Читать книгу Let ’Em Howl - Patricia Sorbara - Страница 8

“I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence, but it comes from within. It is there all the time.”

– Anna Freud

In 1985, we found ourselves unexpectedly in government after forty-two years in the “wilderness” of opposition. Ontario Liberals had long waited for this moment and much of it had to do with the announcement made on October 8, 1984, by the boring but popular premier Bill Davis. We began the day believing Premier Davis would be calling an election. Liberal staff lined the hallways at Queen’s Park in an effort to demonstrate to media we were ready fight a campaign on behalf of our leader, David Peterson. We ended that day full of hope that the Liberals might have a shot, given that we would not be running against the formidable Davis, who instead announced his resignation.

After the general election the following spring, the Ontario Liberals formed government based on a Liberal–NDP Accord. We were beyond excited that the long drought had ended. I’ve never forgotten the feeling that washed over me as I stood on the front lawn of Queen’s Park on June 26, 1985, watching the swearing-in ceremony on a hot, sunny day. I shared with others a sense of accomplishment, awe and hope. I basked in our success, thrilled I had played even a role in this moment in history.

Lesson: Understand the structure of the political environment and where you think you’d best fit in.

Every few years, voters decide who they believe best represents their interests in government. The outcome of an election determines who gets to work in politics. What is not well known is that along with elected politicians, political staff are directly tied to the government in power and if the government changes, or in some cases if the politician changes, the political staff change as well—immediately and automatically. This means that for most people, a career in politics is not an option. The exceptions are politicians who get re-elected without fail (though rarer now than it once was). Those individuals foster a base of voters who, over time, remain loyal to them no matter which way the wind blows in the larger electorate.

Political staff employed by government are public servants. They serve the public and are paid through a government or legislative payroll. However, their roles are very different from the role of the civil servant. It’s often the toughest thing to get people to understand. The position is likely one of the most fascinating, exciting, fast-paced and powerful you will ever hold, but at the same time, it’s one of the most unstable and demanding. It can be brutal.

When people come to me and say they want to pursue a career in politics or government, I ask them exactly what that means to them, because my response will depend on their answer to that question. In many cases, it is the desire to influence policy outcomes. In others, they have experienced politics through a campaign, often in support of a specific politician, and loved it. Many are Young Liberals who like me, joined the Liberal Party during their post-secondary education and want to spend time doing politics while they have fewer obligations and can dedicate their time to a cause they believe in. Some start as interns and become caught up in the exciting world of politics, unequaled in the outside world. Some just need a job.

I put staff who directly serve elected politicians, generally known as political staffers, into three main groups.

At the top, there is an elite group of staffers who turn their passion for politics—or sometimes a politician—into a successful career that may last a long period of time (years, even decades, although not necessarily consecutively). They excel at what they do. If their party is in government, and if they choose to be part of it, they generally have jobs. Often the way forward is that a high-performing person works with a high-performing leader or minister, or on a critical file, or both, and those circumstances allow a political staffer to rise above the pack. They must recognize an opportunity when it comes along and do what’s needed to ensure a political win.

In the middle of the spectrum is the largest group—advisors who are involved for shorter terms, usually for all or part of one mandate of up to four years. They likely first volunteered because of a commitment to a specific politician or a passion for an issue, or they were recruited as a subject-matter expert or for their interest in government. Most in this group come and go relatively quickly, based on pressure from parents, spouses or others to “get a real job in the outside world” with more stability and without being ruled by the whims of the electorate.

At the other end of the spectrum are those deemed to be “hacks.” They stay too long either because they can’t find work outside of politics or they believe it’s not an option for them. They tend to move between offices and are often attached to a single politician for a long time.

Loyalty is an important factor and an active consideration when hiring people who work directly for politicians. It is critical for a politician to have complete confidence and trust in their staff, because staffers become the face of the politician on many levels. They manage issues, provide critical advice and interact with external stakeholders. The behind-the-scenes reality is that staffers are powerful in their own rights and have direct influence on decisions made by politicians every day.

In cases where the person has not been exposed to partisan politics, I try to fully explain the precise role of political staff. People who go to work for politicians without understanding what is expected of them on the partisan side of ledger (attending party events with a politician, campaigning at subway stops or by-elections, writing political speeches) are often blindsided by what that means for their day-to-day roles. Some adapt quickly, some stay but resist it, and others soon realize that partisan life is not for them. Some stay in government but find their way into the civil service.

Lesson: Understand the value you bring and be prepared to ensure others know it, too.

Immediately after the 1985 election, I was assigned to work in the transition office and was heavily involved in staffing for new government ministers and MPPs. The location was confidential and off-site, and we worked long days in order to be ready in just a few weeks. We were given several clear mandates from Premier-Elect Peterson: first, one-third of people hired were to be from outside of the Liberal Party (stakeholders, consulting firms, subject matter experts); second, anyone who put up their hand was to be fairly considered; and finally, we were to diversify the workforce by making every effort to hire women and people from ethnocultural communities.

As all staff from the previous opposition office were assured a job somewhere in government, it was a matter of who ended up in what role. My reputation as someone who got the job done, and my extensive political experience, differentiated me from some of the newer staff. It landed me in the Centre—the Premier’s Office—as the executive assistant to the executive director, Gordon Ashworth.

We needed to fill close to six hundred positions, as the existing staff base was maybe sixty people. Gordon and Hershell Ezrin as principal secretary co-led the new government on the political staff side. Hershell was the first person I’d worked with who was a senior and serious guy, in command of the day to day of the government. Gordon was the experienced, hands-on organizer I dreamed of becoming. To the external world, they worked well together. Internally there was confusion around who was running the show. It was my first experience with a workplace where internal politics impacted the day-to-day effectiveness of the organization. Unfortunately it was not to be my last.

Two years flew by quickly, as the likelihood of an election was high once the Liberal–NDP Accord came to an end. I spent most of the 1987 election driving from riding to riding checking in on local campaigns, focusing them on what was needed to ensure wins. The winds of change had taken hold and we were handed a massive majority government.

Peterson’s office was led by men and there were few women at the senior staff table. David was a good old boy, and while he recognized the importance of creating more opportunity for women, it didn’t apply to his own office. The most senior woman in the Premier’s Office was Heather Peterson, who ran the appointment process (and some said she did not count because she was David’s sister-in-law). Leading up to 1987, Deb Nash (now Matthews) was appointed campaign co-chair. I admired both women as role models and learned as much as I could from them. But I took my direction from Gordon, Hershell and Vince, who was the executive assistant to the premier.

Following the election of a majority government, I opted to leave the Premier’s Office to become a chief of staff to a minister. I was honoured to be assigned to Bob Wong, the first minister of Chinese-Canadian descent anywhere in Canada and one of the kindest, most capable men I have ever met. He was quite new to the game, having just been elected an MPP.

Many were surprised I was prepared to leave the Centre. The stress on staff caused by the intense rivalry between Gordon and Hershell had taken its toll on me. After nearly four years at the Centre, I knew it was time to expand my experience and take on more responsibility—which was something not available to me at the Office of the Premier.

In negotiating my new role, I had to fight to be paid the same as men in the same position. Gordon argued with me I was too young at thirty-one to make that much money, and that the overall salary increase was too great (going from his assistant to a chief of staff). I mustered my courage and argued with Gordon that based on our government’s commitment to “equal pay for work of equal value,” I had to be paid the same as men in the role. And in the end, I was. It was a lesson in making the decision to push through a woman’s natural tendency to “settle” rather than undergo the fight for one’s worth, regardless of age or gender.

Lesson: Take the chance, speak up, wade in. But only if you have done your homework and are prepared to argue your position. Don’t become known as someone who speaks just to hear their own voice.

The world had shifted, a lot. In opposition, I was part of a small but mighty group with a large challenge. In government, the change in outlook was as different as night and day. I was now one of over six hundred political staff, taking on a wide range of competing issues. The mindset was much more reactive, as opposed to taking the proactive approach possible in opposition. Every day I had to decide where to focus my efforts.

Unlike most of the people joining government as brand-new staff, I was coming of age. For a young woman, growing up in politics had little to do with the number of years you were involved as a volunteer or a staff person. It was about the struggle to advance beyond the glass ceiling, and it wasn’t easy. In a male-dominated profession, well before the #metoo movement, there was intense pressure on women both in the office and on the social scene. Young people made up the largest group of staff; most were unmarried, and many had moved to Toronto from smaller communities, as I had. There was a lot of pressure to party and accept you were going to be hit on at political events. You were called “Girl Friday,” “sweetheart,” “little girl,” and there was an assumption you’d be the one to get the coffee.

More often than not, you were the only woman in a room of men in charge. Even if there were a few women, you were always outnumbered by the men. It was a challenge to be heard. You first had to believe you had something important to say. Then you had to find the courage to say it. You were just as likely to be ignored because of your gender than be heard because you knew your stuff. I realized the only way to gain ground was to fight to be recognized, and then push aside the tendency to be intimidated by the reaction to simply speaking up.

When I started to chair meetings later in my career, I would consciously recall that early lesson. I would look around the room at who was not speaking, trying to gauge how they felt by their facial expressions. Sometimes it was frustration at not getting a word in. That was easy to solve by inviting them to speak. If I saw discomfort or confusion, I would take a less direct approach by speaking to the issue and inviting the person to comment. Sometimes if I broke the ice by raising the other side of the debate, I would give the individual, almost always a woman, a chance to find her voice.

Lesson: You are not a girl, you are a woman. In the professional world, don’t be defined by terms that diminish you.

Male staff, as well as my nephews and male friends, used to grumble about how I regularly corrected them when I heard them use the term “girls.” I’d suggest they meant “women” or “young women.” In some cases, tongue in cheek, I’d hear the word “girl” and ask how old the person was to whom they referred. Sometimes people would catch on right away and others would give me a straight answer. I would quickly point out that if she is over seventeen, she is not a girl.

Although aware of all the reasons it’s deemed okay to call women “girls” (arguments like that’s how women refer to themselves, it’s meant as a friendly term, it’s the norm today), I don’t buy any of them. It’s long been my position that in the professional world women must not refer to themselves as girls, nor should they make it okay for others to do so. The term is a reference to someone junior, or someone who isn’t equal to others in the room. It’s is a throwback to a day when you accepted whatever a man wanted to call you, which served to minimize your authority and maturity.

Lesson: Treat politics like a job, not a social activity. Be a professional and do the work. Get recognized by achieving outcomes, not by being a regular at the local political hangout.

As a woman making my way in politics, I pretty much put everything on the line. I knew the only way I was going to make it was to work harder and longer than everybody else. It also meant taking my disappointments in stride and accepting being passed over—something that happened many times. It meant that I’d stay the course and accept certain roles when I knew I was more qualified than the men given a more senior position. And often, I would end up doing the work of the man given that position, only to watch him take the credit.

I now tell young staff that it’s about how you choose to get noticed. You can get a job as a political staffer and think the way upward is paved by attending parties and events, earning a reputation as someone who is fun to socialize with. You can hang out with politicians and senior staffers, hoping they’ll remember your name the next time they see you in the hallways, or you can approach being a political staff the same way you would approach any other career: you need to make a difference. That means taking on responsibility, doing the absolute best job you can, being accountable and getting results. On that path—inevitably the lonelier one—you’ll be surprised how many people will know your name.

When I started in politics, advancement was often associated with who you knew. Nepotism plays a role when politics is the family business. It dictated who got the job or the assignment and it assumed you’d perform well. What was not always clear was how closely performance was linked to popularity within the political network, which often kept a staff person in their job even if they were failing at it.

When I worked as chief of staff to minister Laurel Broten in the government of Dalton McGuinty, it was not uncommon for the Centre to assign young staff to work with me because of my expectation that they would meet performance requirements regardless of who they knew. Even if you were the son of a former MPP or labour leader, you were required to show up at work on time and do your job well. My goal was to make sure those young people came to understand their value as individuals, regardless of how they got their positions. It was said that anyone who survived their training with me could move on and do well. And they did.

I’d been in Ontario Liberal politics for about seven years prior to the arrival of the much more famous Sorbara—Greg—and his appearance on the scene brought some tension to my career. People would learn my name and ask immediately about my relationship to the finance minister (something that still happens today). Some clearly assumed I got to Queen’s Park because I was related to Greg, and while it is true that he is my second cousin, we only met when I helped recruit him to run in 1985. In response to the unspoken question, I would say to people, “If you are making an assumption that my being here is somehow related to Greg, I was here first and I got him the job.” Other times people would assume my relationship status with Greg. After I’d grown tired of it, conversations would go like this:

“I know your husband.”

“I don’t have a husband.”

“Oh. Then your brother.”

“Nope, I don’t have a brother.”

“Oh, I’m talking about Greg.”

“Oh, you mean my father?”

“Your father??”

“Yes. Next time you talk with him, please tell him his daughter Pat says hi.”

From time to time, the phone would ring and it would be Greg, who is exactly ten years older than me. He’d say, “Please stop telling people you’re my daughter!” We’d laugh and I’d whine about the assumption that he was the reason I’d moved my way up the ladder.

Lesson: In politics, you end up with a reputation whether you want one or not. Make sure it’s one you can live with and stand behind.

By the mid-1980s, within the inside circles of the party, my reputation as skilled, hard-driving and demanding had taken hold. And that’s exactly what I was. By working on many elections and key party events, I had demonstrated my ability to lead teams and get results. When I was at the Centre, I was often the one on the other end of phone providing direction (whether it was wanted or not), giving advice (whether it was wanted or not) or chasing down political leads before they become problems.

I wasn’t always happy with my reputation because, on many days, it felt more negative than positive. My only way to change that, I felt, was to settle for less from myself and others. And that just wasn’t in my DNA. It often depended on the person expressing their views. Some were receptive and thrived under my coaching; others struggled and pushed back. I was willing to work with anyone who felt they could withstand my approach to leadership and my view that failure because you did not try was not an option. It was a running joke that anyone who worked with me on a by-election should earn a T-shirt with the words, “I survived a by-election with Pat Sorbara.”

Eventually I learned that regardless of how I felt about it, my reputation was a fair reflection of the way I operated. The results of that intense management style got me noticed. And for a woman who had decided to compete in the fast-paced, gruelling and often unfriendly world of politics, being noticed meant opportunity.

The newly formed Peterson government faced its first by-election in 1986 in the riding of York East. Conservative MPP and former minister of labour Robert Elgie had no interest in serving in opposition following the defeat of his Conservative government. He accepted an appointment from Premier Peterson as chair of the Workers’ Compensation Board of Ontario, as it was then known (now the Workplace Safety and Insurance Board). Elgie’s resignation paved the way for Peterson’s first political test as a minority government, increasing the pressure for a win.

We wanted a woman candidate to demonstrate Premier Peterson’s commitment to advancing the role of women in government. We recruited Christine Hart, a young, bright lawyer who lived in the riding. As she had never run before, she needed a crash course in politics, which is not abnormal in a by-election. But it was also the case that Christine was not political; she had no close political advisors to turn to with her questions and doubts. The upshot was too much second-guessing of decisions against a tight timeline by well-meaning but uninformed people who did not understand how things worked in the backroom.

I didn’t get assigned to the by-election right away—I was focused on pre-writ readiness for the next general election—but Christine managed to chase away her first four campaign managers. As the by-election was about to be called, the premier was brought into the picture. His response? “Send in the bitch.” A few minutes later, I was in his office and he told me I had to get in there and fix it. Although I didn’t think his comment about me was very nice, I knew he meant it as a compliment. I took solace in the fact that he knew I’d be single-minded about winning.

Lesson: It’s particularly true that in politics, when the going gets tough, the tough have to get going. You don’t get to cut and run, you stand your ground and fight.

I liked Christine; she was a good candidate and there for the right reasons. She had pressures of her own. I quickly came to understand her family was the source of tension and the definitive factor in the departure of her first four campaign managers.

On my very first day I was sitting at my desk when Christine’s brother Hugh approached me. In no uncertain terms he informed me that he considered it his job to make my life miserable. Without a word, I calmly studied him over my glasses until I could sense he was getting uncomfortable. I then advised him, in my most dismissive and firm tone, that he’d be way too busy putting up signs and canvassing to have any time to bother me. But believe me, he tried.

Christine’s then-husband Rob Warren demanded a lot of input. I was prepared to give it to him on the promise he not discuss what he heard with the candidate, given that she needed to stay focused on meeting voters and not worry about campaign organization. It was quickly evident Rob was not prepared to keep that commitment, so I stopped telling him things. I could feel the pressure around the family dynamic building.

The boiling point was reached on Hugh’s birthday (although I was unaware of that until after the blow up). The premier’s wife, Shelley Peterson, arrived in the morning to accompany Christine to seniors’ residences to seek that critical vote. They were both beautifully dressed and there was no doubt they’d be a hit with that sector. Christine told me that Hugh would be joining them for the day, which was okay with me until I saw him. He was dressed in cut-off jeans and a ragged T-shirt and when he refused to go home and change, I sent him to put up signs.

When Christine returned to the campaign office, she was furious with me, as Hugh had called her to complain. To demonstrate her unhappiness, Christine advised me she would not be campaigning anymore that day. With my frustration already pretty high, my temper boiled over. Christine was leaving out the front door and I was at the back of the campaign headquarters. Tears of anger and exasperation rolling down my face, I began to shout. I told her to go ahead and leave; if she didn’t care about winning this campaign, why should the rest of us? My reaction was over the top, and it was certainly inappropriate to yell at my candidate.

But the real problem was that once in full flight, I was unable to rein in my Italian temper. I continued to shout and stamp my feet. It was unprofessional and unbecoming. My friend Bill Murray was nearby watching in disbelief. Recognizing I had lost it and was unable to pull back, he took the only action he could think of to bring the altercation to an end. Bigger and stronger, he stepped behind me, turned me around and pushed me out the back door into the pouring rain. I was instantly drenched.

Shocked and standing in the cold rain, I calmed down. Christine did not return that day. I spent the day sorting through my fatigue and the source of all that anger. I thought seriously about leaving the campaign, but I knew I couldn’t do that to the party or the premier. And I wasn’t going to risk a hit to my reputation by running away when the going got tough. I thanked Bill for his timely, albeit drastic, intervention. He truly could see no other way to get me to stop yelling. It turned into one of those special moments that bond people who survive the pressures of politics.

With my perspective back in place and my temper in check, the next day I apologized to Christine. We moved forward, won the by-election and remain friends to this day. This anecdote is more than a story for me. It speaks to the person I was becoming in politics. By then I had been around long enough to know there were those who saw it as a fun place to be, and those who were dedicated to the cause. It’s not that the two were always mutually exclusive, as almost everyone had a commitment to the long-term health of the party. It was that I needed people to focus on the serious part when it mattered. And by-elections mattered.

Lesson: For a woman in politics, it’s a fine line between being a boss and being liked.

I wanted to be a leader and I’d established my credentials as a hard worker. But I also wanted to be liked and have friends. Far too often, those two realities clashed, as politics often feels like a personality contest. The social element was extensive and far-reaching. MPPs living away from home during the week and younger staffers who were often away from home for the first time had no other place to be, so it meant they socialized frequently. It became the norm to follow the pressure-filled days with a night at the bar with friends.

An introvert by nature, I could take only so much socializing. I’d show up for the must-attends—like holiday gatherings or all-staff nights—but I rarely made it to the end of an evening. As well, when you work at the Centre and you’re out for the evening, people don’t often ask about how you are doing. They want to make an impression or discuss an issue or their future, which was fine with me as it made conversations easier and I was prepared to share my experience and advice. But for me, socializing in politics was not downtime.

The day after the York East by-election, Christine came by while we were clearing out the office to thank me for all I’d done to get her elected. She handed me a large bouquet of flowers, stating, “You probably don’t even like flowers.” I took it to mean that flowers represented the soft side of someone and she’d not seen any such side of me. I understood it but it hurt a little. And it made me think about how hard it was for a woman to be both demanding and likeable.

It was not uncommon for people unhappy with my management style to let me know that I was unpopular. I’d hear, “People would like you better if you weren’t so nasty to them.” It was upsetting at times, but I tried not to let it show. Usually it would happen in a stressful situation or in the lead-up to a large event, like an election or an annual meeting of the party. My response would be, “I’m not here to make friends; I have enough friends. I’m here to get the job done.”

It sometimes felt like I could not have both. If I wanted to be seen as a serious person and compete for senior roles, I could not make a mistake or fail at whatever task I was handed. I regularly carried a large load between my day job in government and my political work, so I rarely had time to socialize. I was racking up wins on the political side of the ledger, but I struggled with how I was seen as a person.

It was essential to develop a thick skin. At home, I might cry or rage to manage my emotions (those who have worked with me know I call that “kicking garbage cans”), but I tried not to show weakness in the room. Not when I was fighting my way into the big leagues. I’d journal my thoughts and feelings and occasionally talk the issues through with friends. Eventually therapy helped me sort out the triggers, put up a wall to protect myself and be indifferent to the cynics.

Lesson: It is important to back up beliefs with action. That means supporting women and finding women who will support you.

I have always tried to campaign for a woman candidate or a woman politician whenever possible. I spent the last few weeks of the 1987 general campaign in the riding of Mississauga South with Claudette MacKay-Lassonde, an engineer and the first female president of the Association of Professional Engineers of Ontario. The win was a long shot, but I nonetheless asked to work with such an amazing female candidate. The night David Peterson swept to a large majority, I stood in one of the few ridings we did not capture. We lost to Conservative incumbent Margaret Marland in a nasty fight, as Margaret did not take well to an upstart woman challenging her on several levels. We came within 599 votes.

It did not matter to me that we lost. I had been honoured to be part of the campaign, and I did all I could to get a woman elected. I took consolation in three things: David Peterson had led us to a majority government; the victor in this riding might not be a Liberal, but she was a woman; and finally, the exchange I got to witness between Claudette and Margaret on election night.

Claudette was gracious in her loss but given the nastiness, she went down swinging. At that time, the tradition was for the losing politician to show up at the headquarters of the winner to concede the election in person. It was a brutal practice but in some ways, it made sense in a day when politics was more genteel and less partisan.

The timing had been pre-arranged. When we got to the Conservative headquarters, I went in ahead to make sure things were ready to go. The atmosphere was ugly, given the big loss the Tories had suffered provincially. I was told we would have to wait, as Margaret had not yet arrived. Claudette bristled but agreed to give it a bit of time. After twenty minutes, we were about to leave when a large vehicle swerved alongside and parked in front of us. Margaret, in a floor-length, shimmery green gown, got out of the car. I sensed trouble.

Without a word, Claudette jumped out of our vehicle and strode purposefully toward Margaret. Caught off guard, I was a few seconds behind Claudette and reached them just as the handshake happened. As I registered the shock on Margaret’s face, Claudette pivoted and moved quickly past me, back to our car. In asking her what she’d said to Margaret to cause that reaction, I truly feared the answer would be “fuck off.” Instead, she had said, “You have won but I have lost nothing.” Certainly not a traditional concession remark, but I know Claudette meant that losing the campaign did not mean defeat to her. She’d conceded nothing. To this day I carry the immense sense of pride I felt in this woman who never backed down.

In some ways, Claudette captured the attitude that should be adopted by every woman who runs. Regardless of whether you win or lose, you gain much simply by running. Your reputation is enhanced, not diminished. If you have given it your all, you have lost nothing. In fact, you will have gained an immense amount.

Lesson: Real change demands women in power at all levels, but progress has been extremely slow. It must be a priority, even when it isn’t easy, to encourage women to take the leap.

Running for a nomination myself so early in my career influenced my many years of recruiting candidates. I could talk about what it was like to run and lose. As it had happened to me, it made it easier to explain that sometimes the Centre is going to look elsewhere for their preferred candidate. And at the end of day, it is the long game that is important in politics. I’d always understood that process for recruiting women was not going to be the same as the way we recruited men.

Recruiting women wasn’t always the priority. When I first got involved provincially, we were in opposition and it was critical to recruit someone who could win the riding. In some cases that meant a local, middle-aged male politician with a history of electoral success was going to be preferred over a woman who was a social advocate with a strong community base.

In my early days of finding candidates, the mid-1980s, people felt politics was too rough and demanding for a woman. As importantly, women would be judged for not staying home with their children, spending several days of each week out of town. If a woman was single, she was either too young or possibly too “odd” in that voters would wonder why she was a “spinster,” having not found a husband. If divorced, there must be something wrong with her, or she should be spending her time looking for a new husband.

Traditional male attitudes were only part of the problem. Often the biggest hurdle was convincing a woman to believe she should run, or that she could win. While men generally believe they have the needed experience and skills to be a successful politician, it was a tough sell when recruiting women. The belief that a male was more competent or more acceptable to the electorate was a common misconception. Even a woman confident enough to believe she was the best option would often feel the social pressure of the impact on her family. I rarely met a male candidate—at least not until much later in my career—who worried about that reality.

To this day, women ask many more questions about the role and the requirements to succeed. Women respond better when they understand the different elements that form life as a politician. They often love the concept of constituency work, as many are community activists at some level; the idea of having the tools to truly make a difference in a person’s life is a powerful motivator.

Women ask what it will take to do a good job. How will they learn enough to contribute effectively? How will they learn about the issues, and how will they know how to vote on policy? If they have no knowledge of partisan politics, there will be many more questions about the way parties operate.

Every person who has recruited a candidate can probably share a story about meeting a couple where the husband was the potential candidate. After a few minutes, it becomes clear the woman would be the much stronger option and do a better job, for the right reasons. Many men have been motivated by the power, ego and prestige of the role. For women, it was almost always about the desire to advance an issue important to them or to their communities. I know many men who run because they want to make a difference—but in my experience it is the primary reason for women and for men it is lower on the list.

Only recently has the tide turned sufficiently to truly see more women running, supported by their spouses and families. There are not enough women elected or supported by women to make the difference in bringing fundamental change to the way politics is done and the way government operates, from within. But we are on our way.