[W]hen America found itself having a hard time facing the future, they looked for people like John Wayne.
But since John Wayne was no longer available, they settled for Ronald Reagan
--Gil Scott-Heron, ""B Movie
So
Ronald Reagan is dead. The
paeans to the Gipper's glory will provide a few days' diversion from
intelligence-breach investigations,
anti-Bush protests and
election jockeying.
While others will focus their informed comment on the legacy of his presidency, my first thoughts were about a single, troubling encounter that I had on electon night, 1980.
That night, I was at Republican Party headquarters in Princeton, New Jersey, covering a routine news story for my graduate school news reporting class.

On November 4, 1980, the story was the third re-election juggernaut of
Rep. Millicent Fenwick, (R-NJ) the Bernardsville dowager whose habit of addressing witnesses as "Son" while smoking a pipe and knitting during Congressional hearings inspired Garry Trudeau to create the similarly eccentric "Lacy Davenport" character for his comic strip, "Doonesbury." Fenwick had won her previous election bids by substantial margins. Not even her feckless opponent, 25-year-old attorney, Kiernan Pillion, thought this campaign would be any different. “I’m just doing this to get exposure,” he told me at one campaign stop.
Still, Pillion waged a valiant assault. He accused Fenwick of a “drift to the right” because of pressure from Reaganites. Despite her past reputation as a moderate who favored the
Equal Rights Amendment, Medicaid funding for abortion, and consumer protections, she had voted to delay hospital cost containment and urban mass transit in the last Congress, he said. Fenwick, seated behind him, knitted, waving to people in the audience with all the guilelessness of an elderly aunt come to tea. At one debate at the Princeton Jewish Community Center, Fenwick called Pillion, "dear boy" during her speech, and joked that the government might save money if we “cut out peanut subsidies – a jibe at President Carter’s background as a peanut-farmer. “We have, in Congress, a number of people who are addicted to spending. Down there, people feel they’re nothing unless it’s expensive,” she said at another debate.
Her big issue was the
marriage tax penalty; her claim to fame before entering politics was that she authored
Vogue's 1948 etiquette guide,
a favorite of Jackie Kennedy's. When I interviewed her, she was quite pointed about the ways in which the Federal government's stewardship of the economy compared unfavorably with the management tactics at
Conde Nast, Vogue's publisher.
In political terms, her gentility made her a leader in organizations such as the National Women’s Political Caucus, where she collaborated with women outside of the Republican Party. Biographer Blanche Wiesen Cook notes that Fenwick expressed particular admiration for Eleanor Roosevelt and
Bella Abzug, two heroines of the Democratic Party, because they were, as Wiesen Cook put it, “Women of vast integrity, they spoke from the heart, and they spoke truth to power. Although she agreed politically with Abzug on virtually nothing, Fenwick explained, Abzug was her ideal.”
In 1980, Ronald Reagan promised the middle class that he would restore their sense of the American Dream. Reagan had warred against the Republican Party’s liberal wing since 1964, when he
campaigned for Barry Goldwater. Politically moderate, old-money Republicans such as Fenwick,
John Lindsay and
Nelson Rockefeller were frequent adversaries. At the 1976 Republican convention, Fenwick led a losing 2 AM fight to keep anti-abortion language out of the platform. She not only lost; she and her sisters in the
Republican Women’s Task Force were considered suspect because they attempted to cooperate with Democratic women. In her 1980 Congressional primary, a Reagan-wing candidate was a more serious challenge to re-election than Pillion would prove to be.
Of her party’s conservative mood, Fenwick would only say, “I was dismayed to see that for the first time in 40 years, the [Equal Rights Amendment] wasn’t on the platform.” She applauded Reagan's stance on defense, but studiously avoided passing judgment on his "
voodoo economics" plan to cut social spending, cut rich people's taxes, and hike the defense budget.
I was in Princeton on election night to cover the local reaction to the election. Since the only fun in the campaign had been watching Fenwick's antics, I figured that the evening would be short and dull. The tunnel vision that can afflict both graduate students and cub reporters had caused me not to give much thought to the national election. I had followed it, of course, but it never occurred to me that anybody could take Ronald Reagan seriously, even with the way that Jimmy Carter had fouled up the Iran hostage rescue. Surely, people would not vote for a man who carried the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan! No one, I thought, could have missed the meaning of his having
started his campaign with a speech about "state's rights" in Philadelphia, Mississippi -- the place where
Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner were martyred for their Civil Rights activism.
The 15-minute stroll from my house to the party office was pleasant that cool, clear, night. Princeton Republican headquarters was a modest frame house on Nassau Street, the main drag. Not surprisingly, I was the only black person there, and at 23, I was probably the youngest person, as well. However, I was not self-conscious. Although I had grown up in a working-class family in North Philadelphia, I had been groomed to be one of those people who was to make the dream of an integrated America real. It was not that I expected people to be comfortable with me -- it was just that Princeton folk exhibit a certain politesse, as a rule. I was respectably dressed in a business suit and pumps. I wore an Afro, but it was short.
About a dozen people milled around the sparsely-furnished living room and dining room, where a portable TV and cold-cut buffet was set up. I introduced myself to a campaign staffer, then asked for and got permission to hang around and pick up some reactions. In the dining room, I had an easy time getting short, pithy quotes. Reagan and Fenwick's quick victories, along with the open bar, had everybody in a good mood. Before long, I had to go into the near-empty living room to check my notes.
A fiftyish guy approached me and asked what I was doing. His broad, ruddy face, double-knit slacks and patterned sports coat contrasted sharply with the aquiline features and patrician manners of this Brooks Brothers crowd. I explained who I was. He nodded, asked a few questions about my background and undergraduate education. I chatted, not looking for the set-up. He listened to my answers to his questions, and then he said, "Soooo, what do you think of Ronald Reagan?" I demurred, saying something like, "If it's all the same, I'd rather not answer. I'm here as a reporter, and I don't think it would be proper for me to express my own views."
"That's a copout," he said, cutting me a sharp look. "C'mon, whaddya think?"
I demurred again. He badgered me for an answer. I repeat myself, repeatedly. Finally, I say, "Well, I'll admit, I didn't vote for him."
He looked me up and down, took a step back, and shouted: "YOU PEOPLE!!! You think you can come in here, with your tailored suit and your articulate speech and your Ivy League degree, and you think we are gonna share the farm with you!!!!!”
I froze. A circle formed around us. I didn’t know what persona to adopt. As a fledgling reporter, I had been told to keep myself out of the story. The advice had come from both my white journalism teachers and the few black and Hispanic media professionals I met. My attempt to be professional clearly struck Jack as a conceit. Under other circumstances, I might have argued with him about Reagan, or called him on his belligerence. Under other circumstances, I might have just walked away. But this time, my tongue won’t work and my feet won’t move. I’m on vapor lock. What would
Charlayne Hunter-Gault do?
"We will NEVER share the farm with you!"
He ranted on, talking about Reagan and "my people," and who knows what. I could not hear him. I looked at the people around him, sizing up the danger. I shifted into the survival tactics that I learned growing up in Philly, although I had never been a fighter. I faced the doorway, but I had to get past him and the guy on his left, but I thought I could do it if I head-fake right. The crowd stood around us in a circle. I could not tell whether they were hostile. I was expecting the worst, but I thought: they're older; I'm faster. I put my hand in my purse and clenched my keys between my fingers -- I could jab him in the belly, throw him off, get past him. He was still ranting. His eyes bored into mine.
"ANSWER me! You don't even have the guts to ANSWER me!" he raved.
A short blond woman with a curly perm tugged on his arm. "C'mon, Jack. Let's go." Eventually she prevailed, but not before he gets in one last shot: "Here's my card. If you get some guts tomorrow, give me a call. I want an answer." He threw it at my feet and let the woman take him away.
"It's the liquor talking, she said to me over her shoulder. "Jack's really a nice guy." I stared at the card on the floor. I was shaking. Some people walked away, others looked embarrassed and apologetic. I looked for my trench coat. I just wanted to get away from these people. The woman who greeted me when I entered that evening looked at me with big, sad eyes. "I just want you to know that we don't all feel that way." I nodded, tied my coat tight and drifted into a night that was now cold and thick with fog.