Politics as Unusual: Darkness Visible

Having endured the boredom of Opposition, veterans said, “Any day in government is better.” Giddy with the prospect of receiving their just rewards, they expected to serve in Cabinet soon, or “there’ll be hell to pay.” The veterans feigned interest in new MPs, but many were like coiled springs, ready to pop if done out of some perk by a rookie. Their hostility was palpable. For their part, new MPs who had served in municipal or provincial governments, or even on school boards, also had high expectations, as did star candidates parachuted into ridings. Rewarding us all would be impossible. Not one month on the job, and the Boss already had new enemies.

In caucus, there were MPs who had to be reminded that the government was no longer the enemy. They had fought for so long (in Opposition) that fighting was in their political dna. Some MPs spoke too much; others said nothing. Some had opinions on everything; seemed to have no opinions. There were single-cause crusaders, and those who insisted that all issues, however unrelated, be viewed through a particular lens — gender, the environment, religious dogma, or even productivity. There were loners who didn’t know how to play along, and those who would never accept an outcome they didn’t support. When losing an argument, zealots attacked the process: “I haven’t had a chance to be heard” or “This was decided before we’d had a proper debate.” Others schemed as they circled. Conspirators saw conspiracy everywhere. There were well-intentioned bridge-builders who would soon have the bruises to show for their honourable efforts. We were wise, foolish, funny, some decidedly not, right wing, left wing, quirky, clear of mind (at least at the beginning), and purposeful. It was a disturbingly broad tent.

Some MPs spoke the King’s English. (Indeed, a dashing older gent from British Columbia, a former military man and college professor, looked like he could be the King of England.) Others couldn’t string a sentence together without malapropisms and scrambled syntax. One MP expressed grave concerns about the lack of “supervision of dirigibles.” Financial derivatives, he meant, I believe. Another went on and on about government “stewardess-ship.” A Toronto MP (who would become a minister and leadership candidate) was certain that some event “has given a lie to the deception that . . . ” Another colleague wanted to “suck it to the Opposition,” and another insisted that we be “quick out of the shoe” on something. When asked why an expected witness had failed to appear, a committee chair said, “I bumped him off.” I assume the witness was rescheduled, not eliminated. One MP took me aside to “prick my ear.”

Rivalries were everywhere in Cabinet, too. Ministers jostled over who would lead a policy initiative, who got to chair which committee, who would be named the political minister for their province. They lived in a twilight zone of insecurity — serving “at the pleasure of ” the Boss, and scared to death of becoming a political liability. There is nowhere for a minister to go but down, and the prime minister enjoyed warning ministers that he controlled all appointments, and that no one was above being replaced. He told backbenchers, “You are my B team,” and thought we were comforted by this.

Still, my colleagues were clearly not the incompetents many Canadians thought them to be and that I had worried they might be. But we would have to learn how to work together in a political/media fishbowl. Politics might be a blood sport, but I didn’t realize how much of the sparring would be internal. I learned whom to trust over long hours of House duty, during lousy late-night dinners, over stale beer, in shared apartments, through frustrations and small victories. Many of us bonded through laughter and commiseration. We struggled to manage the home front, told one another that all was under control, and tried to be generous, but each of us competed for the Boss’s ear, a parliamentary trip, an invitation to 24 Sussex Drive, media attention, and, most of all, a Cabinet spot. The shy and retiring don’t run for politics. Some MPs, though, grew miserable and fat waiting for their brilliance to be recognized instead of getting on with it. On visits home, my wife would ask, “How is everyone?” “Larger than life,” I’d say. The collective weight gain of the Liberal caucus, especially among the disgruntled, was prodigious.

Backbenchers get a shot at glory during weekly caucus meetings. Attendance is expected; the prime minister, national caucus chair, and House leader sit up front, and remarks are directed at them. Up at the microphone on every issue, some MPs astounded me with how quickly they burned their currency. It was impossible to tell what actually mattered to them. By contrast, “Oh, he must have something to say” was the whispered response when one of the silent few approached the microphone. Humour helped. In a discussion about extending high-speed Internet across Canada, a Newfoundland MP said, “Now, Prime Minister, in my riding, if you mention the Internet most people think you are talking about hairspray!” After that, it didn’t matter what he said. He’d sidle up to the mike like a gunslinger, and the room would erupt. He made it into Cabinet and was later “elevated” to the Senate. Caucus was like the court of Louis xvi as depicted in the film Ridicule: if you got the Boss to laugh, it was akin to amusing the king (and it improved your station). Must be careful not to laugh first though, lest the Boss not find the gag funny.

As a young lawyer, I’d had a reputation as the “partner with the biggest mouth and the fewest points.” I had learned to pick my spots, and would have to do so again in caucus. I approached the microphone for the first time with reasonable confidence. The room went quiet. Chrétien looked down at me over his reading glasses. I started to speak, but nothing happened. Jesus, I was addressing the prime minister and couldn’t get my words out. Next time, I’d write down my remarks, make them short and concise, and always, always try to get a laugh. I had to learn some Newfoundland wisdom. This would take time, but I did quickly surmise that a coordinated and timely caucus assault on a particular initiative could cause the government to pause, maybe even change course. Backbenchers weren’t useless after all.

The House needs a quorum to operate, and the government must have a majority present or risk losing its head. MPs do assigned House duty — hours of weekly drudgery punctuated by rare moments of drama or high comedy. Government MPs deliver speeches (usually crafted by their staffs) on the legislation of the day. These staid minor performances are followed by Q&A sessions. Practising for our moment to come as ministers in some future question period, the eager among us would feign indignation, bemusement, wonder. Others would read, gossip, or loll about. Driving ministers’ staffs crazy, backbenchers use House duty to talk directly with Cabinet ministers. (Staffs try to insulate their ministers “for their own good,” and ordinary MPs mess this up.) Views are exchanged, correspondence delivered, and opinions registered. Bonds of trust form. Why set up a formal meeting when you can buttonhole a minister as you are both trapped listening to a boring speech? Besides, only the “first among equals,” the prime minister, was beyond demotion, so ministers had good reason not to be too snooty.

The bells rang, calling the 35th Parliament to order. One of the first matters of business was to change the opening prayer to make it more inclusive and reflective of Canadian reality: references to Jesus were dropped, and the Lord’s Prayer was replaced with a moment of silence. Not everyone was happy about this, but the new prayer excluded no one — how very Canadian — and this augured well, I thought. Upon reflection, a better prayer (to begin each day) might cite diplomat George F. Kennan, a clever observer of politicians and communists:

“Whatever else one may think of government, it should not be idealized. Its doings are something that should be viewed by the outsider only with a sigh for its unquestionable necessity, and by the participant only with a prayer for forgiveness for the many moral ambiguities it requires him to accept and for the distortions of personality it inflicts upon him.”