The first time I ran for the NEA Executive Committee, in 2003, was a roller-coaster of successes and failures. I knew little of the process and at times showed it. I needed too much knowledge and paid for it in terms of missed opportunities.
By the time I got to the Representative Assembly in New Orleans, where the vote would take place, it was obvious that support for me, which had once been growing, was stagnating. Someone had gotten into the race at the last minute and was coming up from behind with greater momentum.
But I clung to what I thought, what I was told, was taking place on the ground. Four people were running for two spots--one a state affiliate president, far and away the favorite, three coming from the NEA Board of Directors, including me. It looked like a toss-up between at least two of us, maybe all three.
The rumors were that none of the three of us would get a majority on the first ballot and I would win on the second, once people were sure that the state affiliate president would get in. I looked like less a threat to the ones 'bullet-voting' for her, and would join her on the Committee.
It didn't turn out that way. Enough people used both of their votes on the first ballot, and I finished third. It wasn't all that close. Outside of the mistakes I had made in organizing, there were other reasons. Another state affiliate president told me later, in hindsight, of the latecomer who beat me: "He was cute," as if that's what mattered the most. But the NEA is often a cross-section of America itself, and short of the time it takes to glean out substance, the frivolous sometimes serves as a sufficient reason to cast a ballot.
Thought I did my best to hide it, I was crushed. More than that, it was clear that people had promised me their support but, like Lucy with Charlie Brown and the football, had pulled it back at the last second. I knew that others had ripped me behind my back. A tough lesson, that. Difficult to feel good about humanity. But no one required me to go down that road.
I realized something else, too. In the wake of losing, I had seen, at earlier RAs, candidates come to the mike and lash out at the winners in frustration and depression. They, too, felt hoodwinked. They, too, felt victimized by someone's conspiracy. It bothered me when I would see it, but now I understood their mentality.
It wasn't supposed to be like that. We were in the same union. We were supposed to be on the same side. Our word was supposed to be our bond. People looked as if they could be trusted.
But many of them who had given their tacit support had had to run for lesser positions themselves, and had acquired a kind of caginess that raised their political sophistication. They could promise without promising, guarantee without guaranteeing. No one lied. But no one needed to tell the truth, either. Such is politics.
That's what you bargain for when you get in, and the higher you go, the more it happens. It was one of the more painful lessons.
As soon as the results were announced, I left the convention center in New Orleans and took a walk. I needed to decompress before I did or said something I'd be sorry for. Above all, I had to face the sad fact of my defeat. Above all, I had to say so, first to myself.
But it was how I would say it to others that could have future effects. I was going to continue as member of the NEA Board of Directors, after all. I would be interacting with those who had supported me, and those who didn't. If I took it too personally, it would have a negative effect on something I might want to get done.
In any event, conversations that would have otherwise taken place would never happen because people would assume I held a grudge against them. Tomorrow, said Scarlett O'Hara and my mother when wishing us a good sleep, is another day.
I felt, too, an obligation to the RA itself. No matter what, it had spoken. The experience had been sobering, yes, but it had also been exhilarating at times. And I was a recipient as well as they. I wanted to say something about that.
Actually, there was no need. The RA could have gone on without any commentary. But what would be said about me? Couldn't it be interpreted as a brush-off? Would I be seen as someone who was too good for it anyhow?
That certainly wasn't true. But politics is about what isn't said as much as what is, and appearances either stimulate or mute conversations. Besides, my supporters needed to move on, and would whether I liked it or not. The pieces could be picked up down the road.
The RA would go on with or without me. So would the NEA. It's much bigger than any one person. And those bitter excursions to the mike were on my mind.
I would not do that. I would suck it up. I would say something that would be brief but clear and conciliatory.
So I did. And some supporters from Wisconsin gathered behind me as I came to the mike. I hadn't asked them to. They knew very well what I was doing. It reflected upon them, as well, and that was just as important.
I used a quote from Will Rogers: Not everyone can be in the parade. Someone has to sit on the curbing and applaud as it goes by. I thanked my supporters, and tried some dry humor about being in the Board Dance Caucus--occasionally, we would gather between meetings and dance to some piped in music--which went over well.
It seemed to have a positive effect. A number of people congratulated me, later, on a good campaign. That felt good, of course, but my attitude was more like that of another failed candidate from another year who ran into me the next day and, with empathy, said, "Losing sucks."
I accepted the good wishes as bravely as I could. It is then that one must be brave. It's easy to be in the middle of a vigorous campaign. That takes no courage at all. All that takes is audacity.
45 has audacity in spades. While that's not a bad thing, he must now have courage. So far, he has displayed none. But that's hard. That takes effort. It means to overcome the anger, distress and humiliation at coming up short. He's still claiming victory. He's waltzing through fantasies.
Having lots of attention paid to you is bracing. It makes your ego soar. But then it ends and the ego descends. Humility arrives in boatloads. Man, that's tough.
Notice how quiet 45 is now. There's nothing left to say other than to rail at the rain. And Arizona completed its count. All chances there have ended.
Instead, he's raising money partly to pay for futile (say nearly everyone) legal excursions, and splitting the funding for his own use. Grifting to the end. Time goes no slower, though.
There are ways to lose. People remember. 45 doesn't get that. I think he believes that he may be girding for another try, but he gives himself more importance than there is. People move on. Circumstances change and the combination of them and other people seem to fit better.
Some of his supporters are already anticipating his return, and he might. But we'll see him coming next time--his insults, his narcissism, his incompetence. It'll be far, far different. He, and his supporters, will have to have something new to say. But their striving is based on the supposition that there should be nothing new to say. That will get old very fast.
The country is bigger than any one person, though 45 may never understand that. Time does one thing: Move forward. You can't hold it back. He's spent four years trying to do so. That's partly why he got beat.
Joe Biden gets that, and that's why he's president. It's not about him. It's about the United States of America.
The NEA leadership had a big meeting in Minneapolis not long after the RA. I asked some friends what I should do: Go there and get back into the flow, or stay home and allow the new reality to set in. I got both reactions.
I decided to go. "You fall off your horse," I said to those who asked, "you get right back up." People liked that. That didn't make it easy to say. But saying it helped me face it.
It was hard to watch the guy who beat me. But, I told myself, I might as well get used to it. That was the new reality.
Within a week of that meeting, everything had changed. The guy who beat me had resigned. Within two weeks, I was asked to take his place.
Before that happened a member of the Executive Committee called me to say that he/she liked my concession speech a lot. He/She was on the cusp of voting for my admittance into the group, I think, and wanted to let me know without exactly telling me (once again) that he/she was supporting me. The phone call was a kind of interview. And that speech was part of what did it.
But it wasn't only the speech. It was the humility of acceptance and the class and style of the delivery. As such, it was a unifying statement, which it was meant to be. It hadn't been lost on him/her.
The rest of the Executive Committee, which was to vote on it, had plenty of choices, one of which was to let the position open for a year and let whoever wanted to run try or try again. I was out of money (and you do not do this with union funds; Landrum-Griffin guarantees that) and way, way in debt. There was no way I could mount another campaign.
The phone call told me something without saying it: I was being considered. The vote, as I later learned, was not unanimous. But I got in. It would be as an interim, so I would have to run again that next year. But being paid for the position by the NEA, on top of my teachers' salary (also taken over by NEA) would help a lot. So would a better campaign.
45 could do himself a world of good by first, conceding the election; second, by saying something nice about his supporters; and third, saying something nice about the USA. It would go a long way in healing some of the wounds that he's caused. Those would be unifying statements.
But they won't happen. That's now very clear. He can't admit defeat. And, in his paranoid, cloistered style, he will have ruined another opportunity for himself. It's almost as if he has to be angry. He doesn't think anybody will believe him if he isn't.
Plenty of politicians, like me, have bounced back after devastating defeats. Some, like me, had the advantage of luck. But some, also like me, had laid the groundwork before luck took over. I just didn't know it at the time. That happens, too.
Losing well matters. Tomorrow's another day.
Be well. Be careful. Wear a mask. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
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