Mark knew that these were my standards of personal success and he worked on me—sometimes playfully, sometimes seriously—to see that in coming back on as campaign manager I would have the opportunity to meet them. He continued to plead his case, and six and a half months into his campaign I gave in, plain and simple. As fall began and the older boys returned to a school routine, I secured help for the little ones and started to pitch in formally with the campaign.
Win or lose, I knew that for me, the standard of success in this campaign wouldn’t be measured by the simple metric of whether Mark won. As the boys were older, their needs were more complex. I felt my efforts would be a success if I ran a well-organized, ethical campaign while never feeling that I had neglected my children.
Toward this end, I tried to stay close to home. The ground floor of our Sullivan’s Island home has a concrete slab floor and exposed heating/AC ducts. Until Mark announced his candidacy for governor, we used it as the boys’ playroom, a place where they could do whatever they wanted, and we also had one room there that served as Mark’s office. Thereafter, we rearranged the entire space for the campaign office, bringing down folding tables as desks and adding computers and phones as needed. By closing off a corner near the bathroom, we created a bedroom for campaign workers, bringing two sets of bunk beds from the barn at Coosaw, and putting the boys’ old dinosaur sheets on them. It became known as Jurassic Park. We also used the old garage area and divided that space into more campaign offices.
The average age of the group downstairs was about twenty-two, which gave me, at age thirty-nine, the right to refer to my “little kids” upstairs and my “big kids” downstairs. Before long it was anybody’s guess as to what or who I would find when I went down the steps. I felt sometimes as if I were in charge of a large group of animals at a zoo.
When the boys returned from school—Marshall in fourth grade and Landon in second were in school until three o’clock and Bolton and Blake were home all afternoon—they added an entirely new flavor to the campaign. At any given moment, we’d have big and little kids jumping or wrestling together on the trampoline or shooting hoops in the driveway. The boys made a game out of catching the press secretary on breaks outside for a smoke. We had a bunny, Sully, who came downstairs with Bolton to visit often. Our kids charged through the offices dressed in armor with swords, or they might swap football cards with one of the campaign workers, or ride bikes to get snacks together down the street. We had a cat then named Spot who did not take kindly to the new routine at the house. He randomly threw up on the computer keyboards and sometimes would disgust us further by presenting a creature caught on his hunt.
Things downstairs were active into the evening most nights. I would cook dinner upstairs and soon was cooking for extras, happy to have others so dedicated to our new mission. I did my best to juggle it all and usually enjoyed all the activity in the house. There were certainly times, though, that I wanted to close my eyes and wish it all away. I reminded myself again and again that this pace and this activity would not, could not, last forever.
A campaign is an intense affair and a statewide race has so many overlapping facets that it becomes a big boiling pot that needs to be kept bubbling without spilling over. While we all had a great deal of fun in the campaign, and some of the daily volunteers or employees are now lifelong friends, it would be a lie to say that I never lost my cool. I understood that loose talk, loose finances, or shaky attention to detail can all unravel a campaign. There was a place at the bottom of the stairs where we hung beach hats and baseball caps. I would bring a worker to this spot if I needed to have a stern or serious discussion about an issue in a semiprivate location. Not surprisingly, the gang began to speak of getting in trouble as being “taken to the hats.”
Fundraising in politics is also a 24/7 job—not something I ever enjoyed, but it seems a necessary evil throughout the political process. We raised and spent more than $7 million in small increments through mail or events in South Carolina and beyond during that campaign. We had stacks of shoeboxes filled with checks around the office and systematically made sure that every donor received a letter signed and personalized by Mark.
I tend to think of the ability to raise money as an indication of the strength of one’s ideas and of one’s ability to communicate those ideas. Mark was good at it; I was not. I chose to abstain. On most evenings Mark was off raising money, while I focused on keeping things going at home. As we got closer to the election, I attended fundraisers if they were large ones or appeared with Mark when needed, but I held off as long as possible so I could stay at home with the boys. I know Mark gave back to the country and to the state through his service as a congressman, governor, and in the Air Force Reserves, work of which we can all be proud. Yet I wonder what it cost him to continually be at functions with his hand out asking for money. I have long believed that it “is in giving that we receive” and that generosity helps keep a person focused on important things in life outside of the self. The constant take, take, take is one of those things that serves as another way to isolate a politician. In this way, the easier it got for him to ask others for money, the more he moved away from our youthful idea of a citizen legislator and toward the identity of a career politician.
Even though fundraisers weren’t my thing, the boys and I did need to be on the road with Mark for appearances. While I care about being generally well-groomed, on the campaign trail in a high-profile race the idea of “appearances” gets ratcheted up several notches. I always needed to be aware of how I looked or how our children looked or acted in public. The public pays close attention to adorable little boys, but unfortunately, little boys are hard to control, especially when one or more of them is potty training. I had always encouraged the boys to simply go outside discreetly if they couldn’t hold it. This saved many a pair of pants during potty training. But in the early stages of the campaign, Blake, then aged two, dropped his short pants to relieve himself unceremoniously on a gravestone in an old churchyard as we were leaving a crowded church service. I had all the boys dressed in matching outfits, so I couldn’t pretend this boy wasn’t my own—tempting as that might have been at the time—so when a woman there called Blake to my attention, I grabbed him up and hurried to the bathroom hoping not to make a scene.
On another occasion, I had all the boys on stage in Columbia as we awaited the arrival of President Bush, coming in to campaign for the party. I had given them clear expectations for their behavior: They could run around onstage until I told them it was time to stop and then they were expected to sit very quietly through the president’s speech. One of the secret service men was getting anxious about Blake, who was dancing on the stage in his cowboy boots waving an American flag in one hand and his blankie in the other. I didn’t see much harm in Blake entertaining the crowd as they waited in the heat, and I promised him the boys would behave when told. On cue, when President Bush arrived they quieted down and sat patiently through the speech. The next morning, however, there was a photo in the paper with the president at the podium and just behind him to the side was Bolton (maybe five) with his head in his hands looking incredibly bored! Mark was disappointed in me for not coaching the boys to look interested, but I myself was proud of their good behavior. There’s only so much you can ask of a child, and sitting quietly through a political speech was the limit!
One time we traveled from city to city campaigning over a weekend, ending up at a fundraising event. After the event we loaded the boys in the car and headed to a friend’s house in the country near a town called Estill. We arrived past midnight and moved the boys to beds while they were asleep, something that had become a common occurrence on the campaign trail. We were staying in a private cabin and in the morning awoke in a room full of large stuffed game on the walls. When we asked if the boys knew what city we were in, one responded “Africa!” Sometimes I, too, felt like we were lost on safari.
In the weeks leading up to the primary the boys, out of school fo
r the summer, joined us on a tour of the state in a Winnebago we dubbed the Caravan for Change but that they referred to as the Win-a-Bagel. We did our best to make things fun for the boys—they played GameBoys, tic-tac-toe, or cards, watched movies, and ate fast food. It was pretty clear that they often had a blast with all the campaign volunteers along the way. Certainly that is my hope. Surely they missed out on fun with friends during that time, but it was a family adventure all the same.
The boys did journal on occasion during the campaign so I do have a way to test my impression against their own experiences. Marshall’s journal says, “We went in the caravan and it was huge! We went around the state to different places shaking signs and screaming vote for Mark Sanford…. It was crazy but it was worth it for dad.” Landon felt a little differently: “I went in a win a bagel and a van. It was very boring. It felt like we were in there for a month.” And later: “My mom is mostly on the computer and has lots of calls. My dad has a lot of calls to.” He was right about that. We were nothing if not busy and constantly on the phone but I hope that they will have a generally—if not specifically—positive memory of their political experience in time.
When we won the primary and the campaign for governor moved to an office outside the house (in addition to needing more space, it was hurricane season and our beach house was thought to be vulnerable), I more or less moved with it. I had a great young girl who helped to care for the boys during this crunch time, and I trusted that they were okay, but I missed them terribly. I missed seeing them every day after school, and I hated not knowing what they were doing for homework or eating for dinner on the many nights I wasn’t home to join them.
But I was also very proud of them then, and I remain so now. I know they were as tired of the campaign as we were and yet I asked them to persevere for just a few more months and to do their best in school in the meantime. They did beautifully. It’s amazing what kids can do when you have faith in them.
As soon as Mark won the Republican nomination, he became the immediate enemy of the incumbent governor and the existing political establishment. I learned to live with the knowledge that a good portion of the state disliked Mark because of his party affiliation and that they disliked me by extension. If nothing else, the campaign process and then life in the public eye taught me that you can’t really live to make others happy. You also simply can’t correct all the misperceptions about you or your spouse or your intentions on any given event or statement. Mark understood before me that it is much easier to let things go, than to try to right every wrong. This is, in fact, one of the best things Mark has taught me: to let God be responsible for righting any wrongs.
By the time Mark ran for governor, I had learned this lesson well. When I think back to how incensed I could become when Mark was misrepresented in the newspaper or by his opponents, I marvel at the energy I put into fighting back, writing that impassioned letter to the editor, for instance, to correct the record on what I now see as merely a slight. I suppose the world of politics had toughened my skin, but with four children to be responsible for during Mark’s run at governor, I had less time and energy to fight back than when I had had only two. In addition, people now knew what Mark stood for and what he had tried to accomplish when he was in Congress. We didn’t have to work so hard to create a good identity for him and craft his positive message. Much of that work was already done.
And then there’s the simple truth that I had come to understand and that I wanted to model for our kids: What matters most is how you live your life, not what you have to show for it. I ask myself if I have tried my best to love my family, to improve my character, to make a positive impact on the world in some small way. I know who I love and I know who loves me, and if I have made a positive impression on others, that’s great. But if someone out there doesn’t like me or Mark because of something they read in the paper or heard on TV, then that is okay with me too. I had come to understand by then and live by it still today: At the end of the day I need to be happy with myself and my own behavior in light of the person I know I can be and in light of the person I want to be in the eyes of our Lord, the ultimate judge, the only one that matters.
Although the pace was hectic and I went to bed exhausted nearly every day, I didn’t pray for relief from the challenges in my life. I was fully committed to this new quest, and I wanted to meet the challenges that came my way. Instead my prayers were for discernment in setting priorities, protection for us and our boys, and strength to proceed. Then, and during other trying times of my life, I found meaning in an old Jewish proverb: “I ask not for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders.”
Incredibly, we won the election. At the celebration at a local restaurant there was more media than I had ever seen and homemade signs in the crowd saying things like “Thanks for running an honorable campaign!” We were thrilled and exhausted and Blake fell asleep in my arms as the night wore on. As it was a school night, I wanted to get the boys home. I tried to cut out early, carrying Blake and leading the other boys through the kitchen instead of working my way through the crowds. A policeman with a gun and wide-brimmed hat came up to me and said “I’ll take him Mrs. Sanford. The car is right outside.” Policeman or not, I wasn’t about to pass my sleeping child over to a stranger with a gun, and so I thanked him quickly and told him I had my own car and was happy to take the kids home myself. Then it occurred to me to ask “Do you even know where we live?” “Yes ma’am,” he replied. “We’ve been watching you there for two weeks.”
That was my first clue about how significantly our life was about to change. Once again, we had achieved success at the polls by focusing on the campaign tasks at hand and juggling our family, hoping to make a difference. We had not spent one minute thinking of or planning for the future in the event we were to win.
We looked upon Mark’s new job as quite an honor and a time to truly serve and to make a positive difference for our boys and the future of our state. We were tired but enthusiastic, exhausted and yet energized, hopeful and yet realistic, and encouraged too because this time, we would all be living in the same house, sharing the journey together. I was about to find out all that would come with this “free” house and the full price we would ultimately come to pay.
NINE
INAUGURATION DAY WAS COLD AND CRISP WITH A BRIGHT BLUE SKY, picture perfect and a bit surreal. As I helped our sons, then ages ten, nine, six and four, get dressed for the formal inaugural ceremony, I thought about how these four little boys would be walking out of the house and into state history.
Yet there I was doing the ordinary things that every mother does: making sure their clothes looked just right, that they had enough socks and underwear in their overnight bags to last until our things arrived from Charleston in a week, and checking that their book bags held what they needed for school. The ordinary and the extraordinary collided when we opened the front door and the security detail whisked us into the state SUVs to begin our first day as the First Family of South Carolina.
The Sullivan family motto, learned from my grandmother Nana when we were children, was A.Y.T.C.—adapt yourself to circumstances. My aunt Gier, my dad’s sister, a mother of nine, lived just a few houses away when I was growing up. She was the reigning authority on adapting to whatever was thrown her way. I took up the mantle for a new generation when my family moved into the governor’s mansion. From the day of the election forward, all circumstances were new: finding a new school, moving, and learning how to oversee the mansion.
A few weeks after Mark was elected, the curator led me on a tour of the mansion, one of three historic homes on nine acres in a secluded complex. We walked past an emerald green lawn and blooming camellias as the curator described the gardens in summer, bountiful with incredible roses, irises, daffodils, and hydrangea. Built in 1855 to house officers from a nearby military academy, the state turned it into the governor’s mansion after the Civil War, when much of Columbia was destroyed by fire.
Mark and I
thought of the mansion as the people’s house, and we took our responsibilities as custodians seriously. As we walked inside I saw how the house was in great shape after the previous administration had spent millions on renovations. The curator ushered me into the grand, gleaming marble Hall of Governors, past somber portraits of Mark’s predecessors. Everywhere she pointed out exquisite museum-quality antiques, some upholstered in vibrant silks and pristine cottons, many that had been donated by prominent families. As we walked the hallways, I noted the fragile light fixtures, historic paintings, and exquisite battleship silver with growing alarm. We were moving four bulls into this china shop!
The day of the inauguration, the security team seemed as nervous about meeting our brood as our boys were excited about discovering where they hid their guns. They drove us directly to Mark’s new office at the Capitol and then escorted us as we walked behind the procession of the cross, mace, and legislators to the inaugural prayer service while bagpipes played. For the first time, I truly felt “handled” and I was quite thankful. After the chaos of crisscrossing the state with four boys during the campaign, I could relax and enjoy every moment. Then we made our way through the waiting crowds, past dozens of cameras and blinding flashes, and back to the Capitol where Mark was sworn in.
I was awed. So many people had put their faith in Mark, and we wanted to live up to their expectations. Being First Lady and living in the governor’s mansion was an honor, something to be lived fully and absorbed wholly. I knew I would struggle to keep in focus the fact that I was Jenny, a wife and mother, long before I was First Lady of South Carolina. Throughout Inauguration Day, the boys constantly offered reminders of where my focus should be.
Staying True Page 10
