Roll Call (Opinion)
By Walter Shapiro
February 17, 2016
Compared to Donald Trump, George Wallace was understated and politically correct.
The
1968 third-party presidential campaign of Wallace, the former
segregationist governor of Alabama, has long represented the worst
example of modern-day incendiary politics.
Until now.
After
examining the historical record, Trump’s rhetoric and demeanor on the
campaign trail exceed even Wallace’s when it comes to vitriol and
explicit hate-mongering.
“An
American Melodrama” — a masterful account of the tumultuous 1968
campaign by three reporters from the Sunday Times in London — titled an
entire section: “George Wallace
the Man Who Talked in Code.” The authors explained, “What made Wallace
acceptable in the North as no Southern politician had ever been was …
because he had learned to adapt to Northern sensibilities one of the
oldest devices in the Southern politician’s armory.
He talked in code.”
Gone
were the fiery appeals to racists such as his signature line from his
1963 inauguration as governor: “I say segregation now, segregation
tomorrow, segregation forever.”
In its place was wink-and-nod rhetoric about states rights and
pointy-headed federal bureaucrats. As Wallace claimed on “Meet the
Press,” “There isn’t any backlash among the mass of American people
against anyone because of color. There’s a backlash against
big government in this country.”
The differences with Trump went beyond the use of code words.
No
modern presidential candidate has ever attacked his rivals with the
viciousness of the bilious billionaire. >From likening Ben Carson to a
child molester to his latest
screed against Ted Cruz as “totally unstable” and “unhinged” — not to
mention the daily epithets hurled at Jeb Bush — Trump has reveled in his
self-created role as guttersnipe.
In
comparison, Wallace was restrained, when he merely claimed Chief
Justice Earl Warren “doesn’t have enough brains in his head to try a
chicken thief” and New York liberal
Republican Gov. Nelson Rockefeller was a “socialist.” It was all part
of a run-on litany of names that ended with Wallace’s third-party punch
line: “There’s not a dime’s worth of difference in any of them, national
Democrats or national Republicans.”
As
with Trump today, there was an odor of menace to Wallace’s rallies and
sometimes flying fists directed at protesters. But unlike Trump, Wallace
tried to tamp it down.
Lewis
Chester, Godfrey Hodgson and Bruce Page write in “An American
Melodrama,” “Wallace took a good deal of care to avoid actual incitement
to violence.” In September,
at an ugly rally in all-white Cicero, Ill., the crowd turned on five
college-aged demonstrators. Afterwards on his campaign plane, Wallace
appeared to the British reporters as genuinely remorseful, saying, “If I
had my way no one would get hit. I acknowledge
the right to picket peacefully.”
The
point is not to romanticize Wallace who capitalized on race-based fears
of crime and disorder. In winning nearly 10 million votes and carrying
five states in the heart
of Dixie, Wallace pointed the way to Richard Nixon’s Southern Strategy
and the law-and-order political frenzy of the early 1970s.
Reading about the Wallace campaign is a reminder of how, in some ways, little has changed in 48 years.
Lurleen
Wallace, the fill-in governor of Alabama who died of cancer in 1968,
said of her husband, “He speaks out for the people. He says what they
think. When he’s on
‘Meet the Press’ they can listen to him and think, ‘That’s what I would
say if I were up there.'”
That
is, of course, an explanation for Trump’s appeal that you can hear
hourly on cable TV. But biographer Stephan Lesher in “George Wallace:
American Populist” pointed
to something deeper: “Widespread fear and a sense of dislocation were
propelling more and more people to find someone in politics who seemed
to understand them. People feared so-called hippie demonstrators as much
as civil rights demonstrators, if not more
so.”
Substitute
stagnant wages, immigration and ISIS for Vietnam, crime and campus
upheaval — and you have the dislocation fueling Trump’s billionaire
populism. In times of
social turmoil, there is a long history of Americans rebelling against
politics as usual. But only rarely does it take on the ugliness of
Wallace and Trump.
Both
candidates have inspired critics to reach back to the 1930s in the
desperate search for historical parallels. (Personally, I prefer Silvio
Berlusconi and Juan Peron.)
After
witnessing an alarming Wallace rally in Madison Square Garden late in
the 1968 campaign, New Republic columnist Richard Strout wrote, “There
is menace in the blood
shout of the crowd. You feel you have known this all somewhere; never
again will you read about Berlin in the 30s without remembering this
wild confrontation.”
What
undermined Wallace in the end was his quest for respectability with his
choice of a vice presidential running mate. Retired Air Force Gen.
Curtis LeMay was a World
War II hero whose approach to all foreign policy problems was to bomb
them back to the Stone Age. In fact, mad-bomber General Jack D. Ripper
in “Dr. Strangelove” was modeled after LeMay.
All
it took to explode Wallace’s candidacy was LeMay’s seven-minute opening
statement when he was unveiled as the next VP: “We seem to have a
phobia about nuclear weapons.
… I think there are many times when it would be most efficient to use
nuclear weapons. … I don’t think the world would end if we exploded a
nuclear weapon.”
Despite
LeMay’s presence on the ticket and fears of a wasted vote, Wallace won
double-digit support in the Midwestern industrial states of Ohio,
Michigan and Indiana.
Until election day, there were widespread fears that Wallace’s Southern
support would deprive any candidate of a majority in the Electoral
College.
With
Donald Trump — the George Wallace of 2016 — leading in the polls in
South Carolina, I have only one regret: Where is Curtis LeMay when we
need him?
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