Hubert Humphrey and the lost art of unity

Hubert Humphrey and Richard Nixon were political adversaries.

Humphrey had narrowly lost the 1968 presidential election to Nixon. Being beaten byNixon, who epitomized so much of what Humphrey had fought against most of his political life, and by so few votes, made the loss even harder to take.

Yet, in January 1978, bedridden and weak at his home in Waverly, Minn., just five days before he died from bladder cancer, Humphrey called Nixon, who had been in seclusion in California following his resignation from the presidency in 1974.

Humphrey's message was direct: "Dick, I'm not going to be around much longer. There is going to be a memorial service for me in the Capitol Rotunda. I want you to attend that service."

Nixon said no, he just couldn't return to Washington. But Humphrey persisted: "You must attend." Nixon finally relented. And he stood with Presidents Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford and other political luminaries at the memorial service.

Why did Humphrey, in the waning moments of his life, make this extraordinary request of Nixon?

He told his wife, Muriel, "No former president should live in exile from the nation's capital." This was Humphrey's final act as a public figure. Civility, decency and rising above party defined his dreadful last days.

Indiana's Richard Lugar lost his Senate seat last week after decades of exemplary service as a preeminent, staunch Republican, but one who focused on the national good and on cooperating with grace with his Democratic colleagues. He had to listen to an incredible rant by his victorious primary opponent, who in effect attacked two basics of a democracy -- civility and cooperation.

Through such attitudes, Congress is rendered almost totally dysfunctional in dealing with the nation's challenges. No one seems able or willing to do anything about it.

Humphrey's career provided striking evidence that one person can make a difference.

We worked with him during historic events, when he proved that a democratic government can tackle the most divisive public issues while transcending party, region, ego and intellectual differences.

Humphrey knew this instinctively, in his bones. His meeting with the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., during the early stages of the historic struggle to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964, revealed Humphrey at his best.

Humphrey knew that King and he had different constituencies to satisfy -- reluctant conservative senators and militant civil-rights advocates. Holding these different constituencies together would be difficult and, without King's collaboration, probably impossible.

One rhetorical broadside from King -- one attack that questioned the motives of undecided senators -- could permanently kill the support of conservatives. Humphrey invited King to meet in his Senate office adjacent to the Senate floor to look for a way through this political minefield.

When King walked in, Humphrey motioned him to sit close by at a desk in the small office. He wanted to have direct, quiet conversation. Humphrey viewed King as an equal colleague, not a petitioner seeking justice.

Humphrey said to King, whom he did not know well: "If we know what the other is doing and why, if we stay in touch and listen to each other, if we trust each other, we will get beyond disagreement." King nodded. He then questioned Humphrey about the tactics he planned to use.

Humphrey explained that strong civil-rights support existed in both parties. This meant that Republican civil rights advocates, such senators as Tom Kuchel of California; Jacob Javits and Kenneth Keating of New York; John Sherman Cooper of Kentucky; Clifford Case of New Jersey, and Hugh Scott of Pennsylvania had to be full partners.

Humphrey instinctively knew that more than collaboration with the Republicans was needed. Good personal relations had to be maintained with the bill's bitter opponents, the Southern Democrats led by Richard B. Russell of Georgia. These included some bigoted senators, with whom Humphrey had almost nothing in common when it came to civil rights.

In the end, those differences could not matter. Southern opponents had to have every opportunity to voice their opposition without parliamentary tricks or ill-tempered responses.

At the end of the day, wavering senators had to agree that the bill had been debated in an environment of fairness and mutual respect. They had to be able to say, "Yes, everyone had the chance to be heard. Now it's time to decide."

Humphrey set the example.

One day he and Willis Robertson of Virginia were engaged in a lively but respectful exchange over the public-accommodations portion of the bill. As the exchange came to a close, Robertson walked across the Senate chamber to Humphrey, embraced him and thrust a Confederate flag pin into Humphrey's lapel. They left the floor, arm-in-arm, heading towards Robertson's hideaway office for a late-afternoon libation.

Three hours after the bill's final passage, Humphrey left the Senate wing of the Capitol. He encountered about 250 citizens who knew how important he had been. They had spontaneously come to the U.S. Capitol simply to say, "Thank you!" Humphrey beamed from ear to ear.

At that moment in our not-so-distant past, it was possible for civility to bridge the partisan divide and collaboration to outflank ideological difference. It was possible for opponents to reach out and clasp hands in order to perfect our democracy when it was in peril.

Why then and not now?

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