A Fighting Chance

But the guy who called had a point. If I jumped in, it would be a tough, tough fight. Unlike me, Scott Brown had grown up in Massachusetts. He was a longtime member of the National Guard, and over the years he had risen to the rank of colonel. He was well-liked and handsome, the kind of guy who might be played by Tom Cruise in the movie version of his life. He had developed a reputation as a moderate and bipartisan Republican, he had high approval ratings, and he already had nearly $10 million in the bank. He had been dubbed one of “Wall Street’s Favorite Congressmen,” with all the promise of future fundraising that the title implied. To a lot of the pundits, he looked to be in a great position.

When Massachusetts held its special election shortly after Senator Kennedy’s death, Brown had beaten Martha Coakley, a popular attorney general who was well known and had strong support across the state. A lot of people were downright nasty in their criticism of Martha after her loss, but even her critics acknowledged the exceptionally strong political skills of Scott Brown. After years of quiet backbenching in the state legislature, he had swept through Massachusetts politics like a gale-force wind.

My work on COP and then the consumer agency had gotten a fair amount of attention, and a number of progressives thought I might make a good senator. A petition made the rounds on the Internet, and seventy thousand people signed on, urging me to run against Brown.

Although I appreciated the support, no one could pretend that I didn’t have a stack of liabilities. I had never run for any office, let alone a highly contested national office like this one. Even before Martha Coakley’s defeat, women had not done well in statewide races in Massachusetts, and conventional wisdom held that this was a man’s game. Plus, I wasn’t born in Massachusetts or even New England; I was from Oklahoma of all places, and when I get a little excited, I have a twangy accent. I was not only a professor, but a Harvard professor. When the all-important question came up—“Which candidate would you rather have a beer with?”—I would lose, hands down.

Then there was money. I didn’t have a nickel in the campaign-fund bank, and the last time I’d raised money was when I’d organized a ferocious effort to help Amelia’s Brownie troop sell more cookies than any other troop in town. A lot of progressives had followed my work and might make contributions, but Scott Brown started with a huge war chest and the promise of much more to come.

And let’s not forget my age: I was sixty-two years old. Sixty-two. Wasn’t I supposed to be thinking ahead to rocking chairs and retirement plans, not crazy new ventures that require eighteen-hour days and months of grueling work? If I got into this race, I’d have to go all out, because I wouldn’t just be battling nice-guy Scott Brown here at home. I’d be swept up into a much bigger fight against the giant banks and the right-wingers like Karl Rove who were determined to give Republicans control of the Senate.

Okay, so the liability stack was high, and right at the top was something buried in my heart of hearts—I really didn’t want to run. I’d had enough of Washington. I’d never yearned for a life in politics. I missed teaching; I missed my research. I missed hiking with Bruce and time with our grandchildren. Atticus was a gorgeous nine-month-old, and I wasn’t likely to have another chance to hold a baby on my shoulder until he fell asleep.

I made the family calls. Our son, Alex, was blunt. “No way,” he said. “Don’t do it. It’ll ruin your life.” He advised me to return to Harvard and enjoy my life for a while. “You’ve done enough fighting.” My brothers took pretty much the same view: “Spend time with the grandkids.”

Alex—and my brothers and my cousins and my best friend—worried about what a campaign would do to me. They all offered versions of the same message: Politics is ugly and personal and nasty. You haven’t spent a lifetime developing the necessary armor. We love you and we don’t want to see you hurt. Please stay out.

They were right.

And yet … there was so much at stake in this election. I’d spent nearly twenty years fighting to level the playing field for the middle class, and I’d seen millions of working families go over the economic cliff—and it was getting worse. What kind of country would my grandchildren grow up in? What if the conservatives and the big banks and the big-time CEOs got their way, and Washington kept helping the rich and powerful to get richer and more powerful? Could I really stand on the sidelines and stay out of this fight?

And what would I feel like on the day after the election, if Scott Brown won and Wall Street had one of its favorite congressmen back for another term? What if Republicans took control of the Senate and undid the new financial regulations and crippled the consumer agency? What if they tried to repeal it? What if all that happened and I knew I hadn’t done everything I possibly could to stop it? Could I live with myself?