Democrats Old and New

I know most of you reading this story have some familiarity with how the government works, or at least how it is supposed to work, but let me tell you, reality is far different from what you may have learned in your civics classes. Some of it is driven by policy objectives and constituent needs, but much is driven by normal human foibles - greed, ambition, jealousy, simple personality traits, and relationships. Discerning which of these is at play requires getting inside the heads of elected officials, not an easy task. 

One night, when I came home lamenting the quality, venality, and substandard intellectual wattage of elected members in this supposedly beacon of democracy, Cal listened impatiently before almost spitting at me,” listen, this form of government has its definite weakness, and may be the worst system possible, except for every other one you humans have ever come up with. Besides, I am reminded of something else Winston Churchill once said, to paraphrase, in a democracy you get the kind of government you deserve. So, stop your damn whining and get on with it!”

To succeed in the business required me to get to know the members, at least the ones with the ability to drive debates and shape public policy. One of the first and most memorable was Senator Rodrigo Gastelum, conservative Democrat and longtime chair of the Agriculture and Water Committee, a man who would loom large as I became enmeshed in the never-ending debates concerning water policy.

I was introduced to the Senator by Uncle Irving early on. A seemingly ageless World War II veteran from El Centro, Gastelum was ably (some would say maniacally) served by his loyal Chief Consultant to the Committee, Sam Higginbottom, a muscular former Marine drill sergeant and dam building civil engineer, whose gruff demeanor and hulking presence was a dead ringer for Lucca Brazzi of Godfather fame.

Irving introduced me to both and informed them that I had accepted a job with Senator Villa, whose office was next door. With a grin, the old man spoke fondly of the young whippersnapper Senator, but asked with a wink, “Why do you wish to work for that Mexican communist?” Not waiting for an answer, both men laughed, and wished me well. 

In those days, long in the rearview mirror, Higginbottom and I were both Democrats. We were rarely on the same side of the water issues on which we both worked but could hash out differences and legislative compromises at a watering spot across from the Capitol. In many ways we were indicative of the structural fault lines that would continue to rend the old Roosevelt coalition within the Democratic Party asunder. 

Higginbottom, twenty years my senior, and his boss, came from the old party; pro-union, white working class, often ethnic Catholic, often rooted in big city machines. 

African Americans were part of the coalition, particularly in larger cities, while Latinos and women were somewhat of an afterthought. Higginbottom was a man of the past whose very presence was synonymous with “water buffalo,” being of that generation of civil engineers and New Deal Democrats who looked at large public works projects as job creators and brushed aside environmental concerns as hippie-inspired gibberish. 

Villa and I were very much representative of the changing demographics of the party and nation as the twentieth century wound down. These divisions had come to the fore in the annus horribilis of 1968, when Lyndon Johnson ramped up the increasingly unpopular war in Vietnam shortly after signing the Civil Rights Act. As President Johnson predicted, Republicans were soon ascendant in the South, while Martin Luther King’s assassination motivated enraged African Americans toward insurrection, and the war drove young Democrats into the streets of Chicago, where they were assaulted by the ethnic white storm troopers of Mayor Daley’s Democratic political machine. 

The party was changing, and the nation was realigning. The new party would become more educated, more diverse, more urban, (though Gastelum, an anomaly even then, represented a rural district heavily dependent on agriculture), and more attuned to women, with environmental stewardship increasingly critical to its identity.

In the strange, old-fashioned world of politics where relationships mattered, and despite the fact that Higginbottom and my worldviews could not be more different, Higginbottom and I became friends. Years later the patriotic old drill sergeant would introduce me, a draft-dodging near-commie, with a smile, as his long-lost, sadly misinformed, wayward son.

Our continuing debate could be summed up over one issue that really could have no definitive conclusion. Defining patriotism and service in a democracy. To Higgy who served 20 years in the marines including two tours in Nam where he saw friends die, the question had a fairly simple answer. When your government called, you answered - no questions asked or entertained. 

One day I asked him what was the responsibility of a young German in 1939 when your government demanded you engage in actions that violate your conscience? “You must serve,” he replied without flinching. My response, that there were higher authorities than your government, was unconvincing to him, though he readily acknowledged the horrors of the Nazi regime. “That way lies chaos. Hobbes’ state of nature required the Leviathan to bring order,” he replied. 

To me and a younger generation, where WWII was not the defining point, but rather Viet Nam, the question was far more complicated. What if your government demanded you take an action that violated your conscience or at an even more esoteric level, international law? Higgy was clear, you did not get to ask that question. As a citizen it was your patriotic duty to obey. He never wavered. In future years, the unending wars in Afghanistan and Iraq would test that conviction, but in his mind, fealty to the nation that provides your security overcomes personal objections and private morality.

We had to leave it there. Neither of us would accept the other’s premise, though the debate continued for years over delicious bourbon while we learned to respect each other and find compromise over other less contentious issues. Cal, who often accompanied us to the al fresco meetings across from the capitol remarked after one of these discourses, “what is clear to me is that your friend, a man with a good heart, like most conservatives, prefers injustice to disorder. You, like most on the left, prefer what isn’t to what is.” 

Through Higginbottom, I got to know his boss well. Senator Villa would ask me to work out details with both Higgy and Gastelum because my boss, despite being from a different generation and holding very different perspectives than Gastelum, respected the old man. In the “padrone” system that guided relationships between younger Latino members and those that had blazed earlier trails, crossing an elder was still bad form. So, in that era where civility still mattered, issues would be worked out in private, often in Gastelum’s offices. 

On one occasion, Higginbottom even came by my office and asked for a favor. I had been working for Senator Zapata for several years. Higgy and I had enjoyed jousting over everything from water policy to Vietnam, immigration to forest protection. 

After a lunatic had opened fire on an elementary school in Stockton, California and a series of high-profile mass shootings rocked the nation, legislation to license and manage guns was the rage, with positions fixed and the usual suspects digging in. 

The National Rifle Association had long since morphed from a pro-hunting organization that taught gun safety to an enraged mob of anti-communist conspiracy theorists who rabidly believed that not just gun ownership but stockpiling automatic weapons, armor piercing bullets, and military grade armories of all types was the last line of defense against a deep-state invasion by communists, Mexicans, Asian hordes, and Mexican-Asian Communists, just waiting at the border to invade and defile God-fearing American wives and young virgins. 

Senator Gastelum was caught in the middle. He was a third-generation Mexican American marine veteran who had proudly fought for his country. He represented a conservative district centered in Imperial County, still anchored by a proud agriculture industry, but rapidly urbanizing. He was a simple and honorable public servant who viewed his job as serving his constituents, which he sedulously pursued as Chair of the Senate Water Committee in continuing efforts to keep as much Northern California water flowing to his district’s still numerous dairies, as legally possible. 

He mostly avoided controversial issues such as gun control and abortion rights, which energized Democrats in the larger coastal cities but would cause a schism between the senator and his more conservative rural and suburban constituents. What truly upset the senator was the increasingly tribal nature of party politics. He saw race and ethnicity through the lens of a different era. His grandparents had emigrated from Mexico, but he did not identify as Chicano or Hispanic, Latino or Mexican American. He had been forced to attend segregated schools in his hometown of Chino and been prohibited from buying property in the white neighborhoods surrounding the farms where he worked in the beet fields, but he returned from the Pacific theater at war’s end to a rapidly changing world and set about achieving the American dream. 

Senator Rodrigo Gastelum was an American, period. Leave out the hyphens. 

So when Higginbottom came by one morning and asked me if I could spare a few minutes to talk to the senator about proposed legislation on gun control, I was intrigued. I was ushered into the senator's office by Gastelum’s long time administrative assistant, a charming older woman straight from a 1960s TV ad featuring a well-dressed, glamorous housewife - imagine June Cleaver in her fifties. 

The Senator, balding with naturally copper-toned skin, had a rounded face, a thick pockmarked nose, and full almost sensuous lips, was dressed formally, as was his want, in a brown suit, the jacket for which hung on the back of his “member’s chair.” He was wearing a white short-sleeved stiffly starched button-down oxford shirt buttoned tightly to his still powerful neck, and a featureless red tie. He sat behind his large desk with Higginbottom across from him in a brown leather, gold-studded chair. An identical chair sat empty to the chief consultant’s left, to which I was ushered.

After exchanging brief formalities, Higginbottom got to the point. “Coop, the Senator has an idea for gun control legislation that I would like to get your thoughts on, and we’d like to know whether you think Senator Villa would be supportive.” I liked the old man. While recognizing how conservative he was on many issues, Senator G was honest as the day is long - sadly, somewhat of a rarity in this political world - and genuinely cared about his constituents. Gastelum did not have a corrupt bone in his body. He would go so far as having a senior staff member from his district spend a week in the Capitol, reading through every bill introduced and amended during the final hectic legislative session by a fellow Democrat, Senator Robyn Eagleton, a sleazy, soon-to-be imprisoned grifter. 

However, outside of the occasional bill to dam whatever free-flowing river might still exist in California, written and staffed by Higgy, Gastelum’s grasp of the fine points of public policy was, to be kind, limited. The Senator cleared his throat, and in his laconic manner, leaning forward across his perfectly organized desk, staring intently at me, he slowly began, “My idea is to ban illegal immigrants from purchasing ammunition. What do you think? Would your boss be supportive?”

I hesitated, gathering my thoughts, and chose my words carefully. I was thinking that as an ex-marine and avid hunter, Gastelum likely kept guns at home. While the idea was risible, I needed to tread delicately - the old man was trying to solve a legitimate problem and was coming from a good place.

“Senator, that is a truly interesting concept,” I began. “Can I ask you a couple of questions before I give an opinion?” 

“Certainly,” responded the Senator.”

“How do you think the merchant will determine who is an illegal immigrant?” 

The Senator contemplated this carefully. He furrowed his brow, began to speak, and then nodded. I continued, “Is it possible they might racially profile anyone who looked vaguely Mexican?” 

Now you could see the Senator’s old brain starting to click. I could almost hear the gears grinding. Higgy kept silent, but clearly this was exactly the exchange he had hoped for. Finally, Gastelum spoke, his furrowed brow now glistening with sweat. 

“They might refuse to sell me bullets, and I am an American citizen. A decorated Marine!” he thundered. Higgy nodded approvingly. And thus, this idea died a timely death.