If you are addressing somebody with a long and auspicious career that has produced many titles, you might assume they’d want you to use the biggest title, but that’s not always the case.
For instance, a lot of governors like to be called Governor or Guv forever, no matter what other office they’ve been elected or appointed to, which is understandable, because being a state governor would be my all-time favorite job, were I ever to think of running, which I am not.
Another thing to know is that you should never mistakenly interchange the titles “director” (e.g., CIA) and “secretary” (e.g., State). There are other jargon matters that might interest you, such as when you are referencing the CIA, you say, “Agency” and the FBI is always “Bureau.” Otherwise you’re safe calling any of the other branches of the intelligence services simply “intel,” although most people like to note if they are talking about “humint,” as in “human intelligence.” Ironically, the bigger our intel community grows, the less human intelligence we seem to get. Unless we are being lied to by the United States government, which in another age would be unthinkable.
As a general rule, the lesser the position, the greater the desire of that person for deference to all this title business. The least accomplished are always the most insistent that they be titled for life. But you probably already guessed that.
Ridiculing the “alphabet soup” of national departments and government bureaus is easy. And batting around these titles and jargon with aplomb does make you feel like an accomplished insider, even if you aren’t. But, in most cases, acronyms are a product of efficiency, not ego or insider status. If you had to say “Environmental Protection Agency” every time you talked about the EPA, you’d get crazier than you already do get just thinking about that place.
Anyway, I digress. But it does bring me to this point: in a universe populated with self-serving impressed-with-themselves people, I have always been enchanted when anyone in politics introduces themselves by their God-given name, even if I must use their title when addressing them. And that’s how the whole Bush family introduces themselves: with their names and a nice, confidence-instilling handshake. They look you right in the eye, not in an intimidating way but in a way that makes you want to hang out with them.
If you live in a real town, where real people step up and do what needs to be done for the good of their neighbors and community, you know what selfless service looks like. Of the many things I love about Poppy, he has always believed pubic service is an honor and acted like it. He brought honor to any post in which he served.
Much has been written and gummed over about the Bushes. I just want to say one thing, once again, without equivocation: they are the real deal. Do you have any idea how hard it is to hang on to your real self in the parallel universe of politics? And in a family of so many politicians?
They are the exception to the norm. And it is why they have so many trusted, loyal and steadfast friends in a profession that requires most people to get a dog.
All’s Fair ends with an illustrative moment of Poppy’s authenticity. After the campaign was over and there were no champagne corks to pop, my wingman, Dave Carney (aka “Stud Muffin”), and I were invited to join Poppy in the presidential private dining room next to the Oval Office in the West Wing. One thing was verboten with President Bush 41: pity parties. While he has great and consistent empathy for all, he does not allow wallowing or wound licking. And in the case of the 1992 defeat, he blamed only himself, despite his staff’s well-chronicled snafus.
So Dave and I were gathered in the dining room, where the president apologized to us for the campaign outcome. To this day, I still wonder who else on the Earth and particularly in politics—a world of cover-your-ass types and blame-everybody-elsers—would have the generosity and big heart to do such a thing. We tried not to have a pity party after this apology, even if it was still happening inside our heads, when our lunch was interrupted by a consoling phone call to Poppy from a group of leaders from South America, which he took only because they were all friends, not because they were presidents. The guys just wanted to say how much they were going to miss him and his leadership.
And Poppy burst into tears. And then I burst into tears. This was something we managed to avoid throughout the whole campaign, but for one or two instances (confessed in All’s Fair) where a person would have to had ice running through his veins not to cry. But sitting at the table in the dining room, every time we tried to collect ourselves, Poppy would look at me or I’d look at him, and we’d start boohooing. He was never going to finish the South American call at this rate, so I got up from the table and stood behind him as he resumed his phone conversation. I hugged him from behind. He hugged me. And we laugh-cried, because we were both more than aware that we were acting like ninny girls by this point.
We’ve been in pretty regular contact since that campaign and he never failed to call whenever he came to D.C. He would gather his little merry band at the Georgetown Club (previously an all-male institution, which still bars jeans and anyone not invited by a member). One day I forgot and showed up in my uniform—jeans—and was summarily dismissed even though no one else was there but our party and I was wearing ridiculously expensive designer jeans, unlike the Levi 501s I wore every day of the campaign.
Whenever I see Poppy, he says, “Mary, come sit by me.” And we return to our time-honored, end-of-the-day campaign tradition of having an adult beverage together. And by that I do not mean a white wine spritzer, which many of the uptight D.C. crowd took up in the 1990s just when martinis were coming back everywhere else under the sun. But for Poppy and me, they’d never gone out.
How did we meet? In 1981, we met at the vice president’s personal residence. I was a total newcomer to town who had just moved from the Midwest for a bottom-rung political job, which was literally in the basement of the RNC. It was a step up from my $11,000-a-year political job in Illinois. I was making the princessly sum of $13,000 a year.
The Illinois campaign manager, Maxene Fernstrom, had found me the job and was putting me up in her own home while I got settled. Political people—then and now—look after each other. And young people arriving for political jobs in Washington are met with open doors, party invitations and a lot of vertical mobility. Even so, when I met Poppy, I had no idea what a rare event it was for a bunch of RNC grunts to get invited to the vice president’s house. But Poppy wasn’t like most VPs. He had been the chairman of the RNC during the Nixon “unpleasantness” and threw one of his first parties in his new residence for everyone at the committee out of loyalty.
As we filtered into the expansive grounds of this mansion—I’d only ever seen anything like that house in the movies—it was clear Poppy knew everybody because he seemed to have a personal and very kind word for one and all. He knew the janitor, the printing press guy, the front desk clerk, the people who’d been in the institution for ten and twenty years. He knew them all, and he knew everything about their families.
That impressed me, not because he was the vice president, but because it was such a Midwestern thing to do.
His five kids were sprinkled around the party. They were all about my age—some a little older, some younger. They had lived all over the world, which, being a sheltered Midwesterner who’d rarely ventured out of Illinois, where my siblings and I grew up in one house, I thought this was kind of sad and screwed up. Where was their true home? But whatever concerns I had about their childhood vanished as soon as I experienced how cool and normal they were. And how together they were as a family. It was something you couldn’t miss. They were connected and intact—unlike my own family after my mom passed.
Like many moms and grandmothers, my mother had been the family glue, the one who held us all together. I was still reeling from her unexpected death—and the loss of all the things in life that she had held together. And even though the Bushes weren’t like my own working-class family, watching them tog
ether filled me with joy. Their bond was immediately recognizable—a love and commitment to each other, the way close and strong families are, no matter where they grow up—one house or a dozen—or how much money they’ve got.
One more testament to the Bush family: so many kids of my generation, and way too many “celebrity” kids, had been ravished by the drug culture of those days or messed up in some other Iron Butterfly “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” way. Not these kids. They were composed, approachable, superconfident and supercompetitive, not in that insecure way, but in a fun way that only close families are together. It was and remains a beautiful thing to behold. From that night on, I adored Poppy and his whole family. And for me, the magic has never worn off.
There was an unfortunate dynamic in that administration, the Reagan team versus the Bush team. And there was much jockeying around in the White House early on, with folks picking sides. Much of this has been detailed in other books. I don’t need to expand on it, except to say that Poppy rose above the internecine maneuvers. He rose above the mattress mice and side pickers.
He rose above so many things and always has.
All of America has seen the integrity of this man since he left office, especially the amazing dignity and inspiration of his aging. He is never without jokes and humanity and grace, while he always retains his essence. (Let’s not forget, he was jumping out of airplanes on his eightieth and eighty-fifth birthdays.) And after it was clearly dangerous for him to still be racing around like a teenager in that wacky speedboat of his, he started speeding around in a bright-red scooter. He really likes to speed down corridors, making people jump out of his way on all sides.
“Come on, Mary, let’s go for a ride,” he is always saying to me backstage at various events, daring me to speed along with him in that red racer. That wonderful human being gave me the ride of my life, but I only took one trip in his speedy cart. It reminded me of why my mother never let me get on a motorcycle with high school boys.
But declining a ride from Poppy could be just as treacherous. Once, at Texas A&M, home of the George Bush Presidential Library and the Bush School of Government and Public Service, he tried to run me off the “road”—which really amused him, since I guess watching me panic and run away in high heels on a slippery corridor floor in a crowd of self-possessed folks was pretty comical.
My longtime friend and fellow Bushie, Andy Card, asked me to give a short speech for the Aggie half-year commencement. It was supposed to be just me—and not James. But I got in touch with another longtime buddy and Bush “daughter,” Jean Becker, who made arrangements for James to come too and surprise everybody.
For years, Barbara Bush couldn’t stand James. She avoided him at all costs, and there were many events they both attended. She literally referred to him for years as “He Who Shall Not Be Named,” which is an indication of what a classy lady she is when you stop and think of all the things James said about her husband in 1992. (And please don’t stop and think about it, because I’m still trying not to. And I can’t help but wonder, when I think about G. H. W. Bush serving only one term, how much I have to thank James Carville for that.)
We all know, and politics demands, that time heals all. But there are also some situations that just don’t allow for forgiveness. And I had a hunch that this moment could break bad. But I also had a feeling that surprising Poppy would be a good thing. He was just beginning to lose a bit of the zip in his step—and he always loved surprises and he, weirdly enough, always loved James.
So at the end of my speech, I said, “I have a surprise guest for you Aggies,” and I brought James out. Everybody in the audience went completely nutso—in a good way. It was fabulous, it was beautiful, and the best thing of all was the look on Mrs. Bush’s face. She forgave James in that moment and stood up in front of everybody and said how much she loved him. James was beaming like a little boy.
At the dinner following the ceremony, I was seated next to Poppy, where we promptly took up our ritual: vodka on the rocks. Though others had cautioned me that he wasn’t as spunky as he once had been, the surprise was now on me: he was completely Mr. Spunk. (Which I already knew since he had made me run down the corridor before dinner in high heels.) We had the best trip down memory lane, which I especially cherished since he finally let me take the blame for 1992.
Thank you, Mr. President. I accept.
JAMES
BARBARA BUSH ALWAYS INTIMIDATED ME. I can’t explain exactly why. She’s just always had that effect on me. Whenever I was around her, my mouth would get a little drier. I’d sweat a little more. Kay Graham at the Washington Post was the same way. Mrs. Graham intimidated everyone. Tough-as-nails, no-nonsense women, both of them.
In 2012, Mary and I participated in a fund-raising event down at the Bush 41 library in College Station, Texas. It was one of these dinners that they invite a bunch of people to and all the big donors show up. I’ve done similar events in the past at the Clinton library and the Reagan library.
For whatever reason, Barbara Bush decided that I was going to sit beside her at her table that day. I was nervous. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I usually don’t care much what people think, but I found myself really wanting her to like me. So I steered clear of politics. I avoided my usual bad language. And I turned to a tried-and-true Carville rule for charming someone: I asked about her grandchildren.
Trust me on this: you can say something too nice about somebody’s mother. They’ll brush it off. “Oh, no. You didn’t have to live with her,” they’ll say. Or “Well, have you ever tried her home cooking?” You can say something too nice about somebody’s spouse. “Are you shitting me?” they’ll say. “He snores all the time.” But you never can say something too nice about someone’s children or grandchildren. You can go as overboard as you want, be as flattering as you want, and people are going to believe every word of it and like you for it.
It is one of the great secrets of life. I learned that in Austin, Texas, in 1984, during Lloyd Doggett’s Senate campaign against Phil Gramm. We had ten days to go and we were twenty points behind. It was over. We were going to lose. So we were basically just drinking a lot and telling jokes and biding our time until Election Day.
One afternoon, the phone rings in the campaign headquarters. I pick it up. It’s the mother of one of the staffers, asking to speak with her son. He was a decent enough guy, but kind of prickly and a little socially awkward. I don’t know what came over me, but I launched into this long monologue, telling his mother what a saint he was.
I said, “Ma’am, I could not pull this phone away from my ear without telling you what a fine, upstanding man you’ve raised. And that boy has come here and been part of our team, and I can tell you right now that you and your husband have done right by your son. This man is just a delight to be around. He’s got every kind of solid value that you could hope for. If I had children, he’s exactly the kind of person I’d want them to become.”
She was floored. “Oh, my God. Thank you so much,” she said. She loved it.
After that, everybody in the office started getting their parents on the phone with me just to see how overboard I could go. And you know what? What I learned during my drunken stupor that October night in Austin is that, you can’t go too far. It’s not possible. Don’t try it with spouses; don’t try it with parents. They’ll think you’re full of shit. But with kids—it’s a blind spot.
Anyway, after that dinner in College Station, Barbara Bush told Mary that she liked me. I felt like I’d just won the lottery.
MARY
I HATED GOING TO the White House when the Clintons were there. It felt like I didn’t belong, and I tried to stay away. I went a few times with James, for an engagement party and something for George Stephanopoulos, and one state dinner. It was painful.
In 1996, I was a volunteer on Bob Dole’s campaign because I was doing Equal Time and I had a radio show, so I couldn’t reall
y become an official paid member of the campaign. Then, while I was advising the Dole campaign pro bono, one of the party chairmen trashed me on the front page of the Washington Times for being married to James.
“On a scale of one to 10, with 10 being the most stupid choice, this is a 14,” Florida GOP Chairman Tom Slade, Jr., told the newspaper. “There is little doubt that she is a talented political operative, but there are lots and lots of talented political operatives on our side of the aisle.”
Later that day, the Dole campaign called to fire me.
“I’m a volunteer—you can’t fire a volunteer,” I said feebly. And even though I didn’t understand, and it hurt, I decided to relent without more of a fight. In politics, the one thing you cannot do is become a distraction. And I guess they were afraid I would become one.
Bob Dole called me at home later that night. I said, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’ll do whatever you want, sir.” He said, “This is absurd. You’re unfired. Or you never were fired. No one consulted me.” Then he asked to speak to James. And James says, “We’ll do whatever you want, sir.” And within seconds the whole contretemps was over. We have always loved Bob Dole and now you can see why.
So, there I was, an unofficial adviser on the Dole presidential campaign against incumbent Bill Clinton, and James and I were invited to a state dinner. That’s a big deal invitation—I don’t care who you are, even working for the enemy as I was. But really, I just wanted to see Stevie Wonder perform. Even though I couldn’t ease the awkwardness of being there, as I was in the nondrinking phase of a megapregnancy with my second—and looking like I did in my first: a beached whale.
As I walked into the White House, I heard the sound of genuine hostility escaping from every corner of the room, like a very distinguishable hisssssssssss. I felt like Moses, and not in a good way, as the hissing red carpet parted and I walked through the daunting hall, praying to get through the night before my water broke.
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