It's Rick Perry's Party Now
Whatever happens on November 7, the lieutenant governor will be the most powerful Republican in Texas. The trouble is, few voters know him—and he's yet to prove he's ready for prime time.
National political conventions put on display not only the party's first team—the nominees for president and vice president and other big names in American politics—but also the second team, those who will be the leaders of tomorrow. And so, on the first day of the Republican Convention in Philadelphia, a newcomer to the national stage appeared on television screens across America. He was tall and lanky, with dark, wavy hair, and lively eyes framed by crinkly lines that testified to long days spent under the West Texas sun. A rakish smile crept across his face to balance the hard set of his jaw. So perfectly did he represent the image of the rancher turned officeholder that he looked like an actor sent up from central casting to play the role. When he spoke, the inevitable twang in his voice was as broad as the Texas plains: "Mr. Chairman and fellow delegates, I am proud to nominate the current governor of the great state of Texas and the next president of the United States, George W. Bush."Rick Perry had more than one reason to be proud—a friend's success, a bit of state chauvinism, but also, for the lieutenant governor of Texas, the pure excitement of the moment when he himself began to step out from Bush's shadow and claim his own place as the odds-on favorite to be the next governor. If Bush wins the presidency, Perry will serve the remainder of Bush's term; if Bush loses, Perry, as lieutenant governor and leader of the state Senate, will have far more influence over the course of the 2001 legislative session than a lame duck governor. All of this must have gone through his mind as he basked in the euphoric applause that followed his nomination of Bush.
But this was not Perry's only moment in the spotlight this summer. A few weeks before the Republican Convention, he made another appearance on television—one that was not planned, however, nor did it receive applause. It was a Department of Public Safety videotape of a routine traffic stop, aired on Texas newscasts around the state and on the Internet, that showed a cranky Perry emerging from his vehicle and complaining about being delayed after his driver had been stopped for speeding by a state trooper. The two summer videos present opposing, but equally compelling, portraits of Perry. In Philadelphia, he was a sophisticated, likable rising star with a great future. On the highway outside of Austin, he was a graceless, arrogant political neophyte who didn't look ready for prime time.
Which one is the real Rick Perry? Although he has held statewide office for almost ten years—the first eight as the commissioner of agriculture—and was a state legislator for six years before that, few Texans outside politics and his home area north of Abilene know him well. His name identification hovers around 20 percent. His best work has been done in unglamorous and unseen roles: in interminable, suffocatingly detailed budget meetings or behind-the-scenes negotiations. The outlines of his career are fairly well known—Aggie yell leader, Air Force pilot, rancher, conservative Democrat legislator turned Republican statewide officeholder—but even among political insiders, Perry remains something of a mystery. Throughout his career, he has generated low expectations and exceeded them; his political opponents typically make the fatal mistake of underestimating him. In 1990 he surprised the Austin political establishment by defeating liberal icon Jim Hightower for the agriculture job; eight years later, with the help of Bush at the top of the ticket, he edged out respected Democrat John Sharp for the job he now holds. As the lieutenant governor, Perry surprised his detractors again by winning the trust of senators from both parties.
But he also seems unable to shed the shackles that hold his reputation down. The DPS videotape was not the only embarrassing revelation of the summer. Another public relations disaster was a hardball fundraising letter sent to Capitol lobbyists that ended up in the newspapers. The lobbyists complained that the message of the letter appeared to threaten their clients' interests if the lobbyists or the clients didn't ante up. In a way, Perry's position in Texas is much like Bush's nationally: No one questions the personal charm that has kept him on a promising career trajectory, but they do question his command of substantive issues and his maturity to handle the chief executive's job. The good looks that have been such an asset to him are also something of a liability; for his entire political career, Perry has been described as a "himbo"—the male version of a bimbo. Can someone who reminds you of Tom Cruise really be smart? Most of the speculation about Perry's future is limited to Austin political circles; when he gets out of town, both his pluses and his minuses are for the most part unknown, and he has the opportunity to start with a clean slate. On a blazing morning in August, I met him at a private airplane terminal for a trip to Laredo, where he was scheduled to address the chamber of commerce and meet with a group of teachers. It was the kind of pressure-free occasion a politician can use to win friends without being under the close scrutiny of the public and the media. On the flight down he talked about the book he was carrying, Stephen Harrigan's The Gates of the Alamo ("This guy's a good writer"), and a trip he took earlier in the summer, during which he and his dad retraced the elder Perry's World War II service. When he shifted to a discussion of a family friend who was killed in the war and the letters the young man had sent home, his eyes got misty. "It's the most poignant letter I've ever read," he said of an account of the hardships of a winter in France. The history discussion was cut short when an aide informed him that we were approaching our destination. Perry studied a briefing folder as we descended through a light drizzle. Waiting on the tarmac to meet him was John Adams, the chairman of the local chamber and a friend of Perry's for thirty years, dating back to their days together at Texas A&M. The Aggie network is one of his biggest political assets. The current regents' chairman and several predecessors endorsed Perry over Sharp, a fellow Aggie and onetime close friend of Perry's. On the short drive to the Laredo Country Club for the luncheon, Adams mentioned that Laredo voters had recently approved a bond issue for a special-events center that they hope to use as an ice hockey arena. Perry had been well briefed. "Yeah, I know," he said. "I mention it in my speech. I talk about how people in Laredo are going to have to learn some new terms, like 'wrister.'" He took a swing at a phantom puck. "And 'put the biscuit in the net.'" He turned to his press secretary. "Right, Eric?" On cue, the aide nodded.
The well-dressed crowd in the elegant dining room represented professional Laredo, with both business and government leaders in attendance. At least half were Hispanic. Perry worked his way through the crowd, pumping hands with great enthusiasm. Finally, it was his turn to speak. He made a joke about the rain, citing his dad's wisdom ("Boy, don't go out there and take credit for the rain 'cause then they'll blame you for the drought") and launched into a discussion of higher education, an issue he plans to make one of his top priorities. The presidential campaign has spotlighted children's health problems in Texas, but Perry knew from working with the region's senators that what business and political leaders here want most from state government is increased funding for universities (and highways) to stimulate economic development. He received a prolonged ovation for suggesting that Texas universities ought to recruit Nobel laureates with "the same effort that we used to attract [University of Texas football coach] Mack Brown."
After another round of handshaking, during which Perry's one-hundred-watt smile never faded, we headed for Texas A&M International University. Perry noted that the street leading to the campus, as well as a prominent building, were named for his late predecessor, Bob Bullock, who was instrumental in getting the school established. "I don't know why they didn't just name the whole campus after him," Perry said. His meeting here was with a group of teachers studying a new reading curriculum. "It's good to be on an Aggie campus," he told the group. At one point he hoisted his leg onto a desktop and revealed a boot emblazoned with the state flag. Later, members of the mostly female audience clamored to have their picture taken with him; one woman suggested that he show off his boot again for the camera. Perry happily complied.
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