Doctor in the House
Driven by the net, buoyed by an army of evangelical
'Deaniacs' and powered by a fervent anti-war
message, Howard Dean's campaign could yet seize
the presidency
Paul Harris
Sunday January 11, 2004
The Observer
The following is an excerpt from the article:
Merrimack looked like any other slice of smalltown America.
Nestled among the pinewoods of New Hampshire, its white
clapperboard houses and church spire were spoiled only by the
inevitable cluster of fast food outlets.
But today Merrimack was far from ordinary. It was part of a
revolution sweeping American politics. The first clue was the
man on a street corner waving traffic towards the high school
and holding a sign proclaiming: 'The Doctor is in'. Though it was
a Saturday the car park was full. Inside the dining hall hundreds
of people had gathered to see Dr Howard Dean, the man who
has come from nowhere to lead the Democratic Party race for
the White House. The man who by next year could be the most
powerful person in the world.
It felt like a church meeting. A chorus of dignitaries sat on the
stage. The school principal, Ken Coleman, gave a speech to
prepare for Dean's entrance. 'We have seen terrible things
happening in America,' he warned. 'We either nominate Howard
Dean or we have four more years of George Bush.'
Dean bounded up and was greeted as a saviour. The crowd -
housewives, pro fessionals, grandparents with toddlers hauled
along for the ride - stood and applauded. Stocky and red-faced,
Dean looked an unlikely hero, but he is getting used to this sort
of attention. 'We're going to have a little fun at the President's
expense,' he promised with a smile. First target was the
economy. He cited figures showing a boom in productivity and
asked rhetorically: 'Anyone got their jobs back?' His delivery
was well-paced, mixing rehearsed points with ad libs. 'We can
do better than this,' he insisted.
When it was over the crowd surged forward. Dean disappeared
among the autograph hunters. Eventually he was hustled out of
the door, leaving a happy crowd and exasperated reporters, one
of whom had been physically prevented from asking Dean any
questions. 'It is amazing how quickly "frontrunner-itis" sets in,'
lamented Howard Kurtz of the Washington Post. 'I remember
him a year back when he would have been desperate for the
attention.'
But a year is a long time in politics ... particularly American
politics. There is nothing else like the New Hampshire primary in
Western democracy. It is raw politics, where those seeking to
become President of America must first win the backing of the
citizens of this tiny New England state. And this time things in
the 'Granite State' are different. The Democrats are angry,
angrier than at any time since Richard Nixon - perhaps even the
Great Depression. Bush, with his post-11 September agenda,
has divided America and also the Democratic Party. The
atmosphere on the streets and in the town halls of New
Hampshire is of political combat at its most vicious.
That may well set the tone for the national election to come - but
first New Hampshire must be won. Its importance stems from
the byzantine way America selects presidential candidates. For
Republican George W. Bush - running unopposed - there is no
problem. But the Democrats must whittle down a field of nine
hopefuls. This is done with state-by-state elections by party
members. Though Iowa now votes first, New Hampshire is still
seen as the proving ground. This wooded, mountainous state of
just 1.2 million people punches far above its weight. At stake are
the fabled three 'M's: momentum, media and money. Those who
triumph here expect to reap all three and sweep the country to
secure the nomination.
This field is larger than usual. There is the retired general,
Wesley Clark; the firebrand preacher Al Sharpton, and former
ambassador Carol Moseley Braun - the first black woman to
ever run for President; there are also Democrat warhorses like
senators Dick Gephardt, Joe Lieberman and John Kerry; and the
Clintonesque John Edwards, a Southern charmer. Finally,
there's Dennis Kucinich, an avowed radical. It's a colourful bunch
and each is treading the same worn path as every President
before them: the path through New Hampshire.
It is house-to-house political warfare. Candidates set up camp in
the state. Local politicians, normally passed over by
Washington bigwigs, suddenly find themselves courted by all
nine of the runners. Politicians, who a year from now might live
in the White House, are forced to confront real people. 'We get
to look them in the eye and they can't duck tough questions.
Madison Avenue can't get you elected in New Hampshire,' said
local Democrat activist Paul Needham. He should know, having
met every serving President since 1976. 'It's easy. I just live in
New Hampshire and have a pulse,' he said.
The media have dubbed Dean's supporters the 'Deaniacs'. They
are young idealists who have turned the campaign into a
phenomenon. They work hard, play hard, sleep on each other's
floors and have the time of their lives. They also get a whiff of
power and valuable CV points. Days start at 8.30am and finish
near midnight. They bubble over with enthusiasm at morning
meetings.
Driving to a college town in a car full of Deaniacs is a lesson in
what it is to be young and enthusiastic. Chad Bolduc, 22, and
Emily Barson, 23, shout their dedication above the music blaring
from the radio as they scout a location for an upcoming debate.
Dean has inspired them to take time off from - or give up - their
studies. Bolduc once acted as Dean's driver for a day of
campaigning. It left him breathless. 'I could see he is such a
good guy. He is not bullshitting us at all,' he said. Bolduc does
not think his college will let him come back due to the time he
has spent working for Dean. But he does not care. There will
always be another college, but not another campaign like this.
Another big difference in Dean's campaign lies in cyberspace.
He has mobilised the internet in a way all his rivals have tried
and failed to copy. He raises huge sums from online donations.
Across the country 'meet-ups' have been organised over the
internet, putting together an unprecedented national network of
young, professional activists. When Bush's campaign raises a
million dollars at a fundraiser, Dean's activists rally over the
internet to match it. They usually succeed. Staffers and
supporters swap ideas using online journals or blogs.
This is the future. For a look at the past, one need go no further
than the faltering Joe Lieberman. He should have been a
frontrunner. He was Al Gore's running mate in 2000 and is a
moderate who would appeal to the middle ground. But this is not
a year for moderation. Even Gore has plumped for Dean.
Lieberman looks old-fashioned now. Ham-fisted slogans like 'A
Joe-vember to remember' and 'Liebermania' have fallen flat. At a
diner in the northern town of Littleton, Lieberman's problems
were plain to see. It was 8.30 am and the three customers were
outnumbered by the press. But Lieberman sat down and chatted
with them anyway, looking like any other customer - aside from
the three secret service agents hovering nearby. At one point he
noticed a motivational note posted on the kitchen wall. 'Act as if
it is impossible to fail,' he read out loud. But it seemed a bit late
for that.
This is a war election. It is there in the yellow ribbons tied to
trees and the American flags hung from freeway overpasses. It
is also there on the TV news each night in reports of the dead
and maimed GIs in Iraq. It is the issue that divides the country,
and the issue that gave birth to the Howard Dean phenomenon.
Dean's opposition to the war, initially seen as a handicap, has
now turned into his strength. He used it to gain support but also
to attack his Democrat rivals. At every meeting Dean speaks out
against the war. But just as the war helped make him, it can
destroy him too, exposing him on the issue of national security -
the Democrats' traditional Achilles heel. The capture last month
of Saddam Hussein took some of the wind out of Dean's sails,
but he held firm, arguing that capturing Saddam would not make
America safer from terrorists. If the American body count
continues to rise then Saddam emerging from his spider-hole
will rapidly become just a memory.
…………………..
If Dean becomes President, America could be rebuilt in the style
of the good doctor's Vermont. But to those eager to portray
Dean as a wild-eyed liberal (in a country where liberal is a dirty
word) Dean's record in Vermont comes as a surprise. He
governed as a fiscal conservative, angering the left-wing of his
state Democratic party. He insisted on a balanced budget and
set up a 'rainy day' fund for the state's surplus. Although he
signed into law gay 'civil unions' giving homosexual partners the
same legal status as married couples, he only did so after a
court decision recommending it. He dislikes gun control
(Vermont is a hunting state), and has even won plaudits from the
National Rifle Association. He promises action on environmental
issues but knows he will never end America's love affair with the
car. 'I have seen the car park. It is full of SUVs,' he tells each
audience he speaks too. 'We have SUVs in Vermont too.
Nobody's going to throw Americans out of their SUVs.'
So who is this country doctor shaking America's political
firmament? He is not from Vermont at all. Dean's rush-released
autobiography begins with the words, 'My family comes from
Sag Harbor', referring to a sleepy Long Island resort town. But,
in fact, Dean is a New Yorker. And a rich one, too. He grew up
the son of a stockbroker on Park Avenue. He went to school at
the ultra-posh Downing School on East 62nd Street. Sag
Harbor, which Dean eulogises as a childhood place of
swimming, fishing and stealing potatoes, was just a holiday
destination.
The family was traditional. His father, also Howard Dean, was
known in the family as 'Big Howard'. He was an avid Republican.
The younger Dean, 'Little Howard', stood out. He asked to be
roomed with black students while at Yale. Big Howard refused to
let his son's new friends visit the family home. Everything about
Dean's background should have produced another stockbroker
or a lawyer. Instead Dean chose to become a doctor. After
graduation from medical school he moved to Vermont to set up
home with his wife, Judith Steinberg, a Jewish medic. He moved
into politics (his first political act was campaigning for Jimmy
Carter) and rose to be deputy governor before the sudden death
of his boss called him to the top job in the state.
The Deans are a private couple. When Dean was Vermont's
governor his wife rarely attended state functions. She does not
campaign for him. Their teenage son Paul had a recent run-in
with police over the theft of alcohol from a country club. Dean
refused to answer questions on the matter. Now it appears that
the pressure of campaign ing is already changing things. Last
week Dean said his wife was preparing to do some television
interviews and might appear in a campaign advert.
At heart, Dean is still a country doctor. He is a mix of small 'c'
conservatism and DIY liberalism. When he was deputy governor
he still ran his doctor's practice. His wife plans to open a
practice in Washington if he wins the White House. Dean can
only be understood through the prism of his profession. The
campaign trail is already littered with Dean the Doctor stories;
aides treated at the roadside after minor accidents; Dean
stopping everything to administer a quick check-up. Yet he
plays the game of politics hard. Addressing one meeting on
what he thought of Bush's record in office, he gave a simple
diagnosis. The American public, he said, was being 'shafted'.
Dean tells the story of sitting at his desk, reading a newspaper
full of bad news, and suddenly asking himself if he was just
going to complain... or do something about it. The answer led to
a presidential campaign that began far below the radar of
national politics. Slipping over the Vermont border, Dean
addressed tiny gatherings. He worked the local media. His
stroke of genius was hiring Joe Trippi, a former Silicon Valley
mogul, as his campaign manager. That ensured the exploitation
of cyberspace. And then there was his passion, which seeped
through whatever medium he used. By the time Dean burst on to
the national scene last summer, with more cash than any of his
rivals, he was already old news to the legions of tech-savvy
supporters who had been following him on the internet. It was a
classic combination of new and old, of pounding the streets
while working the inboxes.
In any US election there is one simple rule: money wins.
Against all odds, Dean now has the money. His campaign has
raked in at least $25m, more than any other. Now,
controversially, Dean has foregone capped state funding in the
hope of being able to raise more alone. That sabotaged years of
Democrat efforts to take the cash out of politics, but Dean's
supporters argue that when you are facing Bush - who also
waives state funding - you have no choice.
Dean spends his cash, too. For all the hype over his grassroots
campaign, the airwaves are full of Dean adverts. But he is not
the only one with money. Others have the means to fight on,
hoping that Dean slips up as an increasingly prying media casts
a spotlight over every aspect of his background.
…………
No matter how slick other candidates are, though, none can
match the fervour of Dean's campaign. This is nowhere more
visible than in the most intimate of New Hampshire traditions:
the house party. This is when candidates hold court in a
supporter's front room. Polly and Edward Schumaker live in the
village of Bow, deep in the woods. It was lunchtime, with the
smell of freshly cooked muffins wafting, and 150 people
crammed inside the house. 'Is this the first time you've heard
him speak?' Nora Sanders, a medical student, asked a group of
girls. They nodded. 'He's amazing,' Sanders assured them.
When Dean arrived, he inched his way through the crowd, taking
five minutes to negotiate a 15-foot passageway. He stood on a
box in the middle of the dining room and, diverting from his
script, asked who had seen him speak before. Half put up their
hands. Dean grinned: 'It's like going to a Grateful Dead concert.
Some new songs are OK, but if I don't do a few of the old
favourites you people will be cross.'
He segued effortlessly into his usual monologue. His voice rose
in anger to make a point, triggering applause, before falling back
again. The audience nodded and clapped, responding to
questions and prompts like a congregation to their priest. Even
some journalists, caught up in the atmosphere, found
themselves clapping at the end.
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