Читать книгу Let ’Em Howl - Patricia Sorbara - Страница 7

“The formula for success is simple: do your best and someone might like it.”

– Marva Collins

There are many routes into politics. Some people come for a single purpose, like supporting someone they believe in, or pursuing a specific issue they feel strongly about. Some look to bring about a change in government, or decide to run for election. For some it starts as an internship or a job. But a much smaller group have been “called” to serve a partisan cause. They love the political world and are at home in it. I fall into the latter category.

Regardless of how you get involved, or how long you stay, there is no world like it. It is certainly not for everyone. Just like you can’t be an emergency room doctor if you faint at the sight of blood, you won’t survive politics if you cannot deal with the behind-the-scenes reality of how partisan politics works. Chaos is the norm, but it is a manageable chaos if the hierarchy, structure and discipline are in place to handle things as they come at you. It’s critical that people are in place to triage the “incoming” and determine priorities.

It takes a strong operation, a team of people who understand the overall imperative of the organization, and clear, concise direction from the Centre. (In government, “the Centre” is either the Premier’s Office or Prime Minister’s Office, or if you’re in opposition, the Leader’s Office. Within political parties, it means the leadership group at the central party or the central campaign.)

But the bottom line is if you can find a way to endure the ups and downs of winning versus losing (because there are almost certainly more downs than ups), it is an exciting, enriching and extraordinarily fascinating world, conducted mostly in backrooms. But that endurance will require you to give your all, no matter how big or small the task. It’s not about the glory, it’s about your contribution.

Lesson: You may not like the assignment, or you may have envisioned a different role for yourself, but by giving the task your best, you will always win, regardless of the outcome.

I became a Liberal early in life. In 1968, I was in grade six at Sacred Heart School in Guelph, Ontario. The school was in the heart of “the Ward”—ward one, and the part of town where many Italians first came to live when they immigrated to Canada. The immigrant wave from Italy settled in many towns across southern Ontario, including Guelph. My grandfather and grandmother came in 1912 and 1913, respectively. They met, married, and their eight children were raised in this neighbourhood. I never knew my grandfather, Sam Sorbara, as he died unexpectedly and in grim circumstances when his youngest child was only a few months old.

My grandmother persisted, in a very challenging situation. She is the first female role model I remember, and in today’s terms she would have been rightly bestowed the title “badass.” I’m not sure she’d approve of the independent woman I became—divorced, no children, career-oriented, family more distant than she would have ever allowed. Regardless, I saw in her a strong woman in control of her world. She raised her fatherless kids in the best way she could, with no money and at a time the world was struggling through a global war.

Concetta Sorbara, my nonna (or Nonie, as my family called her), was a strong, disciplined matriarch who taught her children and grandchildren that family came first. In those days, priests, parents and teachers held great sway and kids were never right. You did what you were told, and you certainly did not talk back to authority. And women were meant to obey their husbands.

She went to mass daily and her faith (and all the other grandmothers dressed in black) got her through. When I would show up on a weekday morning and sit with her in church, she would proudly boast to her friends that I would become a nun. When I got a bit older, I told her boldly my choice was to be a priest and not a nun, as priests get to make all the decisions. She let me know such a suggestion was not remotely proper… or funny.

1968. Ring a bell? It was the year Pierre Trudeau first ran in a federal election, having succeeded Lester B. Pearson as leader of the Liberal Party of Canada. By this point, I was twelve and I’d been following politics and current events for a while. I regularly watched the news with my dad, as he was adamant that I pay attention to what was happening in the world. (This was a man who, despite leaving school at an early age, read three newspapers a day.) I remember he and I had even watched the many rounds of the Liberal leadership convention on television over a weekend in April 1968. Whether it was inherited or through youthful exposure, or both, the political bug took root in me early.

That June my teacher, Don Drone, announced we would be having a mock election and I was thrilled when chosen as one of three students who would be candidates. But I was supremely annoyed when it was announced I would be representing the NDP. After losing an argument with Mr. Drone (if you can call it an argument—I was insistent I just had to be the Liberal), I went home and complained loudly to my dad. How could I be the NDP candidate when I was a Liberal, just like him?

My dad believed in doing the best you could with the hand you were dealt. He inherited that from his mother. My parents urged me and my four sisters to excel at whatever we did. Actually, we were given little choice. As far as my parents were concerned, hard work and discipline could tackle any issue. School mattered and if you were in trouble at school, you were in twice the trouble at home. When a report card in elementary school noted my handwriting needed work, I argued the teacher picked on my handwriting because they had little else negative to mention. It was an arrogant comment and it got the slap-down it deserved. For weeks after that report card, I was made to sit in front of the television balancing a large blackboard on the arms of my chair, writing out my alphabet. To this day people still comment that my handwriting is lovely.

Dad also believed in the absolute authority of the teacher. He reminded me that my NDP candidacy was a school assignment and like any other assignment I was given, I was to follow instructions and complete it to the best of my ability. In the end, the assignment turned into an excellent adventure. More than that, it deeply impacted my outlook as a young girl venturing forth in the real world of male-dominated politics. I was terrified and excited by the opportunity.

In the spirit of encouraging me to do my best, my dad made sure I understood the assignment beyond books and reading the news. Every few days throughout the campaign, he took me to the NDP campaign office. At that time, NDP campaigns were almost always run out of the local union office. Dad was a well-known and respected member of the plumbers and steamfitters’ union, and union organizers readily embraced his request that they help me prepare for the school campaign. It was a world of important men, but they patiently explained their views to me, along with why they believed the Liberal and Conservative policies weren’t working. I had to work hard to not be intimidated and to ask my questions with confidence. I felt accepted and looked forward to every visit.

Then something magical happened. NDP leader Tommy Douglas was coming to the area and the union leaders asked me to present flowers to Tommy’s wife, Irma. I vividly remember the thrill of that moment. There was my new sage green and gold brocade, sleeveless dress, which in and of itself was unusual. As the third of five girls, almost all of my dresses were hand-me-downs. In semi-darkness, I stepped carefully over wires and cables backstage at the rally and made my way to face the large audience. There was the joy of presenting the flowers to Mrs. Douglas, then to proudly shake the hand of Tommy Douglas and hear him speak about Canada, aware of the impact he’d already had on our country. It was formational and foundational in its impact; to me as a young girl, it represented aspiration, and all that was right about politics.

Back at school, I ran a substantive campaign, making a strong, compelling speech to my classmates. However, it was impossible to overtake Trudeaumania and the strong Liberal support found in the local Italian community. The moment my loss to the Liberal candidate was announced, I reached over and snatched the button from my classmate’s lapel, placing it on my own jacket and stating, “Now I can be a Liberal and I always will be.” Truer words were never spoken.

I’m grateful to Mr. Drone for forcing me to look at politics from outside of my comfort zone. He has always believed in me and in that year, due to his encouragement, I gained a lot of confidence in myself.

It may have been fifty years ago but that exposure to real-world politics was such a moment for me. Although I did not fully realize it at the time, essentially my political career began in those first backrooms, hanging out with the tough guys in the union office and being rewarded for my earnest attempt at being the best NDP candidate I could be. I was given the opportunity to meet a Canadian political icon. I felt comfortable, I loved the intrigue and the nature of the political debate. I enjoyed hearing my dad banter with the NDP about their policies. I never looked back.

Of course, I had no idea of the barriers that existed for women generally, or in politics. I don’t remember meeting a woman working in that campaign, other than the ones who got the coffee for Dad when we arrived at the union office. I know now it would have been those same women doing all the real work behind the scenes.

Lesson: Earn your stripes. There is always a campaign, a local organization, a candidate to support. Don’t try to start at the top. The view from the bottom is just as riveting and the chance to make your mark is limitless.

In grade eight, at age fourteen, I won an election for the first time. I ran for president of the student council at St. James Catholic School, which was a middle school at the time. (My main competitor was my best friend, Rosemary Danielli. I often remark it was through that grade eight competition that we found our paths—mine into politics and Rosemary’s into a medical career that demanded the highest academic achievement.)

By high school I was called upon regularly to organize whatever task needed attention. I was over-invested in many clubs and projects while managing to keep up on my academics. My parents began to hear the word “leader” when teachers talked about me, and I started to understand the pressure of being counted on to get things done.

I went to a Catholic high school at a time we were fighting the provincial government for funding equal to that of the public school system. Standing with thousands of students on the front lawn of Queen’s Park, demanding justice from the Bill Davis Conservative government of the day, was a formative moment on my political journey. It was the first time I’d felt the power of the many demanding action on an issue that mattered deeply to them. It was an important side of politics to experience.

After graduation, I attended the University of Guelph. I didn’t know anyone but I knew politics. I joined the Politics Club and the Liberal Club. I added a second major in political studies (along with my major in psychology and a minor in history) because I wanted to learn as much about the theory of politics as I was learning about the political ground game. I met a lot of people from all parties, including my future husband, Jim Whitechurch.

Studies were important but as there was always some campaign calling my name, I found a way to do both. I stuffed envelopes, canvassed door-to-door and by phone, and helped to organize the student vote. Sometimes I got to sit in on meetings to talk about the state of a campaign. I readily accepted any responsibility the campaign office workers were prepared to give me, whether it was making a chart or organizing a group of people. For several years I held the position of president of the local Liberal riding association in Wellington South (in those days it was a combined federal and provincial entity). I was earning my stripes.

Lesson: Look for role models who believe in you and are willing to let you learn.

There is a saying I like and use often: “You cannot be what you cannot see.” It usually references a “first” for a woman—as in the first woman astronaut, first woman scientist to work at NASA, first woman director to win an Oscar, a woman candidate, a woman leading a major political party, a woman cabinet minister, a woman premier, a woman prime minister… More generally, it speaks to the breakthrough moment experienced by any woman making her way in a world dominated by men.

My formative years as an organizer were in Guelph. The Liberal organization there was run by strong, smart and incredibly passionate women, including Anne Dmetriuc, Fran Hunter, Irene Maschio, Linda Fordyce and Mary Rammage. Anne was our leader. She came from the “take no prisoners” school of politics. It was rare that anyone said no to her. She had a long memory and a deep belief in loyalty (like most of the Italians I grew up with), and it ran in both directions. Anne taught me much of what I know about campaigns but more importantly, she gave me the confidence to tackle the work of an organizer at a young age. She let me have as much responsibility as I was willing to take on—and I was willing to take on a lot.

In my first few campaigns, I quickly learned that my forte was ensuring the ground game was operational, and as efficient and effective as possible. This meant that I was tasked with directing the resources allocated to finding votes, and ensuring supporters got out to vote. It also meant leaving the air war (advertising, media, brochures, personal outreach) to others.

At the same time, I joined a club of women who did all the work but got very little credit. The candidate was always a man and the senior campaign titles were given to high-profile men in the party and the community. They would come to the office for a meeting, make the decisions and leave it to the women in the room to execute them. And we did. Maybe we grumbled a bit or rolled our eyes, but we knew we were best positioned to do the actual work. As strong, committed Liberals, what could be more important? Certainly not our individual egos.

This was the point of my career where I first learned the phrase “ivory tower.” We’d joke about the men in their ivory tower calling the shots. It was an odd juxtaposition for me because at the end of the day, there was never any question in my mind who was truly in charge to make things happen. And every man involved knew that it would be a serious mistake to upset the formidable Anne Dmetriuc. If you had any ambition at all in local politics, you stayed on her good side.

Lesson: If you’ve found your passion, plot out the journey and don’t be afraid to ask for what you want. If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

When David Peterson was elected leader of the Ontario Liberal Party in 1982, I was working for Liberal Member of Provincial Parliament (MPP) Herb Epp in his constituency office. He was the epitome of a middle-aged, entitled, white male politician. He was sexist and chauvinistic—he used to leave his used coffee mug in the “Out” tray, for god’s sake—although he seemed unaware of it. But I was grateful for the job because I learned something new every day, and I got to do politics on the side.

At the same time, I became a Liberal volunteer organizer for the southwest, where most of the thirty-four Liberal seats were located (the caucus was often referred to as the “southwestern rump”), and I generally got my marching orders from Vince Borg, Peterson’s executive assistant. During this time, I was also elected vice-president for organization for the provincial party. At twenty-four years old, my reputation as a political organizer was beginning to take shape.

In December 1983, I took three weeks away from the office and worked in a by-election in Stormont–Dundas–Glengarry, deep in the heart of eastern Ontario. We didn’t have a hope in hell of winning but we wanted to send the signal that the Liberals were ready to fight for every riding. On a personal level, I wanted folks to know I was prepared to do what was needed for the party, including moving to a riding far away from home just before Christmas.

About six months later, in spring 1984, having decided to switch jobs and leave my marriage, I reached out to Vince and told him I wanted to continue working in politics—which meant either moving to Toronto or Ottawa. I gave him right of first refusal. I was thrilled when he called me back a few days later and offered me a job at Queen’s Park. In that moment I knew my passion for politics would become the foundation of my professional career.

Lesson: Make your mark on a single campaign and take it from there. You don’t need to be at the Centre to get noticed. Do a good job and the Centre will notice you.

With Anne, I worked provincial campaigns supporting Harry Worton in 1975, 1977 and 1981. Those campaigns did not require much work because Harry didn’t really believe in spending a lot of money. He basically ran his campaign from his kitchen table and spent his time visiting farmers door to door. He won by large margins based on his solid reputation for being available to anyone in the community who needed his help. We also worked federal campaigns for Frank Maine when he was elected MP in 1974 and when he was defeated in 1979. We were thrilled to elect Jim Schroder in 1980 after Pierre Trudeau had again taken the helm of the Liberal Party. We lost in 1984.

During those campaigns, lessons came in many forms. During the federal campaign in 1984, Guelph was hosting a huge rally for John Turner, who had succeeded Pierre Trudeau as prime minister. We decided to use the public area in the downtown Eaton Centre, which turned out to be a huge mistake. I was at the back entrance waiting for Prime Minister Turner to arrive. Over the radio, a voice said, “Pat, we need you at the front of the building.” Responding that I was not able to get there at that moment, they continued: “A nuclear cruise missile has just been brought in through the front doors. We don’t know what to do.”

I’ve had some strange things said to me over my years in politics but that one is near the top. Leaving the advance people to manage the prime minister’s arrival, I sprinted to the front. There it was: a massive papier-mâché cruise missile being held high by a member of the Ontario Public Interest Research Group (OPIRG) whom I knew from university. He and his colleague were two of the tallest men I had seen in my life and they passed the missile back and forth effortlessly between them, holding it more than six feet in the air. Being five-foot-three, I was forced to look up at them. They smiled, looking down at me like some hobbit. I was not smiling, giving it my best effort to hector, beg and threaten—to no avail. In the end we had no choice but to bring in Prime Minister Turner through the protest. We tried to block the camera shot with balloons, but it made the nightly news. It was a tour fail and I was responsible for it. There were tough lessons that day and I’ve never forgotten them.

Lesson: Tough losses early in your political career teach you one thing above all others: to never take anything for granted.

I ran my first by-election, held on December 13 in 1984, in the riding of Wentworth North. The title of campaign manager was held by someone locally and I was the senior organizer assigned by the party. Despite being twenty-eight years old, I had been involved in more campaigns that anyone locally. The candidate was Chris Ward, a popular, young, up-and-coming local mayor. The seat had been held for the previous nine years by Liberal Eric Cunningham, and in theory we should have easily held the riding. However, at that time David Peterson was an unknown and the consensus of the mainstream media was that he could never win the upcoming general campaign; the Conservatives would continue to hold government for a long time to come.

It was a critical by-election. We lost by 169 votes. The loss hurt on so many levels. Seeing it as a clear message that they could continue to hold government, the smug PCs loved that the media deemed the win “Bill Davis’s gold watch,” given that he was retiring before the next election. There was some solace in the fact that Premier Davis never got to wear that gold watch; PC MPP Ann Sloat never took her seat in the legislature because she was defeated by Chris Ward a few months later in the May 1985 general election.

Losing the Wentworth North by-election defined my entire approach to ground organization for the rest of my career. It was an organizational failure, given the narrow margin that represented less than one vote per poll. I never pretended otherwise. I made a critical mistake that I never made again. Chris convinced me that we didn’t need to pull the vote in his own backyard, the community of Troy. His neighbours and friends would be there for him and would vote. As resources were limited, I trusted his view and focused the pull elsewhere. In hindsight, if we had put an effort into pulling Liberal supporters in the area where Chris lived, we’d have won. His neighbours were no different than any other voter and we failed to get them out.

My absolute love of by-elections was ingrained from that moment forward. They became a major passion and I worked on as many of them as I possibly could. I long held the belief that every riding was worth fighting for, every election worth making the effort to win. Even if the riding was a longshot, a by-election provided the opportunity to grow the base by identifying our vote. Liberals come from all over the province to participate. We’d train people, try new approaches to reach voters and test messages about our leader.

Lesson: Take advantage of every opportunity you can find in politics—even the risky ones. Understand that some lead to success; others end in defeat. The point is to learn as much as you can and ultimately determine where your passion lies.

In 1985, with a provincial election looming, the MPP for my riding of Wellington South, Harry Worton, announced he was retiring and would not seek re-election. I had learned from him that taking care of your constituents came ahead of all else you could do in politics. Harry had won every election handily during his thirty-year career, despite the Conservative dynasty that had lasted through those same decades.

I decided to seek the Liberal nomination. I don’t think I was motivated by much more than the opportunity to follow in the footsteps of an MPP I had long admired. But I also thought it was time a woman took a run. It was going to be a tough election for the Liberals, and I knew I was not the strongest option. By that point, I had overcome many hurdles as a twenty-nine-year-old woman looking to make her mark in politics. This would be one more. Local Liberals rallied around my campaign and I had help from friends with whom I worked in the party and at Queen’s Park. But a last-minute entry by Guelph alderman Rick Ferraro changed the dynamic.

I lost key supporters who felt they needed to go with Rick because of his higher profile, due to his success as an elected official at the municipal level. Most damaging was losing the support of Anne Dmetriuc, who was the most influential Liberal in town and Rick’s cousin. As they left, people told me they felt badly but had to support the person they felt could win the riding. I understood that sentiment. In fact, I have held that sentiment as an organizer and someone charged with recruiting candidates best positioned to win their ridings.

I placed third despite a strong presence at the nomination meeting, cheered on by supportive family, friends and local members. My parents and sisters had gone all out garnering the support of our entire extended family, even the ones who were Conservative voters. Knowing I was on the ropes, my dad urged me to deliver a persuasive and dynamic speech. I came off the stage into my dad’s embrace. Tears in his eyes, he said, “That was a hell of barnburner. Well done.” Of course, the speech meant nothing to the outcome, but it is the memory of my dad I hold close.

During the nomination, my dad gave me a defining moment as a woman in politics. Just before declaring my intention to run, I had a distressing conversation with my then-husband, Jim, who was also a city alderman (I’d helped get him elected). We were separated at the time, moving toward a divorce. When he heard of my intention to seek the nomination, he asked to meet and threw me curveball. He put it to me that, as an alderman, he was better positioned to win the riding. As such he should be the one to run and I should run his campaign. I was shocked but said I’d think about it. Then came the conversation with Dad, and his reaction had a big impact on me.

Dad had been deeply disappointed by my decision to leave my marriage but, faced with the suggestion I should step back and let Jim run, he responded as a protective father would. He leaped to my defence. With some agitation, he said something like, “Why should he be the one to run and not you? You are much more qualified, and you’ve worked for it.” And with this in mind, Dad understood the only reason I’d step aside was because Jim was a man and I was not. Not on his watch. From that point forward, Dad gave it all he had. I am pretty sure he even managed to sign up some of those union guys who had helped me as the NDP candidate in the mock student election some seventeen years earlier.

My attempt to win that nomination was a lesson in life and in politics. I learned what it was like to be on the very front line, what it took to ask people for their support, to let others organize for you. I learned that humility has two sides to it: being told yes and being told no. And no matter the answer, it is important to be grateful to have even been considered.

The experience of working with a team and fighting for an outcome is a big part of any political battle. After that defeat, I returned to my role at Queen’s Park and threw myself into the general election. After we won, I realized that had I won the nomination, I would have been an MPP—but that it wasn’t meant to be. I never again sought a nomination, acknowledging that my passion was in the backroom.

Lesson: In politics, you don’t have to start at the top. Manage your expectations and look for opportunities to move forward, whether in opposition or government.

As VP Organization for the party, I had spent a lot of time travelling around the province working to build up local Liberal organizations. To this day people are surprised to learn I’ve been to virtually every little, off-the-beaten-path town they can name. After the Liberals triumphed in 1985, a lot of people wanted to be Liberal candidates. It was healthy for the party, as the membership levels increased exponentially and money poured in. Some of the local races were intense. Given my ability to control a crowd and enforce rules, I was assigned to chair many of the larger, more competitive nomination fights.

I remember a particularly tough one in the riding of Dufferin Peel, ultimately won by former cabinet minister Mavis Wilson. It was a long-held Tory riding but a good example of where we Liberals suddenly found ourselves competitive. The crowd who gathered in Orangeville was large and unruly. Many of my procedural decisions were loudly and angrily challenged, and it was taking its toll. At one point I stepped into the hallway and had a good cry. I pulled myself together and walked back into the auditorium as the vote got underway.

I noticed an elderly man moving slowly toward me. He wore an army jacket and cap and his medals were on full display. As he reached me, he said, “Young woman, I have a question for you.” I braced myself for a blast. When I asked what it was, he responded, “Have you ever considered a career in the army?” I burst out laughing as he listed all of the reasons I’d be highly successful in a pressurized environment dominated by discipline and rules.

It was in those years I learned to be “bossy” in order to communicate that I was in charge. I learned that real action is on the front line. I learned that defeat and winning were two sides of the same coin when it came to campaigns. But it was always more fun, and more meaningful, to win. It was on that solid basis that I began my career in government.

My journey between ages twelve and twenty-nine grounded me in the way I would approach politics. I wound my way through its many layers and soaked in all I could from those I met along the way. There are many ways to get into politics and make an impact. I’d been a campaign worker, a riding president, a regional organizer and a campaign manager. I’d run for a Liberal nomination and lost. I’d worked federally, provincially and municipally. I’d spent four years in a constituency office learning how government works. When I finally found my way into the Centre, I was ready to make my mark.