While the other candidates focus on their humble roots or heroic feats, Dean inverts the telescope: He talks about the voters. He tells them they're okay. Instead of trying to get them to love him, he tells them to love themselves. A doctor by training, he injects psychology into politics.
Empower Play: The Pitch That Works for Dean
washingtonpost.com
By Laura Blumenfeld
Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, October 1, 2003; Page A01
PORTSMOUTH, N.H. -- The candidate walked into a party with shaving nicks on his neck, uneven fingernails and wrinkles from a hanger creasing his suit at the knees. He has been known to stuff pretzels into his pockets. On this night, he was shaking hands: "Hi, I'm Howard Dean."
"He's short," said Teresa Pierce, 40.
"Reminds me of someone my mother might date," muttered Denise Mallett, 33.
Yet half an hour later, as Dean finished his stump speech, Pierce stood up, joining the crowd in a hooting ovation. The Democratic presidential hopeful had moved her, she said, made her feel like recruiting friends to vote for him. As she reached for Dean's hand, her eyes lit up. "He inspired me," she said.
The question is: How? What did Dean do to enchant Pierce, and to stir up thousands of avid supporters? Despite the buzz surrounding retired Gen. Wesley Clark's late entry into the campaign, and mounting attacks from some of his other eight rivals, Dean has raised the most money and leads the polls in New Hampshire and Iowa. Conventional wisdom credits Dean's Bush-bashing and his stoking of Democratic anger. But to follow Dean on the stump is to see something more subtle at work.
While the other candidates focus on their humble roots or heroic feats, Dean inverts the telescope: He talks about the voters. He tells them they're okay. Instead of trying to get them to love him, he tells them to love themselves. A doctor by training, he injects psychology into politics.
"I liked it when he said the election wasn't about him, it was about us," said Pierce. "He's empowering me."
This is the intended effect, the candidate said in an interview. "People feel horribly disempowered by George Bush," he said. "I'm about trying to give them control back. This is not just a 'campaign,' it's a movement to empower ordinary people. I don't say, 'Elect me.' "
Instead, Dean says the election is in their hands. Delivering a series of exhortations, he'll turn a garden party into political group therapy:
"Stop being ashamed."
"Stand up and say what you think."
"You ought to be proud."
"The power to change this country is in your hands."
"You have the power."
"You have the power."
Yes, there is anger. But it is tightly managed. "It's raw energy, an energy I know could be channeled," Dean said. "It's similar in a patient relationship, helping them channel their energy into something better for them. "
Which, notably, has fed a river of campaign contributions. As of yesterday evening, Dean had raised $14.3 million, surpassing the $10.3 million President Bill Clinton raised in the third quarter of 1995. On his Web site, DeanForAmerica.com, he said: "Time will tell whether the special interests and the Bush administration have underestimated me. But I know in my heart that they have underestimated you."
Don't get mad, he urges, get even. It has been a recurrent theme in insurgent campaigns, but Dean's has capitalized on the Internet, where those who feel alienated can instantly connect: "The power is in your hands -- contribute!"
On his home page, a Dean Team baseball player swings a bat that turns red like a thermometer as the money pours in. The cartoon ballplayer is a muscular, scowling man, who points his finger as if singling out someone for punishment. In the campaign blog, Jon Braden, a contributor from Owensboro, Ky., wrote about the meaning of the baseball bat.
"As I've explained to my father, the bat has become the symbol of this campaign," Braden wrote. "It's become a metaphor for a big club we can swing at the political status quo (or George W. Bush -- however you want to look at it) with our combined muscle. Howard Dean will go down in history as having given this club to a huge bunch of political nomads . . . I love you all, and I love this movement."
Perhaps one reason Dean connects so well with supporters is that on a gut level, he feels the way they do -- frustrated. The former governor of Vermont said he decided to run for president while fuming over a newspaper article about President Bush: "I said, am I going to do something about it, or shut up? Given the choice, I'd rather talk."
Like Dean, Andrew Fairbanks, 45, seethed when he read about Bush.
"Oh, God, he was yelling at the TV news, yelling at me," said his wife, Kim Fairbanks, 36. "I said, 'Andrew, you need to go find other people who feel like you do, you need to channel the energy positively.' "
One day he heard a radio interview with Dean.
"The anger evaporated," Andrew said.
"Dean makes you feel like you matter," said Kim.
As the couple talked, Dean stood at a nearby podium, talking to several hundred people gathered under the stars outside a house in Milford. Contrary to popular depictions, he didn't flail his arms or rant. His expression wasn't angry; it merely threatened anger. He described Bush's handling of the economy and Iraq as losing policies.
"Now I'm going to tell you how to win," Dean said, with clinical precision. "The way to beat Bush is we stand up and be proud of who we are."
If the emotional leitmotif of Bill Clinton's campaigns was empathy -- "I feel your pain" -- Dean's is empowerment -- "We'll fix your pain."
"The power to take this country back is in your hands," Dean said to the crowd. "Not mine."
Andrew watched him and smiled, rubbing his knuckles.
"You have the power," said Dean.
Andrew hugged his wife: "I love listening to him."
Dean's appeal is not based on traditional political charisma. His presence is not commanding; he isn't a backslapper, or a world-class speaker. His smile looks more like a baring of teeth. Asked how he relaxes, he said he mows the lawn and does his taxes.
Yet at a recent rally in New York, women cried, "I want to have your baby!" His supporters are so passionate they have organized themselves in areas where no campaign infrastructure exists, calling themselves Dean Heads, Deanie Boppers and Deanie Babies. Monday Dean hoped to make the Guinness World Records for conference calls by linking more than 1,400 house parties in all 50 states with "Dr. Dean's National House Call."
"Most politicians treat voters like consumers," said Karen Hicks, Dean's New Hampshire state director. "Dean treats people like participants."
He does that, in part, by debating those who come to see him. While some politicians pander, Dean seems to go out of his way to disagree with members of his audience. At a fundraiser for the abortion rights group NARAL in Manchester, he declared, "I have a number of supporters in my campaign who are pro-life, and we have to respect them." At a labor union picnic, his style won praise from people who knew little about his policies.
"I don't even know his background, but I get sincerity from him," said Rusty Goodwin, 68.
Doris Bauters, 69, said, "Dean's a regular working guy, just like us."
In fact, Dean comes from an old-line family of bankers.
In the end, his political style evolved from his career as an internist. "As a doctor, you say, things are bad, here's how we're going to fix it. Twenty-five percent of internal medicine is psychology," Dean said. "You just have to help them with guidance. You don't make the choice -- they make the choice. That's the key."
It may energize Democrats, but the self-help dynamic breaks down with the press. In interviews, Dean ranges from wary to snarling. When a television reporter from New England Cable News sat down with him and asked gentle questions about his life, he was as clenched as an inmate at a parole board hearing. And when facing off with other Democratic candidates in debates, he has appeared at times, by his own admission, "grouchy and nervous."
The empowerment approach also can backfire with people who don't feel disempowered. At St. Anselm College in Manchester, Dean addressed students and local residents.
"If you stand up and you're proud of who you are -- guess what? People start to listen to you. Stand up for what you believe in," said Dean, an excited flush creeping up his neck.
Only half the people in the room stood up.
"You have the power . . . "
In the back of the room, a waitress named Mary Casey, 48, rose to her feet, applauding. "Yes, this is the man," she said.
Two seats away, a college sophomore, Jessica Foster, 19, stayed in her chair, her mouth slack. She had been curious about Dean, but now she felt put off. He came off as untrustworthy, she said. Foster wrote about it in an essay for her public speaking class:
"Dean ended his speech with a clincher, appealing to the patriotic side of the crowd," she wrote. "He attempted to rouse the crowd by telling them to stand up for what they believed in and to stand up for America. The only time I stood up for Dean was when I got up to walk out the door."
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