A New Idea: Leave the Family at Home

By Edwin Warner

The first coup d'etat in American history was not unexpected. There had been telltale signs. Just as a Soviet official's demotion is revealed when he fails to show up in a Kremlin photograph, so the President had disappeared from recent White House portraits. His signature on bills looked suspiciously shaky, and there were rumors of a last swim in the White House pool.

Then the truth was known. The First Family had seized power. Since its members had done so much campaigning, they reasoned that they should be allowed to serve. The First Lady moved into the Oval Office and turned the desk to face the Rose Garden. Son Biff took command of the Pentagon since he had made so many pronouncements on defense policy during the campaign. Daughter Brenda, who washed down so many votes with her teas, became Secretary of State. With her concern for beautification, Bobo took Interior, EPA and, for good measure, Agriculture. Because he logged more campaign miles than anybody else, Bradford grabbed the ICC and the FEA. Billingsgate, who eagerly commented on all topics, was a natural for press secretary despite his age, seven. Throughout the coup, the wholesome, ever smiling, photogenically perfect First Family performed flawlessly as usual.

For all the wonders being worked by Betty, Mike, Jack, Steve and Susan, it is presumed that President Ford need fear no such bedroom and playroom revolt; Jimmy Carter remains his principal worry. Well, not just Jimmy. There's Rosalynn and Chip and Jeff and . . . The plain fact is that never before in a presidential campaign have spouses and progeny played such a conspicuous role. Which raises a question: Should a presidential election begin to sound like Book CXXXV of One Man's Family?

In a sense, the trend is understandable. The family campaigners can extend the candidate's image far beyond what he could achieve alone. They are added eyes, ears and antennas. They can appeal to generations and interest groups by whom the candidate might not be welcomed or understood. They ensure constant exposure of the candidate's name.

But must wives and children be programmed as if they were the candidate himself? Until recently, the political family had quite a different view of its proper function: it should be seen only occasionally and not heard at all. Americans survived the 19th century without knowing the everyday habits of politicians' families. There were brainy, determined and manipulative First Ladies--Abigail Adams, Dolley Madison, Lucy Hayes, among others. But they exercised their power at the hearthside with their husbands. A campaign biographer could think of no greater accolade for Lucy Hayes than to call her "the true housewife, the noble consort, the faithful Christian mother."

Even when politicians began to campaign in earnest at the end of the century, their families stayed unobtrusively on the sidelines. If wives did appear with their husbands in public, they had nothing to say, or at least said nothing that seemed to matter. A campaign biographer boasted of Mrs. Thomas E. Dewey: "She has a mind of her own, but she ventures no political opinions except to her closest friends. She makes no speeches. She could make a speech, but she sees no reason for making one."

Eleanor Roosevelt, who broke the First Lady mold by enlisting in causes that raised people's eyebrows and sometimes their blood pressure, nevertheless was reluctant to campaign for Franklin. "I never felt it was good taste to go out and electioneer for my husband," she wrote. On the famous whistle-stop tour with her father in 1948, Margaret Truman refused all interviews unless a reporter turned out to be a sorority sister who gave the proper grip.

It was the 1960 presidential campaign that brought the family out in the streets. The Kennedys recruited an astonishing assortment of relatives who swamped voters with tea and sympathy. Only the candidates' wives, Jackie Kennedy and Pat Nixon, remained relatively aloof--Jackie because she was pregnant, Pat because she usually served as a prim decoration on the speaker's platform. In 1964 a President's wife first emerged as an aggressive campaigner. Lyndon Johnson had troubles in the South because of his support of civil rights measures. Lady Bird went to Dixie for him. Her eight-state, 1,700-mile whistle-stop tour salved Southern wounds and demonstrated that a wife could perform in the political big leagues. The precedent was set. Muriel Humphrey took to the stump for Hubert in 1968. Even Mrs. Nixon, unfairly known as "Plastic Pat," began to unbend. Eventually she could tour on her own and work airport fences with the best of them.

Now that the presidency has become so powerful and so personalized, voters are understandably curious about the woman the Chief Executive has married and the children he has raised. But with all the family fanfare, the public may end up knowing less than more. It makes as much sense to take candidates' children seriously on issues as it does to criticize them for their slipups. When Jeff Carter made a derogatory remark about Billy Graham in Oklahoma last week, it proved nothing beyond the fact that Jeff is still a political innocent. His sister Amy, 8, may have the right idea. After she was erroneously accused in the press of hiking prices at her lemonade stand, she refused any more interviews. Amy has her charm, but the public's right to know has not been irreparably damaged by her silence.

Occasionally, families are not as helpful as they are made out to be. During the 1972 primary contest, Jane Muskie was criticized for liking salty language. When press accounts appeared, Senator Edmund Muskie looked tearful as he defended his wife's honor--a scene that spoiled his Lincolnesque image and hurt his election chances. Eleanor McGovern was so forthright on the issues that she became the first candidate's wife to appear on Meet the Press. But her success may have been too much to handle; she was unable to work in harmony with her husband's campaign staff.

Trying to be too many things to too many people can deprive a family of its own integrity. Such is the theme of Frank Hogan's recent play Finn MacKool, in which campaigning is equated with the devil's own work. Under a satanic compulsion they are too vain to resist, a Kennedy-like family drives one member after another into the hell of politics. In fact, campaigning is more purgatory than hades, and families are more likely to be consumed by television coverage than hellfire. Still, the extensive use of the family as campaigners smacks of cynical exploitation, a show-business gimmick calculated to dazzle and distract. And what of the politician who (Nielsen forbid!) has a homely wife or less than bright children? The day seems not far off when he will be barred from running. Should families skulk back to the home or suppress their need (if it exists) to express themselves? That is one possibility. But even short of such drastic action, it might be useful to remember that it is the candidate who is running for the presidency. He is the one America wants to measure.

Edwin Warner

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