Some MPs are better about leaving than others; some are even relieved. One defeated Ontario MP had a button printed that read, “I don’t have to listen to shit / I don’t have to take shit / I don’t have to talk to assholes again!”
Few of us exit gracefully or fully. Fearful of losing our identities, we scheme to get another fix. We linger about the edges of political events, most of us forgotten but not gone, and aching to be introduced to the crowd. We’re addicts who crave recognition, the politician’s drug of choice. To spice up a dinner party, hosts sometimes tell guests that “Barry used to be in Ottawa.” I love when this happens, but then the onslaught begins, and I regret the attention. But without prodding, I sometimes do it to myself, nursing conversations around to politics simply to say, “Well, when I was in Ottawa . . . ” The psychiatrist who asked me as I campaigned, “Why you are really running?” knew the narcissism at the core of most politicians.
Rarely a day goes by without someone asking me, “Will you run again? ” I won’t, but I am a trained politician, and thus always answer, “It is not my current intention to do so.” Always leave yourself some wiggle room. To those who ask, “Do you miss it? ” My simple and honest answer is “Yes — the action but not the life.” I don’t like being an outsider looking in.
When Paul Martin became prime minister, many thought I would go back, and some were convinced that he would ask me to play some critical role. I had myself going into the pmo, to the Senate, becoming an ambassador. I weighed each possibility, tried on each job to see how it fit. In fact, even though I had no intention of running again, with all the talk of Martin looking for star candidates I wanted to be asked. I never was. And Monsieur Dion, “Am I not a star?” Only in my own mind, it appears.
I’ve seen politicians try to return and not make it. It’s not pretty. There are few second acts in politics. Though it’s been done, to make it in again many things (that you do not control) have to go your way: the nomination, winning your riding, your party winning the election, and, finally, being given something interesting and important to do. When I was younger, all of this was before me, but I had less to lose. Considering the tough competition back then, my wife had said, “I think you should run and lose honourably.” But I won, and I am eternally grateful for that. In so many respects, I’m still basking in that 1993 victory, and a failed comeback would somehow erase it and make me wonder all over again, “Who am I?” It’s a blessing, I guess, that no one approached me.
I cannot help but think of that older gentleman I met at the door while campaigning. He believed that he had once served in Parliament but couldn’t remember when. Maybe he had. I wonder sometimes if this is what it will come to one day. But then I remember that in the basement of the House of Commons, in the visitors’ centre below the Peace Tower, there are brass plaques on the wall that list those who have served as MPs. My name is there — at least it was the last time I checked. Also, from time to time I curl up with my scrapbooks, painstakingly assembled by my staff. Every interview, utterance, press release (and press mention), and every photo of me during my time in office is in these scrapbooks. I treasure them. Then there is my chair. Thinking it a good idea, my staff purchased and presented me with my chair from the House of Commons. On the back is a plaque with my name and years of service. If I ever forget when I was an MP, I can turn it over and find out. (My grandchildren will probably inherit my House chair. Here’s hoping they don’t use it for firewood.) Unlike that older gentleman, I know I was there. Public service can be hell, and being a politician can distort you like nothing else, but I did my time, and I’m proud of it.
Sometimes it seems as if I never left. When I visit Parliament Hill, older security personnel still recognize me; one even saluted me, as if I was still an MP. (I guess I still look the part, and I still wear my MP’s pin.) Little has changed — not the decor, food, conversation, or sense of self-importance. It’s both sweet and frightening when former colleagues rush up to me and launch into tirades about things of interest only to parliamentarians. Recently, I stood in the members’ lobby of the House as the bells rang calling MPs for a vote. I wondered if I might enter Parliament, if anyone would notice or care.
Ten years on, people still ask me, “Weren’t you an MP?” It is gratifying, even if they try to pin my party’s latest gaffe on me, or ask for explanations about behaviour, policies, or decisions I don’t understand myself. It’s still great to be noticed. Years on, and I still remember fondly better Liberal days, days when Jean Chrétien and Paul Martin collaborated to strengthen this great land. When I left government in 1997, I received a note from a constituent that thanked us for changing the course of Canada’s financial history, to the benefit of future generations. I’ve kept this note and reread it from time to time. It feels good. So does being back home with Debra and the boys.
* * *
To view memorabilia from Barry Campbell’s political career, visit walrusmagazine.com/more.
