All Too Human: A Political Education

by George Stephanopoulos

  Clinton was trying to downplay the potential conflict by stressing his desire to work with the military rather than impose the change on them. His remarks could easily have been interpreted as a hedge on his pledge, but that's not how they played. The network news led with Clinton's response, and the New York Times ran two front-page stories, which left the impression that Clinton was throwing down a gauntlet at the military's feet. The media bias I detected most often in the White House was neither liberal nor conservative but a tendency to play up conflict and controversy. A story that included Clinton, the military, and sex was irresistible.

  We scrambled to quiet the political storm. Clinton said that he wouldn't make any final decisions until he consulted with the military. I spoke with reporters on background, insisting that while we wanted to keep our promise, we weren't spoiling for a fight. But we soon found ourselves trapped between the military brass who wanted no change, gay leaders who insisted on all or nothing, delighted Republicans who couldn't wait to vote against us, and appalled Democrats who couldn't believe that gays in the military was going to be their first vote with a new president.

  During the transition, Clinton's old friend John Holum, who was slated to head the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency, and Congressman Les Aspin, our nominee for secretary of defense, tried to develop a workable compromise that would buy us some time. But nothing came together until the close of the January 25 meeting in the Roosevelt Room, when Colin Powell raised an alternative that he'd been discussing with Aspin: “Stop asking and stop pursuing,” he called it. Gays and lesbians still wouldn't be allowed to serve openly, but recruits would no longer be questioned about their sexual orientation, and commanders would stop investigating personnel suspected of being gay or lesbian. General Gordon Sullivan, the army chief, seconded Powell's proposal on a conciliatory note: “Permit us to participate with you in the change.” What he meant was: “Permit us to allow you an honorable surrender.”

  Senator Sam Nunn, the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, was called in to negotiate the terms, because any new policy would be subject to congressional review. Nunn had headed Clinton's Georgia campaign, but with friends like him, we didn't need enemies. As a matter of policy, he supported the military ban on homosexuals, but he was also peeved by Clinton's failure to name him secretary of state and happy to throw some pebbles in the path of his former House counterpart, Les Aspin. All through our first week, Nunn held our first bill — the Family and Medical Leave Act — hostage until he got his way on gays in the military.

  The gay community was convinced Nunn was a homophobe, a view the president and I decided we agreed with after an interminable negotiating session in the cabinet room with Nunn and his fellow Democrats on the Armed Services Committee. But our discussion of the meeting didn't dwell on Nunn. There was too much to say about Senator Robert Byrd's tour de force.

  A compact man with pale blue eyes, a long, straight nose, white hair tapered to a widow's peak, and tightly tailored three-piece suits, Byrd looked just like his name — an elegant, elderly popinjay. He had been a senator since before I was born, and his hobby was writing Senate history. No man loved the institution more. When ignorant House members or imperial presidents threatened Senate prerogatives, he would unsheathe his weapon of choice — the filibuster — and pace the floor for days, reciting history by rote, recalling the glory days of Clay and Webster, England and Rome.

  The cabinet room was a smaller stage. Only a dozen of us, including the president and vice president, were seated around the table, but Byrd still stood to speak. The fingertips of his left hand rested lightly on the table; his right hand clutched the buttons of his jacket — a classic orator's pose. Rome was where he began.

  “Suetonius writes that Tiberius, under whom Caesar served, had young male prostitutes in his service,” Byrd began, before reeling off other tales of emperors, generals, and the men who served and serviced them. “We're talking about something that has been going around for centuries,” he stated flatly, echoing one of the president's central arguments. Wow, are we going to get Byrd? Can't be. It wasn't. After a pause for emphasis, he delivered the opening blow. “But Rome fell when discipline gave way to luxury and ease.” Then he traveled through time from the decline of the Roman Empire to the Christian Coalition's slippery slope. “Remove not the ancient landmarks thy fathers have set. I am opposed to your policy because it implies acceptance. It will lead to same-sex marriages and homosexuals in the Boy Scouts.” These were the concrete concerns he would hear in West Virginia that weekend. The senator's closing peroration struck a note of deferential defiance: “Oh God, get me home safely,” he exclaimed. “I will not help you on the procedural issue.”

  In a flight of rhetorical empathy, Clinton countered Roman history with the Old Testament. “When the Lord delivered the Ten Commandments, Senator Byrd, he did not include a prohibition on homosexuality. As a matter of conscience, the very fact of homosexuality should not prevent you from serving if you must.” Vice President Gore followed with a mix of hard science and homespun theology. “How could God permit people to be born in such a way that denies them the opportunity to live up to their God-given potential?” They were making similar points, but there was a subtle difference. Clinton was simply stating his position on the senator's terms; Gore was trying a little harder to change Byrd's mind, which wasn't going to happen.

  Our whole first week was overwhelmed by gays in the military. We didn't reach a final agreement with Nunn until late Thursday night, when he agreed to permit a six-month review of the proposed compromise as long as the ban was maintained during the review period. Six months later, the president announced “Don't Ask, Don't Tell”— an outcome essentially identical to Powell's initial proposal and not far off from the earlier ban. The compromise satisfied no one, except Republican political strategists, who now had a killer issue for the 1994 midterm elections. The military resented the intrusion, Democrats were furious, the public was confused, and the gay community felt betrayed.

  But gays in the military was a defeat, not a betrayal. Our administration can be fairly faulted for raising hopes that couldn't be fulfilled, but not for abandoning a cause that could have been won if only we'd had the courage to try. The military and the Congress had the votes to keep the ban because the country was not ready for the change. Issuing an executive order only to see it overturned in twenty-four hours would have been a setback for gay rights, and it would have looked as if Clinton were throwing the fight. The president had to balance one of many campaign promises against the rest of his agenda and his constitutional responsibilities. He tried to keep his eye on the ball and ask, “What is the best achievable policy for those people who happen to be in the military, in the closet, and are getting harassed?”

  Supporters of lifting the ban have a right to be angry at how “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” has been implemented. The heightened attention sparked by the debate has led to increased harassment of gays and lesbians serving in the military, in defiance of the president's orders. Given that result, I now believe that promising to lift the ban was our big mistake. Focusing instead on Clinton's pledge to pass legislation banning discrimination against gays and lesbians in the workplace would have been far wiser strategy. That effort already had bipartisan support, but the bitter debate over the military ban probably stalled its passage for several more years. Confronting the military before legislating against discrimination in the civilian workforce was a losing proposition from the start — for both the new administration and the cause of gay rights.

  By the end of the week, I was just glad this storm had passed. Early Friday, I walked into the Oval as the president reviewed his clips with the sun streaming through the curved windows behind his desk. In a reflective mood, he wondered if he should have pressed Colin Powell to be secretary of state. (After an initial approach to Powell from Vernon Jordan, a confidant of both men who was cochair of Clinton's transition, Clinton had let the matter drop.) “I think
he would have taken it,” he said. “But the moment's passed.” We fantasized for a minute about how if Powell had been on the inside, maybe we could have smoothed over gays in the military before it erupted; and if Warren Christopher had been attorney general instead of Zoe Baird, maybe we could have avoided a national debate over “nanny problems.” But the moment had passed.

  What we really needed just then was a weekend off. Instead, the administration's elite headed to Camp David the next day for a weekend retreat. About forty of us — the Clintons, the Gores, the cabinet, and several consultants and staff — were going to spend a day “setting goals” and “getting to know each other.”

  Driving to the White House around 6:30 on Saturday morning in a grumpy mood, I felt the same dread I used to get on my way to summer camp. The prospect of organized play and forced camaraderie made me want to fake a stomachache, which, in turn, made me feel like an ingrate. Here you are beading up to Camp David with the president of the United States and his cabinet! Appreciate it.

  I did my best. As we drove up icy, winding roads to the hilltop retreat, I psyched myself up. By the time we arrived, I almost believed that building team spirit in this manner was the best way to begin our presidency. Camp David, a rustic lodge on a wooded hill surrounded by saltbox cabins with screen doors, reminded me of a Poconos resort. The president had already arrived on Marine One and was tooling around with Gore in a golf cart, the only vehicle he was allowed to drive. The rest of us scavenged through the lodge for Camp David matchbooks and coffee mugs.

  But when we assembled for the meeting, I was back to longing for home. The aluminum easels sealed it. A pair of them stood at the front of the room, holding giant pads of blank white paper just waiting to be filled with our objectives, goals, and feelings. Two sensible-looking middle-aged ladies with Romper Room smiles on their faces and jumbo Magic Markers in their hands completed the picture. They were “facilitators,” brought in by the vice president to help us bond. This weekend was Gore's baby, an amalgam of management science and New Age sentiment that he'd used with his Senate staff.

  But what works for a senator isn't necessarily appropriate for a president. As the day wore on, we papered the walls with our “personal” goals for the next four years. Hillary talked about the need to write a “narrative” for the country, and the facilitators divided us into “breakout” groups for “brainstorming” sessions. I fought the impulse but couldn't stop wondering: Wait a second. Who cares about our “personal” goals? Isn't that what the campaign was for? We made promises, and now we have to try and keep them. Why aren't we back at the White House working on the economic plan and picking an attorney general? Or home getting some rest — instead of up here talking about our feelings?

  After dinner, a smaller group of the cabinet secretaries and senior staff sat around the fireplace to share intimacies with the Clintons, the Gores, and our friendly facilitators. The only thing worse than being there would have been not being there. Of the invited, only Lloyd Bentsen — the silky and distinguished secretary of the treasury — was secure enough not to show. The rest of us dutifully shared a revelation about ourselves, as if we were a bunch of preteens on a sleepover playing “What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?”

  Clinton talked about how getting teased for being fat made him a tough kid, and recounted that when he was five or six, a wild boar bowled him over but he got right back up. Warren Christopher confessed to sipping chardonnay in smoky jazz bars late at night. I told them that as a little kid I loved watching the Today show and that I would supplement my small allowance by being an altar boy for pay at weddings and baptisms. It was excruciating.

  Near the close of our final Sunday session, I made my obligatory communications director speech cautioning against leaks, which was the functional equivalent of handing out Ann Devroy's phone number: 334-7459. Everyone talked to Devroy. She was a staff writer for the Post, but that generic title underplayed her importance to the paper and her influence in official Washington.

  Ann's account of the retreat was a signal to the Washington establishment that things were a little screwy at the new White House. Under the headline “A Bonding Experience at Camp David,” Devroy proceeded to piece together the events of the weekend and put them in perspective — pointing out, for example, that while these types of retreats may have been common in the corporate world, they were relatively foreign to the White House. She wrote that the weekend was a sign of how “different this presidency will be” and added the tart reminder that the last time a president had brought so many staffers to Camp David for a working session was during the malaise depths of Jimmy Carter's tenure.

  The scoop was vintage Devroy. A chain-smoking reporter's reporter with a gravelly Wisconsin accent, she was the undisputed queen of the White House beat. From her desk in the newsroom she'd work the phones all day long, conferring with telephone operators, top officials, and everyone in between. I didn't know her at first, and she was suspicious of me from watching my extraheavy spinning during the campaign. But James and Mary were her good friends, and they put in a word for me. Soon we were talking up to ten times a day.

  Most of the calls were short and to the point. She wanted to check up on a tip and see what we were thinking. More often than not, she had a bead on what we would do even before we'd made a final decision. Her sources were solid, and her body clock was timed to the rhythms of the White House process. “Ann, we haven't made that decision yet, I swear,” I would yell into the phone. “I know, I know, George,” she tutored me. “But you will.” She was usually right, but I came to respect her integrity even more than her insight. Ann would hype a damaging story if the reporting was solid, but unlike many of her colleagues, she'd put the same energy into burying a scurrilous one if the reporting was shaky. She was a great gossip, but she kept that out of the paper.

  The cabinet retreat article revealed the presidential scholar in Devroy — the part of her that revered the White House the way Byrd revered the Senate. In August, she would escape to a phone-free cabin in Maine with her husband and daughter to sip whiskey and study the latest monographs on the presidency. The touchy-feely, baby-boomer patina of the Camp David weekend offended both her sensibilities and her conviction that the White House was a special place, steeped in tradition, that deserved reverence. By treating it like just another corporate headquarters, Ann believed, we were throwing away that aura and devaluing the office.

  Our way wasn't working, but we resisted change, convinced that it was a kind of surrender. At first, we staff wouldn't always stand when the president entered a room, a throwback to the informal, insurgent style of the campaign. If people did, Clinton hurried to say, “Don't get up” while impatiently patting the air with his hands. His unaffected air may have been refreshing, but it was also a mistake. The same with the jogging shorts; only a series of bare-legged photos on the evening news convinced the president to wear a warm-up suit. Slowly, we learned that maintaining a slightly regal aura in office is as effective as the populist touch during a campaign. Americans want their president to be bigger than life. We started playing “Hail to the Chief” at all public ceremonies.

  Clinton's military salute took longer to fix. Sheepish at first, he seemed to be working out his internal conflicts every time he tentatively raised his hand. The tips of his fingers would furtively touch his slightly bowed head, as if he were being caught at something he wasn't supposed to do. The snickering got so bad that National Security Adviser Tony Lake came to my office one afternoon to strategize on how to approach the president about it. The message had to be delivered in private, but who was the right messenger? Not me; I was too young, and not a veteran. The vice president was out; too much competitive tension in their relationship for something so personal. It had to be Tony; though he hadn't served in the military, he had served in Vietnam as a foreign service officer, and Clinton's salute came under the heading of national security. After their talk, it grew crisper.

  M
eantime, we tried to press forward with our agenda. The president signed executive orders on abortion rights and ethics. Hillary took charge of the Health Care Task Force, an appointment that demonstrated, we believed, how much the president cared about the issue. With gays in the military out of the way, the Family and Medical Leave Act sailed through the Congress by Thursday, February 4. Fighting for legislation like this was why we were supposed to be in the White House. For six years, it had been foiled by Republican presidents with veto power. Now Bill Clinton would sign it into law and make it possible for millions of people caring for sick children or other ailing family members to take time off from work without fear of losing their jobs. See, a president can make a difference; elections do matter. We set our first Rose Garden bill ceremony for early the next morning.

  I got home that night after ten, but I still hadn't eaten. So I ordered Chinese takeout, cracked open a beer, and rifled through my paperwork. It had been a good day. Not only had we passed our first major piece of legislation, but Clinton's daily sound bite on the economy finally made the evening news. We're back on track, and tomorrow will be our best day yet.

  Then my phone rang. It was Ricki Seidman, a veteran of the War Room and the Senate Judiciary Committee who was now shepherding federal judge Kimba Wood, our next nominee for attorney general, through the confirmation process. If Ricki was calling at this hour, the news couldn't be good: Kimba had a “Zoe problem.” The facts were more complicated. Kimba had hired an illegal alien as a nanny, but at a time when it was legal to do so. The distinction was real, but difficult to explain to the public, and the political outcome would be the same. Another memorably named nominee with a nanny was going down the tubes — and we were going with her. The president hadn't technically made a final decision, but it was no secret that Kimba was at the top of our list. Her reluctant withdrawal would embarrass us and block out any media coverage of the Family and Medical Leave Act.