Those who decide to move their families to Ottawa fare somewhat better. My wife and I discussed this once. “Get this straight,” she said. “You got elected. You get to live in Ottawa.” For the parliamentary spouse, living in Ottawa can mean abandoning a career and a family support system. But while some fear losing themselves in their spouse’s political world, others thrive being in Ottawa. Still, either way, rarely is the spouse ever asked how he or she is doing. It’s always about their politician husband or wife.
And how was I, anyway? The search for my name in print had become manic. I scanned three newspapers a day looking for it. I couldn’t stop talking about myself, but it was clear that I had fewer and fewer original things to say. “Do all your reading before you get here,” Paul Martin had warned me, “because once you arrive you have to live off your intellectual capital.” I sensed that I had spent that intellectual capital. Everything had become a win-or-lose proposition. I was always explaining, rarely listening. I had a consumptive cough — Parliament Hill is extremely musty. I sensed that people were just trying to use me to get to someone else. They would greet me, engage in chit-chat, and then there it would be: “I was wondering if you could speak to the minister for me, or even put me in touch with him.” There were other signs. If I saw a colleague with a stranger, I’d wonder, “Who is he with? ” “Why? ” “Do I need to know him? ” And then there was a remark Chrétien made one afternoon (by way of compliment, I think): “Barry, you’re always on my B team.” It was too much. Ottawa was getting to me.
Nothing would be official until I talked to the Boss. I diligently rehearsed my statement. I needn’t have bothered. Chrétien caught on immediately. “How old are your boys? ” he asked. “Nine and eleven,” I answered. “I understand,” he said. “They will need you for a few years. You can come back in five or ten years. I’ll still be here.” That was it. I didn’t know how to react and just sat there, stone faced. He had turned a discussion about me into a discussion about him, had stolen my moment with a self-serving joke. I shouldn’t have been surprised: in politics, it’s always about you, and he was the chief “you.”
This too-brief conversation grated on me somewhat. There was no personal thanks for a job well done — that would come later, in an official letter. Chrétien and I had had our moments, and I remembered them with a mixture of humour, incredulity, and respect. Years previous, he had sent me to Portugal to attend a seminar hosted by Liberal International. The purpose was to teach parliamentarians from emerging democracies how to conduct elections, campaign, etc. What was striking about the group was that I was the only one who had not been thrown in jail at some point or other for expressing political views. I told Chrétien about this, and how embarrassed I was to be offering advice to politicians who had done time when I hadn’t. “You know, Barry, I can take care of that,” he replied. Soon, he almost did.
During the 1995 Quebec referendum, a number of us arranged for buses to bring constituents to the hastily organized rally for the “No” side in Montreal. Quebec’s chief electoral officer indicated that he might charge me and five other MPs, asserting that the cost of the buses must be treated as an expense of the “No” committee. This seemed outrageous — we were federal MPs, so why would we have to comply with the Quebec referendum law? We met with Chrétien to discuss strategy, assuming the government would appoint lawyers to defend us. “Get a bad lawyer,” Chrétien said. We looked at him, not knowing what to say. “What’s the penalty for breaking that law?” he continued. “Two years in jail or a $10,000 fine,” I said. “Take jail,” he said. “That way, you are sure to get re-elected.” He then reminded me about the Portugal seminar: “Barry, if you go to jail, you’ll never be embarrassed again like you were at the Liberal International.”
As I left Chrétien’s office, I reflected on the man and his complexities. He had told the Liberal caucus to leave Quebec to him, that he had it under control. He didn’t, and we almost lost the country. On the eve of the referendum, he broke down before caucus. We nearly panicked. But then Chrétien’s legendary toughness kicked in. He wouldn’t give up, and marched out of our caucus chamber to do battle. We rallied behind him.
“You can’t leave. You haven’t made it into Cabinet yet,” some said. The conventional wisdom is that a minister “is at least at the table,” but this presupposes that weighty debates go on in Cabinet, and often they do not. The prime minister sets the agenda, and Memoranda to Cabinet are hammered out in advance and then presented to ministers, who in turn are reluctant to attack the plans of their colleagues, for fear of payback. In any event, I had already had a pretty good seat. At inception or implementation, practically everything in government crosses the desk of the finance minister, and as Paul Martin’s parliamentary secretary I had input on a range of policies beyond that of some ministers. Maybe I didn’t need to serve in Cabinet to get my fix, I thought; maybe I was just making excuses. Either way, I was going home.
It’s not clear which is psychologically worse: getting bounced from Cabinet or being passed over for a position. Not being considered one of the stars is deeply embarrassing and hard to explain to family, friends, and supporters. Grown men and women, accomplished and respected in their fields before coming to Ottawa, are reduced to nervous, insecure children when the rumours start flying about a Cabinet shuffle. I got passed over, and I’m not sure I could have swallowed additional humiliations. Instead, I’ve got mementoes, including the following note: “Please be advise[d] that because of the dissolution of the 35th Parliament on April, 27, 1997, you have been overpaid as a Parliamentary Secretary from April 28, 1997, to April 30, 1997. The gross amount of your overpayment is $87.50. We will recover this amount in full from your sessional allowance cheque dated May 30, 1997. We regret any financial hardship this may cause you.” It’s impressive that government officials could keep track of my lousy $87.50, even hunt me down for it.
Six years on, I found myself flying to Ottawa on the day Prime Minister Martin was putting the final touches on his Cabinet. Travelling with me were hopeful MPs, confident they would get the call. I remembered the feeling. As I left Ottawa late that afternoon, I was joined by MPs who were not “in” this time. They were upset. I remembered that feeling, too. “Were you in Ottawa providing grief counselling?” one asked me. Another vowed revenge. The disgruntled and disaffected enter a political reverse world: they come to Ottawa to be a force for good, and, consumed by hurt, embarrassment, and panic, they turn to revenge.
Some people took my departure as proof “it isn’t worth it.” Not so. I did my time, made a small contribution, and got out alive. “You have only served five years,” others said, suggesting that to be effective you need to spend a lifetime in politics, which is probably the worst thing a politician could do. In fact, Canada would be well served if people moved in and out of politics. There is a huge gap in understanding between the public and private sectors that could be significantly narrowed if more good people moved from one to the other and back again. Unfortunately, there is no real process for reintegrating ex-politicians into the private sector, and if defeated they are considered damaged goods. Also, politics pays poorly compared to many private sector jobs, and, sadly, this keeps good people away.
