Chapter Two: Abundant Sincerity
When I first ran for office I saw myself as a savior.
When asked why I was running, I'd answer, 'to do good for
people'; black people, white people, farm workers, children
born blind or with no hands. "You can't say he's not a good
guy," my wife said. (She was in the room and volunteered the
comment while listening to me toot my horn giving David
material to incorporate into this manuscript.) It felt good to
imagine myself as a savior. I knew that in the time allowed me
I couldn't remake the world, but this was an intellectual
supposition: that I wouldn't accomplish all the things I set
out to do in office. A part of me still believed I could maybe
save the world...just as most of us partially, I think, live
and act as if we were going to live forever.
The same force in me which believed in my omnipotence
slowly pushed me into politics. In the early years my vigor
was stronger, like that of the young man who jumped on his
horse and gallantly rode off in all directions simultaneously.
I believed that all things were possible but I didn't do much
about it.
My active involvement came about gradually, for several
reasons. Partly, at first, I was afraid. I'd been badly
defeated when I ran for Napa High School student body
president. There were three in the race. The tally was 500 for
the winner, 320 for second place, and 91 for me. In college I
held no office--not even in my fraternity. So I didn't have an
image of myself as a winner. I didn't want to admit I wanted
something I might not be able to get. I'd never been a leader
with a real title, or brought myself up before people and
asked for their official approval. Also, I had the problem of
having a strong family background of Republicans, when my own
predisposition leaned fairly strongly Democratic. My father, a
lifelong Democrat, switched to Republican a year before his
death in 1953. My brother and law partner was a Republican, my
uncle was the strongly Republican State Senator Nathan Coombs,
and my grandfather was a Republican and had been Speaker of
the Assembly in his own legislative career (then later was a
Congressman and an Ambassador). I spent my first seven or
eight voting years as a registered "Decline to State". I saw
both political parties as a little phony and felt myself
"better" than either--but finally, when in 1952 the Democratic
Party chose Adlai Stevenson as its standard bearer in the
presidential race, I decided they were good enough for me and
"came out" Democratic.
Adlai Stevenson and the 1952 presidential election was
the first step but it wasn't until 1954 that I actually got
involved in politics. The precipitating event was a
conversation which took place when my wife and I were
entertaining another couple one Saturday night. (All of us
were right around the same age--32--at that time.) My friend
Don Searle and I were exposing our customary know-it-all
attitude, belittling those in power and issuing enlightened
judgements. We were talking about Eisenhower and the Red-
baiting Senator Joe McCarthy.
Don said Ike didn't have any guts or he'd silence McCarthy.
I said, Ike's just inept, he doesn't realize the harm
McCarthy's doing and he doesn't realize how the moral force of
the Presidency could be used to put him down.
We agreed that whether Ike lacked guts or was inept, the
result was the same, McCarthy was allowed to continue his Red-
baiting unchecked, and innovators of any kind ran the risk of
being branded Communist. New ideas of any kind were likely to
be lost to us--the accepted dogma of the day was all that
would be considered safe--"The Russians are coming and they're
coming with Big Guns and if you sound a little like a Russian (and
here's how they sound) you might be one; get your 'new ideas' later,
what we need now is more Americanism." Don and I deplored the
McCarthy situation and almost revelled in how right we were and how
wrong they were. Janet, bored with all our yak (and this
wasn't the first time) said "I'm tired of hearing you guys
wallow in your own sanctimonious preaching, why don't you do
something about it instead of just acting superior and talking
to each other."
In my defense I may have retorted something like, 'right
thinking must precede right action', but Janet's words were
true and as I look back on it now I think they triggered a
real participation in politics. Within six weeks I'd attended
my first Democratic Club meeting, gotten myself elected
treasurer, and gotten Don to attend the next meeting with me.
From 1954 to 1960 I was an active persistent Democratic
Eager Beaver in pursuit of political perfection. I did all the
usual chores, from helping to register Democrats, to bumper
sticking cars, to licking and sticking envelopes. With others
I challenged local Republicans to debates and tried to lead on
local issues. Starting in 1954 I worked in the campaigns of
many aspiring Democratic candidates.
For many years California had been dominated by the
Republican party. In fifty years there'd been only one
Democratic governor. In periods of reform liberal Republicans
like Hiram Johnson and Earl Warren had captured the State
(i.e. the Governorship). In much of the state, Democratic
leadership was dormant, docile, and inarticulate. Democrats
were critical of Republicans but they had no positive
philosophical approach of their own. Those of us who became
active in the fifties had some definite ideas which we
demanded to see expressed within the party. For example, a
tax policy based on ability to pay, conservation of energy and
nature, and equal opportunity in employment, education, and
housing. Decadent party leadership was being pruned away.
In the county elections of '54, '56, and '58 we activists chall-
enged the old guard and generally won enough seats on the
County Democratic Central Committee* to take control. A few
old guard members changed their spots and worked with us,
others dropped by the wayside--and a few actually re-
registered as Republicans.
It was a time of great satisfaction. We were working hard
to build a party which meant something philosophically and
also had political clout. Things were going right and it felt
good. In the '58 elections, Democrats captured both houses of
the State Legislature (along with most statewide offices,
including Governor) and in my area elected a Democratic
Congressman. Having been his campaign chairman in Napa County,
I became one of the county's major Democratic leaders. I was
on my way into the swim of things. I'd lost the youthful
arrogance that had made me reluctant to join either side, and
though I probably didn't think of it very often, I'd given up
some of my freedom to question everything by becoming an
active Democrat. Because of my success in leading our
Congressman's campaign. and in other local efforts, I felt
_______________________
*In California the County Democratic Central Committee,
composed of from 20-30 members, is the official party
organization. Members are elected at general elections for two
year terms. Sometime they have been so moribund as to have
many vacancies as a result of apathy, people not even running
for the office. Their actual governing power is normally
almost nonexistent except that they can be used as a platform
to articulate political ideas, ideals, programs. Central
Committees also are often involved in fundraising.
ready to try for office myself. Unfortunately, I made a mistake
in timing. In 1960 instead of running for a relatively safe
Assembly seat, I chose to take on our Democratic Assemblyman in
his bid for the State Senate. The Assembly seat he vacated
would have been an easier race. He'd been in office for eight
years and comparatively speaking, I was an unknown. I thought I
was justified in trying to oust him because he'd been an old
guard Democrat, failing to lead effectively in party reform--I
thought I'd do more good in the Senate, provide better
leadership, and was just better qualified. However, he defeated
me in a close but decisive election.
I did make a credible showing, carrying Yolo County by 400,
losing Napa by 4,000.
It hurt to lose, even if my friends did say 'the masses
are asses'--it was my own failure to convince them that I was
the wiser choice of candidates. I'd been a little greedy and I
knew it. It was a personal defeat for me and a defeat for
liberals in general, and I'd pretty clearly become the
candidate of innovation, speaking out against the death
penalty, criticizing tax loopholes for corporations, and taking
progressive stands on more obscure local issues. I wondered a
little if I hadn't been afraid of success and deliberately
bitten off more than I could chew. I could've run for that
Assembly seat and won. I don't regret losing now, but it sure
hurt then.
In 1958 we lived in a big, old, rustic but charming ranch
house perched among live oak trees on a valley hillside east of
Napa. It was owned by my uncle, who was incidentally my senior
law partner in "Coombs, Dunlap, and Dunlap", and a Republican
State Senator.
The ranch had a high-up front porch with a
beautiful view (all the way up the valley to Mt. St. Helena).
It held fifty to a hundred guests and only creaked a little
under their weight. Yellow rose vines clung just over the porch
railing, and, a hundred yards off were all varieties of fruit
trees, untended but still thriving. The livingroom was also
big, warmed by wood floors walls, and ceilings, a protruding
fireplace with nooks on each side, and window seats under the
windows to the porch. With people crowded in and standing room
only a hundred people could listen to a speech.
Over a good many years Janet and I worked together
building my career. Sometimes we just gave large social parties
which I wouldn't have then admitted had any political
significance. Later many of our parties at the ranch were given
for specific partisan purposes, even large fundraisers like the
cocktail party for the late Congressman Clem Miller. The day
before that party we realized we didn't have enough furniture
and for 8 dollars bought a used couch which was a horrible red
and gold. For less than 2 dollars we purchased a can of black
fabric paint (Janet knew you could do this, I'd never heard of
it before)--it was called 'Fabspray' and it made the couch
really. . .well, not too bad. But we weren't sure how dry it'd
be for the party.
The next day I remember greeting guests on
the front porch and seeing a lady in a fancy hat and an elegant
white knitted dress, a gussied-up person who cared about how
she looked. If I'd had a chance to warn Janet to steer her away
from the couch I would have, but, as it turned out a little
later we both spotted her sitting there, and there was nothing
either of us could do--only when she got up about 20 minutes
later were we sure the paint was dry.
We were a good political couple. Janet could be more
gregarious than I. She was sincere and charming, I was just
sincere. But together we had a kind of crazy dedication and
willingness to try which made things work.
Being more sincere than charming, I had some political
convictions which I thought needed airing in staid old Napa. I
belonged to an ad hoc group which recognized that Napa was a
"lilywhite town". For instance, there were 300 blacks employed
at the Napa State Hospital located on the southern border of
the city, and none of them lived in Napa, all lived in Vallejo or
Fairfield. This was maybe 1963, about 100 years since the end of
the civil war.
Our group sponsored a public forum on the
subject. Afterward we got 400 people to include their names in
a full page ad in the Napa Register saying we as citizens would
rent or sell our homes to anyone who had the money to buy them
regardless of race, color, or creed. This is of course the law
now, but it wasn't then. There were other real issues we cared
about. For example, we sponsored an interracial swimming party
at our pool in Napa and received neighbors' (and even supposedly
close friends') raised eyebrows. As a matter of fact, after the
"400 ad" appeared in the local paper, my brother and his wife
had a cross burned on their lawn. It was a matter of mistaken
identity, and my brother's wife was very upset. They both knew
prejudice was wrong but they hadn't yet dealt with it
personally. They weren't then ready to stand up and be counted,
and so resented being tarred by my beliefs. I guess the reason
I'm telling about these incidents now is that although Janet
and I were 'good time Charlie party-giving social people', and
although we did some of it partially for our own political and
social aggrandizement, we did have some things we believed in.
We fed our spirits as well as our egos.
When we were still living on the ranch hillside, long
before recycling and refuse health standards, I had dug an open
garbage pit about 8 feet square and deep, about 50 feet uphill
from our back door. My labor was cheap and garbage service
didn't exist there then. At a New Year's Eve party one over-
indulged well-dressed guest from San Francisco fell in and
couldn't get out. Don Searle remembers him mumbling something
about 'the indignity of it all', as we helped him out.
After another New Year's Eve celebration we found a party
guest in the bathtub the next morning. The same morning, I was
going to make some toast and although I smelled gas I didn't
stop to put two and two together and I still leaned over and
lit the oven--and it blew up in my face. The explosion singed
my hair, burnt off my eyebrows, blistered my cheeks and nose,
and after about 30 seconds it started to hurt like hell.
Providence apparently dictated that Arnold should sleep in the
bathtub because he waked up and drove me to the hospital
emergency room while Janet stayed with the kids and called the
doctor telling him to meet me there.
The ranch was an exciting house to live in but when, at
certain times of the year, the north wind hit it, if it was
going 45 miles-per-hour on the outside it only slowed to 20
inside. In other words the house was loose, the upstairs was a
firetrap, and although there was central heating, it was just a
wood furnace. To stoke it you had to go outside, down the slope
through the "garden" (untended, going wild) and in under the
house. A more finished house was what we wanted and was really
where we were headed, though I'm sure if we could have bought
the ranch at the time we would have, and tried to make it more
finished. We really liked the place and wanted to fix it up but
would only have done this if we owned it. Unky, or Nathan F.
Coombs, had built the ranch house in 1922, the year I was born,
as a bachelor's retreat. In 1954 he wasn't using it and was
generous in letting us live there rent free, but his generosity
didn't overcome his sentimental attachment and he refused to
sell it, absolutely, at any price or under any conditions.
Unky, though basically a good-hearted fellow, had his
limitations. He was an old school Republican born and raised,
and felt that poor people, including Blacks and Mexicans, were
not qualified to run things. He used to call them "poor
devils". My father, I think, to a lesser degree believed the
same thing. But he did not speak disparagingly of other races
or put them down politically, whereas Unky, as officeholder and
politician, did.
Unky supported a tax system favoring land owners and high-
income taxpayers. He was not in favor of "equality". (He may
have suspected this was wrong, but he wasn't going to do
anything about it.)
In 1960, a month after my disastrous defeat in the State
Senate Democratic Primary, we moved into a new house which we'd
built on another hillside about a mile from the ranch--in fact,
you could see one house from the other, across a small valley.
Our new place was large and modern and was surrounded by over
a hundred acres of dairy pasture for black and white Holstein
milk cows. A couple years later, when an elderly Aunt of
Janet's died and left her 10,000 dollars, we built a swimming
pool.
The new house fit well into our political posture except
we didn't have room in the driveway for parking fifty or a
hundred cars--so we just opened up the fence and let our guests
park in the adjacent pasture. It gave them something to talk
about when their sportscar fenders were licked spic 'n span by
the cows.
One guest complained that a cow had stuck its head in the
front window and licked the leather seats (maybe looking for
salt). Occasionally, after a party I'd forget to close the
fence and we'd awaken to cows galore in the garden. I could
usually, maybe with one of the kids helping, herd them back
through the fence. One of Janet's fears was of waking up and
finding a cow or two in the swimming pool. Her vivid
imagination led to the question, "How do I get it out?"
Over the years we had lots of parties and we often enjoyed
them, although we didn't enjoy nursing drunks away from their
cars and keys out of their hands. We took them back inside and
fed them cup after cup of coffee hoping to sober them up so
they could drive. Maybe we should've just tried to put them to
bed but drunks don't always stay down. They're crazy
sometimes--sometimes they fight you. We dealt mostly with men
under these circumstances--you really hurt their manhood by
implying they can't drive. But if you can get them to go to
sleep your troubles are mostly over. Sometimes the best thing
would've been to take them for a run in the hills, but you'd
get tired of running in the hills, at night in the rain. On
occasion, I was one of them--not the crazy kind but the
overindulged definitely.
Janet was a great sport throughout these parties,
particularly because it was my career being promoted and my
rewards were greater than hers. People often think that those
who give this kind of big party do it solely for ulterior (i.e.
political or self-promotional) purposes. This isn't any more
true than that they give them solely for fun. Normally (and I
think in Janet's and my case) you do have some long term
objective in mind when you entertain a political crowd, but in
giving all these parties we were't just shooting for the
future. We were living--living the way a lot of our society
lived then: giving parties, showing off how graciously we could
entertain, engaging in smart conversation, trying in one way or
another to succeed; enjoying, regardless of the future,
successes of the moment. (One time, when I was retiring
President of the Napa Lion's Club, instead of the traditional
dinner given for the board of directors, Janet and I gave a gin
fizz breakfast, in preparation for which we stayed up 'til
midnight three nights in a row, making crepes to serve.)
Granted we were more interested in making our mark with a
political and quasi-intellectual set than the country club
crowd, we still were doing our thing for the now--just as much
as Babbit and his Boosters, or the Got-rocks at the Hillsboro
Golf Club. ("Babbit", in Sinclair Lewis's novel, was a chamber
of commerce type, a small town Booster, community-minded in a
dollars and cents way.)
Following the 1960 defeat I stayed active in politics,
serving two terms as Chairman of the Democratic Central
Committee, serving as President of the Mental Health
Association of Napa County, and also leading the County Histor-
ical Society. I got into these things I guess because I was
willing, respectable, eager, capable of hard work, and had a
job which gave me flexibility. I knew how to listen (even if I
did not exactly feel like it sometimes) and how to use humor,
and I was learning how to lead. The above were activities that
I had to continue to maintain my identity as a leader, although
they also helped with the law business. By this time I fully
recognized this 'ulterior' motive to my community involvement.
Even before I was a Democrat I was acquiring and advertising a
potential political personality--President of the Cancer
Society, Co-leader of a Great Books discussion group, eleven
years as a school trustee, President of the Lion's Club (as
mentioned)--these were some of my 'leadership roles'--finally,
in 1966, my big second chance loomed on the horizon, and I was
almost too chicken to take it. The California Supreme Court had
ordered a special reapportionment of both houses of the
legislature, setting in motion a game of political musical
chairs, which in turn resulted in a vacant Assembly seat in my
district. I had a clear shot at it. It wasn't mine for the
asking, but it was mine for the taking. Though my chances were
excellent*, I was still a little slow to get started moving.
There's a pschological term called "infant omnipotence"--the
child believes the earth swings around it and by crying,
laughing, and showing off, it does seem to completely control
the behavior and movements of the others in its orbit--the
mother, the father, the nurse. Some of this "infant
omnipotence" may continue on in the growing or grown-up
individual--and when I ran for office in 1960 it's possible I
didn't totally percieve that I could be defeated, turned
against, by the big world centered around me (despite high
school proof that failure was possible).
I certainly wasn't very aware of the pain it'd inflict on
me. But getting beaten again would be bad--and if you lose too
many times you don't get a chance again, you're a loser--that's
what I told my younger son Peter, when he ran for Student Body
President the third time. I said, "Maybe you shouldn't do this,
you've lost twice now. You could get the image of being a
loser," but he went ahead anyway, against some great big
football player. He was too far into it to turn around. Peter
was quite little (he grew a lot later)--so when they went out
on the stage to give their speeches (I didn't actually see
this) he carried a box with him, stood on it, and said "Hello,
I'm Peter Dunlap, vote for me. Remember, good things come in
_________________
*No incumbent to beat, for one thing.
small packages." He won. (So much for my cautious pessimism).
I stewed for several weeks before deciding to run.
Finally, on a weekend afternoon, the decision was made. Janet
and I had been sitting at our diningroom table talking about
what I should do, and, responding to a knock on the door, I was
greeted by a representative of my American Legion Post. I'd
been an inactive and generally uninterested member for several
years and my dues were delinquent. When he asked me to
reactivate my membership by paying my dues, I did so on the
spot. When I rejoined Janet, she said, "Now I know you're going
to run."
As I think back on it now, a lot of important things
(including feeding the family of course) took place at that
same table where Janet and I had been sitting. At least 100
campaign meetings took place there. I made thousands of
phonecalls seated at one end, leaning back in my chair with my
feet all or partly on the table. It was a comfortable feeling.
I was at home and I was boss, at least of the diningroom table.
In my memory, events from 12 legislative years cluster
around this egg-shaped table--key campaign meetings in every
election from 1966 onward, hours of homework involving the
legislative decision-making process--(bringing 4 days mail home
to catch up with on a Saturday or a Sunday--sitting making
telephone calls all over the district)--and now, finally, I am
again seated here writing part of this book (part of it is
'handwritten', part is transcriptions or tapes David and I
made), trying to evaluate and put things into perspective both
personally, because they happened to me, and professionally,
because I think they have some political meaning. And, of
course, there's just a 'story' to be told, regardless of rea-
sons and perspectives.
The 1966 campaign was a great success. I did what I had to
do to win. Though we were involved in a few gimmicky photo opps
like my being judge of a ladies' fashion show at the Mare
Island Naval Officer's Club, I was able to run my campaign
based on real issues. After making the initial decision to run
I spent almost two days straight on the telephone asking for
support, and, for the most part, getting it. It looked like I
had my home county sewed up in the primary, but an industrious
reporter friend of mine waked me just before seven one morning
to tell me that it looked like one of my neighbors, Harry
McPherson, a retired school superintendent, was running against
me. He was an older man whom I thought I could out-campaign,
but he had plenty of money and some prestige. His presence in
the race would've scared me. Because I knew him, I called him
up to check. He told me it was really nothing serious, he'd
just filed a "Notice of Intent" in case he decided later he
wanted to run. At this point his wife, who happened to be
Jessamyn West, the well-known novelist, got on the other line
and, knowing I was listening, said, "Harry, if you run I not
only intend to vote for John Dunlap, I will also work in his
campaign, and, finally, I'm going to give him some money."
In the 1966 campaign, raising money was the second
essential--usually it's the first. And it's always the hardest
and the least fun. Janet and I spent 6,000 dollars of our own
money on the June primary; the rest ($5,000) came from friends
and fundraisers. By general election time we had run out of
cash and we had to rely on further fundraisers plus a few
personal donations. I got a couple of unsolicited contributions
from lobbyists who I guess figured I was going to win. But I
didn't know how to ask for contributions of this sort.
In midsummer I got a call from San Francisco Assemblyman
John Burton, introducing himself and wondering if he could help.
He said he'd heard I'd won the Democratic primary. I said all
goes well except money and he said he'd see if he could do
something. I knew John by reputation only. His older brother
Phil (who was by then in Congress) I had met and talked with
him at California Democratic Council board meetings on several
occasions. A week later John called again saying he had
arranged a lunch in San Francisco to which I SHOULD come. His
invitation was spoken in tone of command. He didn't say
anything about money. But I assumed it might be involved. I
attended, and found it to be hosted by Frank Vicenza, lobbyist
for the Milk Producer's Council.
Vicenza paid for the lunch, and invited to it Willie
Brown, George Moscone, Joe Gonsalves, and possibly a couple of
East Bay democrats. Lunch was at a fancy restaurant and after
eating, under instructions from Joe Gonsalves, we took turns
leaving the diningroom separately, with Vicenza meeting us at
the door, giving each of us a check from the Milk Producer's
Council.
This was a successful event for me. Not only had I gotten
500 dollars, but also I'd had the opportunity of getting to
meet Burton, Brown, and Moscone, Big City Democrats. To them I
may have been potentially a "good liberal". John Burton was
cultivating friends for the future.
I had actually seen Willie Brown before, at a California
Democratic Council meeting two years back, and I'd thought
something to myself like, "Willie Brown--he's that black
hotshot from San Francisco--no need for me to bother to meet
him now." --just remain in awe at a distance.
In 1966 neither I nor my campaign cohorts were really
experienced strategists. We did have good instincts. My
principal assets as a candidate were that I had been a
community leader and that I was part of a Good Traditional
American Family. (I don't know just what the 'Traditional
American Family' is--my idea of it would be pretty different
from that of many of the voters of my area.) I was a husband
and father. Also I was the son of a prune farmer, the grandson
of a county sheriff, and the nephew of a former State Senator.
I knew my family identification put me on the side of the good
guys, and everybody tends to buy a candidate done up in family
wrapping paper (though this is less true today than it was in
1966). My advisors knew it was worth a hell of a lot of votes
to have a good family picture and feature it in your campaign
literature.
The family pictures were all loving and smiling; we
didn't have any of Janet and me trying to stop the kids from
throwing food at the diningroom table, or shouting at each
other in an unbecoming way. We put our best foot forward. We
were now a political family, with an extra reason to hide that
part of our private activities which was embarrasing. We cared
not only what our neighbors thought, but also what a quarter of
a million political neighbors thought.
My campaign literature, aside from concentrating on the
Family, and my community service, talked about Selective Tax
Relief, Quality Education, and Conservation. I didn't emphasize
my more liberal philosophies. Except when somebody asked me, I
didn't mention that I was opposed to the death penalty, and I
didn't proclaim to the general public that I was not horrified
by the term 'socialist'. Of course I wasn't a 'socialist'--I've
never considered myself the proper subject of any 'ist' or
'ism'. But I certainly agreed with some socialist concepts.
Part of the job of our campaign meetings was to figure out
how to translate our philosophies into practical political
positions.
I remember these meetings with nostalgia. It was
usually the same nucleus of friends and allies, meeting to work
and drink coffee, moving on later to wine and talk. I don't
know if it was the wine or the thoughts we shared or both, but
a feeling of camaraderie, mutual acceptance, and trust
developed. I could tell my closest advisors about things
worrying me and have them not shame me for worrying. They
accepted me as I was and I took their advice to heart. We were
'young people out to make our mark on the world'. We were
serious, but no more than was necessary--sometimes we'd just
sit around and make cracks about my opponent, or about
ourselves. One friend, who thought me too liberal, suggested I
head the "Regressive Regurgitants' wing of the Democratic Party
(...Circular Thinking Cud Chewers?).
He spent several hours designing a campaign brochure calculated
to make the most serious of us smile. I appreciated it at the
time but I like it even more now. I sometimes had a little
trouble taking myself lightly.*
The Republicans had chosen as their figurehead the boss
of the downtown Chrysler-Plymouth dealership. At one time, he
had been Mayor of Napa. He was 70 years old and didn't look a
day younger. To our delight he put his picture on his
billboards. I had mine on mine, and this was good, but in one
edition of the Napa Register where they gave the candidates a
free opportunity for statements with accompanying mug shots,
they reversed our photographs, and that was not good. The paper
caught the error in the process and corrected it after about a
third of the edition had come out, and this was good.
________________
*See Appendix 1B for Jim Fitch's Mock Brochure.
There wasn't much mudslinging in the campaign. Privately,
the Republican leaders looked on me as ultra-liberal bordering
on pinko (while, privately, my friends and I thought what a
good undertaker my opponent could be and talked about how we
were gonna whip the old bastard's ass), but the worst thing my
opponent had to say about me publically was there were 'too
many lawyers in the Assembly'. One time, he did call me a
'card-carrying picket'. In those days, the words 'card-
carrying' were normally associated with membership in the
Communist Party. They knew damn well I wasn't a Communist but
they invented a phrase which suggested this without out and out
lying.
The night of the primary election the Dunlap dining room
table was laden with food and booze. We borrowed three
television sets, and had radios in every room. Somebody had
made a chart like a game scoreboard on which to post the
results. We'd invited about twenty campaign people to join us
and watch and listen as the returns came in.
Almost from the start, they were favorable, and the
trusted core of advisors grew to over 100 as wellwishers
dropped in to congratulate the candidate. Fortunately, many
brought more hooch and food; a few brought too much consumed
booze (in other words, they were drunk when they got there).
Some of them, two women and a man, decided to go for a swim in
our pool, without suits. I learned about it after it had
happened. As Janet said, "We weren't happy about it but we
weren't exactly tearing our hair either." I was just glad that
the local newspaper reporter (who'd come out to take my
picture) hadn't spotted them and written up our victory party
as 'Another Orgy at the Dunlaps' (to use Janet's words once
again). When we had another victory party for the general
election in November, it was too cold to swim, but a friend
made a sign anyway, and posted it by the pool, "DANGER--NO
SWIMMING. RAW SEWAGE."
In the primary election I'd gotten as many votes as both
my opponents put together. In the November election I was due
to win again by a wide margin and I did. However, we didn't
take anything for granted and I ran scared. I did everything I
was supposed to do.
When I had first started to campaign, I'd realized there
was a large black population in Vallejo (the largest city in
the district). I remember getting a warning from my very much
Establishment Solano county campaign chairman. He had said,
"Don't campaign in the Black areas...you may get a few votes
there, but waves will reverberate to the white area and you'll
become less welcome generally." I ignored this advice.
For a long time, at least sixteen years living in near
all-white Napa, I had realized that blacks living in Vallejo
were disadvantaged by de facto housing segregation and unequal
educational systems. Segregated housing resulted in partially
segregated education opportunities. Because I was sincere in
believing I could help, I felt justified in seeking support for
my campaign, in the Black and Phillipino communities. Local
members of the Vallejo NAACP and Phillipino community worked in
my campaign and I was proud to have their help and I don't
think it hurt me with many other voters.
Two weeks before the general election, I was going door to
door campaigning, handing out brochures, saying my name and
asking people for their vote, in a heavily Democratic district
in Vallejo. I noticed parked cars sporting both Dunlap and
Reagan bumper strips on the same car, and some of the houses
had similar pairs of opposites for lawn signs. I rang their
doorbells reluctantly. Reagan was now favored by the polls, as
was I. When I told Dave Evans, my campaign manager, about this
later, he said people were obviously not listening to me or
they wouldn't be supporting both Reagan and me--"Just keep your
necktie straight, your hair short, and a smile on your face.
Show them the picture of your family and keep your yap shut",
Dave told me, only partly in jest.
"Dunlap and Reagan"--this was a schizophrenic way to vote
but one which happens all the time--it merely illustrates that
often the public perception of political candidates is not
accurate, or at least not philosophically consistent. People
saw me as being more conservative than I was (possibly because
of my Republican family history), and Reagan was a good actor
and I'm sure appeared to be more compassionate than his
political philosophy.*
Reagan and I, though our signs stood united on common
lawns, were actually quite a 'Pair of Opposites'. "Pairs of
Opposites" is a pet phrase of mine, which I first picked up
from the Bhagavad Gita, in the God Krishna's advice to the
warrior Arjuna: (paraphrased from memory)
Be not blinded by pairs of opposites, the changeful
things of finite life. Life and Death are but pairs
of opposites, the changeful things of finite life.
But Dwelleth Thou within the greater aspect: Being--
Don't get caught up in goodguy badguy thinking--don't waste
your energy on it. You can waste a lot of time in political
_____________
*Which was, "There is too much government. People know better
how to spend the money than the government does. Private
initiative and capital can best solve most problems, except
that we need to have a strong military capacity." The end
result of this philosophy, of course, is domination of society
by the wealthy..."Those that have gits." The newly created
preponderant share of wealth goes to the more wealthy. 41
debate that merely points out a different aspect of the same
thing--in the minds of the people who voted for us in both in
the Dunlap/Reagan landslide of '66, we were united--but in my
mind we weren't just two more of the 'changeful things of
finite life', we were genuine opposites. Krishna's advice to
Arjuna involved a more catastrophic setting than mine at the
Capitol with Reagan. Arjuna had to decide whether or not to
take arms in a fratracidal battle. Actually killing his kin
would be wrong, but not to take part was to neglect his duty
and risk cowardice. How coming to terms with the Greater
Aspect: Being--helped him make his decision, I'm not sure, but
I guess it correlates to what we call "looking at the big
picture"--something I don't think Reagan had the will to do.
My battles with Reagan were not life and death but they were vital
in essence. He promoted the superficial viewpoint of a wealthy
Republican constituency, I believed that government had to be
more genuinely representative of all factions.
When Reagan had won his primary election in June 1966,
most organization Democrats rejoiced--we saw him as
representing only the radical fringe of the Republican party,
and we thought it'd be easier to beat a grade B movie actor
than George Christopher, former Mayor of San Francisco, a
seasoned, moderate professional. We didn't realize that a
large segment of the public was looking for something new. They
were impatient with politics as usual and that meant
'politicians'. Why not elect actors? We underestimated also
Reagan's skill as an actor and his ability to create the image
of being a reformer.
The night of the lawnsigns, Dave and I made light of the
situation and didn't really go into its serious implications,
but without saying it we knew then that Reagan was going to be
our next Governor.
I'm not sure what difference, if any, my election made to
Ronald Reagan, but I know his election made a big difference to
me . When I asked myself, at the Governor's Ball, 'Where do I
go from here?' I guess I should've known that my course was
partially charted for me just by Reagan's presence and power.
Instead of going to the Capitol to work with Governor Pat
Brown, a 60 year old knowledgeable and problem-solving
politician, for four more years of Democratic Progress, a large
part of my energy for the next 8 years would be taken up in
fighting the forces of reaction represented by Governor Reagan.