The trouble with running for
public office is the very real possibility that you will lose the
race publicly. I considered this as I declared my candidacy for my
small town’s city council. But there were three seats up for
grabs, and I figured there would be a good chance I might run
unopposed.
When I found out five people were vying for
those three city council positions, my insides twisted. This was
the risky behavior I had spent a lifetime trying to avoid. I never
ran for student council or tried out for cheerleader. I was popular
enough, I guess, but not nearly confident enough to find out
exactly how popular. I had good grades but dared not apply to
universities with highly competitive admissions procedures. I
further dismissed those colleges with sororities, as they seemed to
pose unwelcome contests of their own.
So losing my city
council race on Nov. 8 should have crushed me. But it didn’t
— and for reasons I never would have imagined. The morning
after the election, my phone rang non-stop. The callers did not
have exuberant congratulations to offer me, but instead delivered
carefully worded expressions of comfort, encouragement, even
outrage. My knee-jerk reaction was self-defense.
“It’s all right,” I told them. “Who in their right mind would
want that job anyhow?” But their persistent sincerity throughout
the day wore me down. They deserved the same sincerity from me, and
soon I came to speak the truth.
“I’m glad I tried.”
And I was, for my sake and for theirs.
In recent years, I
have voted for more losers than winners. And I’m ashamed to
say it never once occurred to me to let those people know that I
appreciated their willingness to try. I never thanked a candidate
for being brave enough to stand up for the rest of us, to maybe
even come up short in front of their neighbors, their families,
their country.
But now I understand that voters have a
power that goes beyond the ballot box. Representative government is
a team sport, not an individual race. Voters who cared enough to
broach the uncomfortable subject of defeat succeeded in reminding
me that I was not alone in my loss.
To restore a
candidate’s sense of purpose and dignity is no small thing.
Democracy is more than a roomful of winners. Democracy depends on
choices. Without opposition or dissent, the majority is free to
steamroll the rest of us. I live in Idaho where the Democratic
Party has no more influence than a Friday night bowling league.
Republican Mike Crapo, our junior senator, was the only U.S. senate
candidate in 2004 to run unopposed. In all likelihood, a Democratic
challenger would have been about as well received as my own
decision last Thanksgiving to serve lamb instead of turkey. Even
so, the lopsided election did not provoke debate or thoughtful
discussion about national issues. But it illustrated the one thing
that is always worse than losing — not even trying.
I ran for Salmon city council because I think we have only a small
window of time to preserve local, well-loved features, such as our
Main Street downtown, which makes visitors feel like they’ve
stepped back in history. But attitudes die hard here. Newcomers,
especially newcomers who run for public office, are viewed with
suspicion.
In November’s aftermath, my small band
of supporters and I did not have the occasion for high-fives.
Instead, we dusted ourselves off and tried to decide if what we
believe in is worth another effort. Even with the memory of my
failed campaign so fresh, I say “yes.”
The idea of being
publicly humiliated does not hold nearly the power over me that it
once did. The private shame of choosing to be a subject rather than
a citizen, hands in my pockets, would be much more troubling.
Gina Knudson is a contributor to Writers on the
Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org).
She lives and writes in Salmon, Idaho.
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