He handed me his hotel room key. He and three buddies, all powerful men suited up for the occasion, were sitting in a booth at an intimate private venue in DC. It’s politics. The occasion was an opportunity to schmooze with Tip O’Neill back in the 70’s when he was Speaker of the House of Representatives.
That summer, my college boyfriend was a congressional aide. He’d asked me if I wanted to meet Tip O’Neal at a party that night. I’d get to shake his hand. I told him I couldn’t care less about shaking the hand of someone who could care less about me, but I’d go with him to the party.
After spending time around politicians in DC, I became incredibly cynical. No matter what party, they may start out idealistic and wanting to make changes, but as soon as they encounter “the machine”, they change. It might be faster for some than others, but it inevitably happens.
Power, money, and sex are what fuel politics, no matter what party and sometimes not in that order. Maybe, and I say maybe, not as much at the local level, but definitely at the national level.
True story: Original family documents include an 1800’s diary entry from an ancestor who was elected to the House of Representatives. He was a hard working farmer who rode his horse to DC, honored to take his place and get to work. It took days to get there. A week later (maybe less), he rode his horse home and resigned, saying they are all a bunch of drunks that don’t get anything done.
Someone’s got to do it. Serve as a politician. Be willing to publicly lie, or at least obfuscate to achieve the “greater good”. Of course compromise is necessary, but in today’s world public-facing politicians say what works in the moment more often than not. When the tide turns, they say whatever will get them reelected, no matter if it’s the complete opposite from their previous stance. They count on people not remembering from one week to the next.
Tip O’Neill arrived, the gaggle of fawning admirers, or at least people who wanted something from him, formed and the hand shaking commenced. I went to the bar for a drink.
The men at that booth must have assumed that my boyfriend was a “handler”, introducing me as a starry-eyed co-ed who would have sex with power. Or sex for no reason at all. Why else would the man, later identified as the National President of what was then known as the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers, offer me the key to his room right in front of said boyfriend? Maybe he knew and didn’t care? Maybe he thought my boyfriend wanted some favor in exchange? You never know when it comes to politics in DC.
So what did I do? I looked at the key, looked back at him, laughed as I handed it back to him, and walked away. If I’d had more life experience, I might have told him where to go and how to get there. Maybe not. That might not have gone well for my boyfriend and his political ambitions. Scratch for scratch. Stab in the back for stab in the back.
I can only hope this man felt the sting of embarrassment in front of his friends. But being a cynic, I imagine he didn’t, but instead moved on to the next co-ed.
