Standing on the stage of Founders Hall at Haverford College this afternoon with her mother Kerry, the four-year-old tyke was supposed to introduce former first daughter Chelsea Clinton, who would in turn introduce her famous mom. But when the big moment came, Sonya buried her face in Kerry’s blouse. “No,” the girl murmured. “Go ahead, Sonya,” said Kerry. “No,” she repeated. “Are you going to say Chelsea Clinton?” Kerry asked. At that, Sonya finally looked up, leaned toward the mic-and licked it like an ice-cream cone. She giggled. “Okay, “Kerry stammered. “I’ll say Chelsea Clinton.”
Completely understandable, said Hillary when she took the stage a few moments later. “You know, Sonya exhibited the way that I sometimes feel standing in front of audiences holding microphones,” she confessed. Next to me, an undergrad wondered aloud whether Clinton meant that she also feels shy on stage–or that she’s tempted, from time to time, to tongue the audio equipment.
The joke, of course, is that for a ferociously competitive politician often depicted as America’s Iron Lady–and who last night in Philadelphia delivered one of the edgiest, elbow-throwing-est debate performances of the cycle–the former strikes many Americans as only marginally more plausible than the latter. But it was clear from the opening moments of today’s appearance in this tony Main Line college town that, with the debating finished and her TV ads doing the dirty work, Hillary now intends to show Pennsylvania her softer side. Call it the “Shrinking Violet” strategy.
Billed as a “Conversation with Families,” today’s event, the first of Clinton’s final five-day swing before Tuesday’s primary, was designed to keep the upscale, well-educated suburban women who constitute one of the Keystone State’s potentially decisive constituencies from defecting to Obama. As with the online launch of Clinton’s candidacy, the “conversation” part was a bit of a misnomer; she did approximately 98 percent of the talking. But “families” was accurate enough. In a convenient illustration of the day’s theme, Hillary’s 88-year-old live-in mother Dorothy Rodham joined her and Chelsea on the stump for the first time since New Hampshire. “It’s such a blessing for us to have three generations here,” Hillary said. “It gives me a firsthand experience of all the challenges and changes we face in our lives, because different stages of life do present different questions.” No one is calling this the “Likability Tour, Part II” just yet–perhaps because that name reeked of unlikable artifice–but the goal here in Pennsylvania is the same as it was in Iowa: to close out the campaign by letting Hillary–mother, daughter, woman–be Hillary. Asked at the end of the afternoon what volunteers should tell undecided voters, Clinton summed it up nicely. “Just knock on the door and say ‘You know, she’s really nice,’” she joked to laughter from the crowd. “Or you could say it another way: ‘She’s not as bad as you think.’”
If you’ve only encountered the former First Lady through television soundbites–and the derisive, semi-sexist commentary of Chris Matthews, Tucker Carlson and the rest of the Beltway boys–you’d be surprised at how warm and fuzzy Clinton can come off in person. Sporting a soft brown pantsuit and a silky turquoise scarf, she replaced the flat Midwestern clang of her larger rallies with a hushed, confessional sigh. The effect–as intended, I’m sure–was more “tender mother” than “tough-as-nails taskmaster.” (New chief strategist Geoff Garin is said to favor a “humanizing” approach–unlike predecessor Mark Penn.) Between sentences, Clinton closed her eyes, as if in reverie, and laced each line with emotive qualifiers like “very,” deeply” and “so much.” Her hands traced loose circles in the air as she spoke. And she addressed a series of topics–expanding the Family and Medical Leave Act, curing breast cancer, achieving equal pay for women–that couldn’t have been further from last night’s Rev. Wright and Weather Underground attacks. In fact, Clinton mentioned Barack Obama only once–and even then she was sure to say how much she respects him.
Instead, the candidate spent much of her speech revealing the personal experiences behind her policy proposals. Confessing that she’s “addicted to advice columns” and hopes “in [her] next life [to] be an advice columnist,” Clinton recounted an item she’d read in the 1970s asking for tips on “what’s appropriate” when decorating a new office. “I’ll never forget it,” she said. “‘If you are a man, by all means, put family pictures in your office, because everyone will think you’re a good family man and very responsible. If, however, you’re a woman, do not do that because they will believe that you cannot keep your mind on your work.’ So I immediately brought dozens of family pictures to my office. That’s the kind of evolution that we’ve gone through.” Spotting some “heads of my vintage nodding,” Clinton continued down memory lane. “It’s like those terrible ‘dress for success’ columns,” she said. “Don’t even look at these pictures–navy blue skirt-suits with white blouses and ribbons tied in a bow around your neck. Don’t even look. It’s so embarrassing to think that we ever wore anything like that.”
But while women of Clinton’s “vintage” may have liked what they heard, outside on Haverford’s sun-drenched quad, the event’s other audience–students lounging on blankets as if they were listening to Dave Matthews–weren’t quite as convinced. When Clinton said that deporting 12 million illegal immigrants would require federal officers “to knock [invasively] on the kitchen door of the college here,” a gaggle of girls gasped, assuming she’d made an un-PC gaffe. “She didn’t just say that,” one said. “Did she just say that?” (Even voters play the “gotcha” game, apparently.) On the ropeline, a curly-haired 19-year-old regaled his peers with the tale of how he conned his way inside. “So I, like, sent the campus Hillary guy a message on Facebook saying how much I love her,” he said. Do you? they asked. “Um, no. I’m for Obama.“Nearby, a square-jawed jock in a green polo shirt tried to convince a London Times reporter that he was undecided–before accidentally mentioning that he belongs to the Haverford chapter of Students for Obama. “This music is as boring as Hillary Clinton,” he later told his girlfriend, as U2’s “City of Blinding Lights” played over the PA. “At the Obama event, it was funk and soul.” (For the record, Obama also uses “City of Blinding Lights.”) And when a Clinton staffer approached with a videocamera, scouring for fans to interview, the tank-topped girls in front of me all demurred. “Is anyone here Clinton supporter?” a helpful one shouted to a crowd of at least 50 Haverfordians. Fidgeting, no one responded.
Meanwhile, the curly-haired con artist was saying goodbye to his friends. “I only waited this long,” he admitted, “because I wanted to see how much makeup she had on.”
