Politics as Unusual: Sanity Found

Previously: Read part two of Barry Campbell’s political memoirs here.


1997. “So, what’s it like?” I was at the urinal, having a private moment in a too-public life. I wasn’t sure what the guy next to me was referring to. “What’s it like,” he asked again, “. . . politics?” Getting my hair cut, at the dry cleaners, in the gym, lined up for a coffee, anywhere and everywhere, it didn’t matter: people want to know “what’s it like?” being a politician. There are surface answers, the ones you provide: “great,” “interesting,” maybe even “it’s a tough country to govern.” But the real answer remains buried, and can only be appreciated (and uttered) in retrospect. Politics distorts you, turns you into a relentless, vote-seeking, attention-craving political animal. It can hardly be otherwise, because the very experience amplifies the character traits, and feeds so many of the needs, that brought you to Planet Politics in the first place.


Once elected and in government, you are not judged by what you might do — that’s what being in Opposition promises — but by what you’ve just done. Life in government is a perpetual present about the immediate past. Some say it’s about making choices. Left unsaid is that each time you choose, you lose, and it’s a race to replace lost votes. During the election, a young kid asked me, “Sir, are you anybody? ” At the time, all I could honestly say was that I was a wannabe. In office, had he asked me then, I might have said, “I’m your MP, and when you’re eighteen you can vote against me.”

The politician’s brain becomes cluttered with advice from others. “Say this.” “Don’t say that.” “Here’s how to handle that.” “Be careful out there.” “Don’t give them anything.” “Feed them just a little bit.” “Look sharp.” “Be loyal.” “Be tough.” “Show spirit.” “Be boring, and they’ll leave you alone.” “Take the call.” “Don’t take the call.” “Meet them.” “Don’t meet them.” “Don’t you want to win?” No wonder politicians sometimes can’t seem to get on with it. And then, for some of us, there is identity theft. Whether they present themselves as affiliated with an ethnic group or not, many politicians become hyphenated MPs, their voices appropriated by this or that group. So I was a Jewish MP to many, and especially to the Jewish press; Sarkis Assadourian was an Armenian MP, Eleni Bakopanos a Greek MP, and so on down the list. If you embrace identity politics — and it is very tempting, because there are votes there — you will isolate yourself and risk being seen as a single-issue MP.

You learn to be a good listener; that is, you master the ability to listen to constituents or supplicants who seek your intercession or support for something, and to look engaged and sympathetic. Occasionally you are. Too much of the time, however, it has to be an act — a desperate or necessary act not to disappoint, not to lose votes, not to appear to be the bad guy. We all need to be loved, and none more so than the elected politician. You can turn down a meeting, but risk getting a bad reputation. The easier, more politic course is to take the meeting, make eye contact, listen, and then maybe do nothing. Sometimes you want to help and you can; sometimes you can’t or don’t want to or shouldn’t. Some meetings you miss.

Politicians are always a little out of control. Your calendar is the House calendar, and if a story breaks in the media — as it so often does — you become hostage to it. On a good day, much of your time is spent trying to avoid tomorrow’s crises or, more deliciously, devising traps for the Opposition. The early days of majority government are blissful, the “honeymoon period,” as they say. But soon enough, everything becomes measured against re-election, and control becomes an issue. Insecure about his prospects, the sitting politician, always hopelessly self-centred but now on edge, loses the ability to answer a simple question. “How are you? ” rarely elicits “Fine, thank you.” Instead, pleasant conversational gambits become launching pads for attacking the latest poll results, reflections on your relative progress toward prominence, or gripes and observations about colleagues, the Opposition, the prime minister. The stunned questioner leaves sorry he ever met you.

At one point, I was vice-chair of the House Finance Committee, chair of the Greater Toronto Area federal Liberal caucus, and co-chair of an upcoming Liberal Party policy convention. All of this on top of regular House duty. I was out of control. To sort out my responsibilities, my executive assistant devised a colour-coded schedule indicating which tasks were related to which committee meeting, the upcoming convention, and so on. It was cute, but though I clearly needed to be managed, I just couldn’t let someone else be in charge. “I can’t be the produce and the produce manager,” I complained. The analogy made little sense; I was out of control and confused. “Relax,” my staff said. “We’ll make sure you are where you are supposed to be, and we’ll spritz you every so often so you look fresh, like they do to the fruits and vegetables.” Fortunately, they had a sense of humour.

The politician loses the ability to simply walk into a room or an event. Instead, he is “advanced.” Someone stakes out the room, tells you what the drill is and who is there, and reminds you why you’re there — to work the room. Like a dog fetching a stick, you go in there to fetch votes. I learned to circulate in a figure eight: first to the left, then diagonally across, double back to the left, then diagonally to the opposite corner, and then out. T