent more money than I wanted. We introduced market-based competition among private drug plans, but we were unable to use the new benefit as leverage to move more seniors from government-run Medicare to private Medicare Advantage plans. We created health savings accounts, but we could not convince Congress to require government-run Medicare to compete on a level playing field with private plans.

  By the time I left office, more than 90 percent of Medicare beneficiaries had coverage for prescription drugs. Ten million were enrolled in private-sector health-care plans through Medicare Advantage. Almost seven million Americans owned health savings accounts, more than a third of whom had not previously owned health insurance.

  Thanks to competition between private-sector plans, the average monthly premium for prescription drug coverage dropped from an initial estimate of $35 to $23 the first year. By 2008, the initial estimate of $634 billion had dropped below $400 billion. The Medicare prescription drug benefit became one of the few government programs ever to come in well under budget. Market forces had worked. And we had moved America’s health care system in the right direction: away from government control and toward the choices and competition of a private market system, which is the best way to control costs in the long run.

  “I’m optimistic,” I told Dad as we hunted quail in South Texas on New Year’s Day, 2004. “This election is going to come down to who knows how to lead, who will take on the big issues, and who can keep America safe.”

  Dad was concerned. For months, he had watched the Democratic presidential candidates take swings at me every day. The poundings were having an impact. My approval ratings had topped 90 percent after 9/11 and 75 percent after the liberation of Iraq. By the end of 2003, I had dropped to the fifties in some polls. Dad had seen the pattern before. His approval rating had skyrocketed in 1991, then crashed before the 1992 election.

  I assured him that our mutual friend Karl Rove had developed a solid campaign strategy. “If we do this right, it will come out just fine,” I said. “Especially if they nominate Howard Dean.”

  I knew the Democratic front-runner, the former governor of Vermont, from events we had attended in the 1990s. Dean was loud, shrill, and undisciplined. I was pulling hard for him to get the nomination.

  Unfortunately, Dean’s lead evaporated before he won a single delegate. Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts claimed an upset victory in Iowa, won the New Hampshire primary, and cruised to the nomination. A Vietnam veteran and four-term senator, Kerry was a hard worker, a polished debater, and a tough campaigner. I considered him a formidable opponent.

  Kerry also had weaknesses. He had the process-oriented mindset of a longtime legislator and a voting record that qualified as the most liberal in the Senate. In the fall of 2003, he had voted against an $87 billion bill to fund troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. Shortly after he clinched the nomination, my campaign ran an ad highlighting his position. Kerry responded, “I actually did vote for the $87 billion before I voted against it.”

  I spoke to Karl the moment I heard the sound bite. “There’s our opening,” I said. “The American people expect their president to take a clear stand and defend it, especially when it comes to supporting troops in combat.” We grabbed the “flip-flop” theme and ran with it for the rest of the campaign.

  On March 10, 2004, I received a letter from Jenna, who was in her senior year at the University of Texas. In 2000, neither Jenna nor Barbara had attended a single campaign event. They had made it clear they wanted nothing to do with politics. So it was quite a surprise to read Jenna’s words:

  Dear Dad,

  I had a vivid dream last night, a dream so vivid I woke in tears. Although I am not yet as spiritual as you, I have taken this dream as a sign. You have worked your entire life to give Barbara and me everything we have ever wanted or needed. You have given us love, suppor
t; and I know you have included us in every decision you have ever made.

  You and Mom have taught us the meaning of unconditional love. I watched as Mom selflessly, gently gave herself to Pa as he suffered. And I watched you give a year of your life to Gampy; I watched your shared pain on election night. At age twenty-two, I finally have learned what that selfless pain must have felt like.

  I hate hearing lies about you. I hate when people criticize you. I hate that everybody can’t see the person I love and respect, the person that I hope I someday will be like.

  It is because of all of these reasons that I have decided that if you want me to I would love to work full-time for you in the fall. Please think about it, talk to Mom about it, and get back to me. For now I have stopped applying for jobs in New York. I know I may be a little rough around the edges, but with the proper training I could get people to see the Dad I love.

  This may seem like a rushed, impulsive decision, but I have been thinking about it constantly. I want to try to give you something for the twenty-two years you have given me.

  In my dream, I didn’t help you. And I watched somebody win who isn’t supposed to. And I cried, I cried for you, for our country, and for my guilt. I don’t want my dream to become reality, so if I can help in any way please let me. We can talk more about it during Easter.

  I love you and am so proud of you,

  Love,

  Jenna

  I still choke up when I read her sweet words, which also reflected Barbara’s sentiments. I was thrilled they wanted to join the campaign. My last campaign would be their first.

  The first event Barbara and I attended together was a rally in front of eleven thousand people in Marquette, Michigan, an Upper Peninsula town that hadn’t seen a visit from a sitting president since William Howard Taft. Just before I gave my speech, Barbara took her seat in the front row behind the podium.

  The announcer introduced me, and the audience roared. As I stepped up to the microphone, I turned to look at Barbara. She had tears streaming down her face. After four years on a college campus, she was surprised and touched to see such enthusiastic support for her dad. It reminded me of the feeling I had when I first heard a crowd cheer for my father. The circle was complete.

  Heading out on the campaign trail with Barbara. White House/Tina Hager

  In some ways, the 2004 campaign was easier than 2000. I benefited from the trappings of the presidency, especially Air Force One and Marine One. In another way, 2004 was tougher. I was both candidate and president. I had to strike a balance between the two.

  I drew energy from the people around me, especially Laura and the girls. I loved our bus tours through the Midwest, where thousands of citizens lined the main streets of small towns. One day in Wisconsin we rolled through the hometown of Dick Tubb, the multitalented Air Force doctor who traveled everywhere with me. I saw a handpainted sign that read “Welcome Home, Dr. Tubb!” Underneath, in smaller print, the person had added, “You Too, George W.”

  On the road, July 2004. White House/Eric Draper

  Nothing buoyed my spirits like our supporters on the campaign trail. I was energized by their intensity, and their dedication inspired me to work harder so that I would not let them down. In the 16,500-person town of Poplar Bluff, Missouri, 23,000 people turned out for a speech. In the township of West Chester, Ohio, 41,000 people packed Voice of America Park. As I outlined John Kerry’s shifting positions, a sea of arms swayed left and right amid a chant of “Flip-Flop, Flip-Flop.” Some people came dressed as human-size flip-flops. I encountered new groups, including Barristers for Bush, Buckeyes for Bush, and Barbara and Jenna’s favorite, Twins for Bush.

  Speaking here in Troy, Ohio. White House/Paul Morse

  I was especially encouraged by signs that read “God Bless You.” As I shook hands and posed for photos on the rope line, I was amazed by the number who said the same four words: “I pray for you.” I told them their prayers were a wonderful gift. They gave me strength. Seeing those voters also gave me hope that some Bush supporters who stayed home after the DUI revelation in 2000 would come back to the polls in 2004.

  John Kerry had intense supporters of his own. Hollywood filmmaker Michael Moore came out with a so-called documentary that was nothing more than campaign propaganda. In return, Kerry said that Hollywood entertainers conveyed “the heart and soul of our country.” Wealthy donors like investment mogul George Soros gave Kerry huge amounts of money through 527s, fundraising organizations that circumvented the campaign finance laws so many Democrats had championed.**** Renegade staffers at the CIA leaked information intended to embarrass the administration. The assault culminated in Dan Rather’s false report, based on forged documents, that I had not fulfilled my duties in the Texas Air National Guard.

  While the media was eager to scrutinize my military service, their appetite was noticeably less ravenous when Kerry’s came into question. In February 2004, I sat down for an hour-long, one-on-one interview with Tim Russert. After grilling me mainly on Iraq, he pushed me on whether I would make all my military records available to the public. I promised I would. Soon after, I instructed the Defense Department to release every document related to my Guard service.

  “You did yourself some good today, Mr. President,” Tim said after the cameras went dark.

  “Thanks, Tim,” I said. “By the way, I sure hope you will be as tough on John Kerry about his military records as you were on me.”

  “Oh, believe me,” he said, “we will.”

  Tim interviewed John Kerry two months later, and he did ask about the military records. Kerry promised to release them to the public during the campaign, but he never did.

  At the Democratic National Convention in Boston, Kerry invited former shipmates and accepted the nomination with a salute. “I’m John Kerry, and I’m reporting for duty,” he declared in his opening line. His speech called for “telling the truth to the American people” and promised he would “be a commander in chief who will never mislead us into war.”

  Kerry’s argument that I had misled the country on Iraq didn’t pass the commonsense test. As a member of the Senate in 2002, he had access to the same intelligence I did and decided to cast his vote in support of the war resolution.

  Kerry had trapped himself in a contradiction. “My opponent hasn’t answered the question of whether, knowing what we know now, he would have supported going into Iraq,” I said at a campaign stop in New Hampshire. A few days later, standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon, Kerry took the bait. “Yes,” he said, “I would have voted for the authority.”

  It was a stunning admission. After using the grand stage of his convention to charge that I had misled America into war—one of the most serious allegations anyone can level at a commander in chief—John Kerry said he would vote to authorize the war again if he had the chance.

  Making the case against Kerry was important, but it was even more important to show voters that I would continue to lead on the big issues. I had seen incumbents like Ann Richards run backward-looking campaigns, and I vowed not to repeat their mistake. “The only reason to look back in a campaign is to determine who best to lead us forward,” I said. “Even though we’ve done a lot, I’m here to tell you there’s more to do.”

  At the Republican National Convention in New York, and in speeches across the country, I laid out an ambitious second-term agenda. I pledged to modernize Social Security, reform the immigration system, and overhaul the tax code, while continuing No Child Left Behind and the faith-based initiative, implementing Medicare reform, and above all, fighting the war on terror.

  Taking the stage with Laura at the 2004 Republican National Convention. White House/Joyce Naltchayan

  I crisscrossed the country throughout the fall, with interruptions for each of the three debates. The first was held at the University of Miami. Debating was a strong suit for John Kerry. Like a prizefighter, he charged out of his corner and punched furiously after every question. It was an effective technique.
I spent too much time trying to sort through which of his many attacks to answer.

  I did land one roundhouse. When Kerry suggested that American military action should be subject to a “global test,” I countered, “I’m not exactly sure what you mean, ‘passes the global test’ … My attitude is you take preemptive action in order to protect the American people.”

  On the car ride to the post-debate rally, I received a phone call from Karen Hughes. She told me the networks had broadcast split-screen images showing my facial expressions while Kerry was speaking. Apparently I hadn’t done a very good job of disguising my opinion of his answers. Just as Al Gore’s sighs dominated the coverage of the first debate in 2000, my scowls became the story in 2004. I thought it was unfair both times.

  An even stranger story unfolded a few days later, when a photograph from the debate surfaced. It showed a wrinkle down the back of my suit. Somebody came up with the idea that the crease was actually a hidden radio connected to Karl Rove. The rumor flew around the Internet and became a sensation among conspiracy theorists. It was an early taste of a twenty-first-century phenomenon: the political bloggers. In retrospect, it’s too bad I didn’t have a radio, so Karl could have told me to quit grimacing.

  The second and third debates went better. My face was calm, my suit was pressed, and I was better prepared to counter Kerry’s jabs. But as is usually the case in presidential debates, the most damaging blow was self-inflicted. At our final debate in Tempe, moderator Bob Schieffer raised the topic of same-sex marriage and asked, “Do you believe homosexuality is a choice?”