When we finally arrived, over a hundred people had gathered, chanting, cheering, and singing. Joining with them—and with my competitors—was a heartening moment after days of despondently watching news coverage of the first few days of the Trump administration, wondering with each new outrage if it would soon be accepted as normal.
But the moment also demonstrated how much had changed from a few years ago, when it would have taken weeks, not hours, to stage simultaneous demonstrations at dozens of locations in cities across America. To be relevant and useful to those who shared our values, the party would have to figure out a way to be part of a new flying formation.
THE SECOND MONTH OF THE CAMPAIGN for DNC was even more fast-paced. Routinely, Chasten and I would wake up in a hotel room and each ask the other if he could remember which state we were in. James Mueller, now my chief of staff, made sure the city team made the most of the time I could put in at the office in South Bend, while the campaign staff ensured that whatever time remained was spent as effectively as possible on the road, on TV, or on the phone. Each day brought encouraging press coverage and more followers online. But as the last days approached, the phone calls yielded little but noncommittal members, saying they liked what they heard but hadn’t decided yet, or indicating they had already promised to vote otherwise but would consider me on a second ballot.
I did secure a handful of supporters among the DNC membership—along with the endorsements of Dean and four other former DNC chairs—but as we entered the last week of the campaign, I still didn’t have the number of hard commitments it would take to survive a first round of voting and make it to a viable position on the second ballot. My last chance was to move large numbers of members in the final seventy-two hours of the race, as all of the voting members converged for the run-up to the vote at a meeting in Atlanta.
We arrived in Georgia with tremendous energy. About a hundred volunteers in blue PETE FOR DNC shirts crisscrossed the halls of the big Westin Hotel, affixing campaign placards and putting stickers on people. But the front-runners had their supporters out in force as well, and Perez was getting extremely close to the magic number needed to win. I had expected that becoming more viable in the wake of the endorsements would help me add to my vote count, but in fact the opposite was true. Wavering members who were expected by their friends or employers to vote for Perez or Ellison reported increased pressure to commit, and rumors spread that President Obama himself was making phone calls on behalf of Perez.
We kept working to gather support until the morning of the vote itself, but by the time I huddled with the team after a predawn Today Show appearance from a plaza across the street from the hotel, it had become clear that I couldn’t win. While many DNC members signaled agreement with my platform and appreciation for South Bend’s story with its broader implications for our party, it wasn’t enough to override years-long friendships, institutional commitments, favors called in, and countless other reasons to support one of the more recognizable and established candidates. It just wasn’t going to happen.
EVERY CANDIDATE HAD A FEW MINUTES to address the full voting body, gathered for the vote in a big room at the convention cen ter downtown. Standing at the podium, I looked out at the faces of the Democratic National Committee, from famous elected officials to obscure party activists, cleared my throat, and explained that I was standing down. But before leaving the stage, there was one last chance to press for the ideas that had motivated me to run in the first place. I urged the next chair to lead a party that would look beyond Washington, engage a newer generation, and compete in regions like my Indiana home. I asserted one more time that politics was ultimately about impact on everyday life. Invoking my military reserve status, I sought, even in this process-heavy and insider-oriented environment, to call for renewed focus on the concrete impacts of political decisions rather than on horse races and palace intrigue. “My life depends on the decisions that are made by elected officials,” I reminded the hushed committee members. “So does yours.”
Reflecting on the experience of running, I also had something to say about the moral basis for leadership. It had been on my mind ever since allowing myself to call President Trump a “draft-dodging chickenhawk” during one of the DNC forums. While true, that statement was not in keeping with how I publicly speak about political figures, or anyone else, and afterward I reflected that this president was inspiring a loss of decency not just in his supporters, but also in those of us who opposed him. It was another way of looking at the moral stakes of politics as it filters through to millions of lives: that we might all be growing into harder and perhaps worse people, as a consequence of political leadership that failed to call us to our highest values.
After the speeches came the voting, the counting, and then the revoting. Tom Perez won on the second ballot, and I lingered backstage long enough to congratulate him on his victory. Then Chasten and I found our way to a room where my staff and volunteers had gathered—over a hundred people in blue T-shirts whom I had taken to calling the “Happy Warriors” of our campaign. Emotionally drained but also gratified that we had made an impact on the debate over our party’s future, I slept well that night in Atlanta. But other than the last day of the deployment, I can’t think of a time I looked forward more eagerly to going home.
I WASN’T SURE HOW PEOPLE would respond back home in South Bend, passing by in the aisle at Martin’s or spotting me on Jefferson Boulevard on my way into work, after the campaign had ended. From the very outset of my first run for mayor, some had doubted my commitment to local government in South Bend, suggesting that I wouldn’t even finish one term before seeking another office. At one house-party appearance after another in the 2011 campaign, I had fielded questions from residents that included, in one context or another, the word “stepping-stone.”
In fact, I had always intended to serve a full term, and hopefully then earn and serve another one. Actually doing the work reinforced my belief that I belonged in the mayor’s office, and over the years I had learned to quickly deflect the occasional phone call from a party recruiter in Washington or a local journalist about running for Congress. By 2016, as I came off reelection and showed little interest in the chatter about me as a potential lieutenant governor nominee, the “stepping-stone” talk had at last quieted. But now, in early 2017, at the outset of my sixth year in office, I had unexpectedly sought a new job. The whirlwind of the DNC race had only deepened my love for South Bend and for my day-to-day work guiding its recovery, but I knew that returning now, I would be the equivalent of an employee meeting his boss after applying for another job. What would people say?
I had my answer when I headed in to work at the County-City Building for the first time after coming back from Atlanta, and someone stopped me on the sidewalk: “Congratulations, Mayor!”
I was taken aback. A little confused and trying to smile, I said, “You . . . know I didn’t win, right?”
“Yeah, but you got out there, you told our story, you had us on the map.”