Love is big. Love can hold anger, love can hold pain, love can even hold hatred. It’s all about love.
—Alice Walker
Cornelia offered a fresh start to our newly minted First Family. She was the opposite of the adage “Women should be seen but not heard.” Although Daddy’s territorial inner circle worried that she would have too much influence on his politics, at first, at least, she showed no interest in policy matters and began fussing with his appearance and wardrobe. His natty black suits, white short-sleeved cotton shirts, and pencil-thin ties became polyester blends of rainbow colors and paisley. While the fashion of the seventies was not one of the best moments in American couture, Daddy’s makeover made him well dressed for the times.
Cornelia soon became a woman of influence, not necessarily in the public’s eye, but in Daddy’s mind. But rather than creating alliances with the Wallace old hats, she challenged them and on occasion countermanded them. Cornelia’s affinity for whispering in Daddy’s ear on matters of politics was deemed treasonous by his cronies and no doubt by a large number of Daddy’s female admirers who would gladly have given much more than their eyeteeth had he chosen them.
While Mama may have offered advice, she posed no threat to the Wallace brain trust, and when she became governor, they became her brain trust. “This new wife is certainly no Lurleen” became a common thread of conversation around the coffee pots and water coolers in the governor’s office.
Cornelia was ambitious and saw herself as an equal partner in Daddy’s destiny. She was proud to be called the “Jackie Kennedy of the rednecks.” Daddy’s inner circle viewed Cornelia as a threat, and Cornelia viewed them as a threat to her stature as Daddy’s wife. The old-time crowd of Wallace lieutenants, moneymakers, and confidants assumed they had an open invitation to drop by the mansion “at will.” Cornelia quickly disabused them of this notion. They learned that Governor Big Jim Folsom’s open invitation of “Y’all Come” had not been passed down to his niece. While Daddy ran the state, Cornelia was going to run their ample social life. The state buzzed with “I told you so’s” following an early 1973 broadcast of the Dick Cavett show live from the Governor’s Mansion. Even Dick Cavett looked startled when Cornelia batted her eyes, smiled, and said, “I like to travel so fast they had to put a governor on me.” That was Cornelia in a nutshell.
Following Daddy’s inauguration, I moved into the guesthouse at the rear of the mansion. It provided me with privacy but was less than twenty feet from the kitchen door. A parking pad separated the two buildings. During the week, I drove a daily commute of one hour each way to Troy State University, where I was majoring in special education.
Me as Alabama's Cherry Blossom Princess in Washington D.C.'s Cherry Blossom Festival, April 8, 1972.
I wanted to be close to Daddy and enjoyed Cornelia’s company. Her strong-willed nature and claims to be always right (including her absolute conviction that there were UFOs circling the planet) was a small price to pay for her usual good humor and mostly good intentions. Cornelia was a breath of fresh air that seemed to chase away the ghosts of heartache that lived at the core of our family.
Big Ruby was a frequent visitor to the mansion. While Ruby was unpredictable when she was sober, she was predictably out of control when she was on a binge. She was generally a crowd pleaser at local bars and nefarious hangouts, but she had been banned from one establishment after being escorted there by a pet monkey that began throwing items at other bar patrons. Following their removal, the contrite bar owner phoned Daddy. “Governor, I hate that you had to send someone over here to take care of this situation. Ruby is really good for business, and she has always been welcome. But the monkey has got to go.”
On January 13, 1972, Daddy announced he was running for president as a Democrat, joining a crowded field of eleven other candidates. It was the kind of mash-up that Daddy enjoyed. Divide and conquer was his specialty. As his new and improved campaign geared up, his fundraising numbers were impressive, the campaign staff was experienced, and Daddy’s appearance and dress were overhauled, Southern-style.
Light-colored double-knit suits were lucky to have three wearings before the front of the pants legs were pockmarked with melt holes caused by hot ashes from Daddy’s cigar. There was a closetful of replacements. Buckle shoes replaced shoestrings, and wide ties—paisley, of course—eliminated the need for a napkin tuck at mealtimes to help keep his shirt free of splatters.
The Wallace campaign was a juggernaut. On March 14, record numbers of Floridians turned out to vote in the Democratic primary. Not only did Daddy win the primary, he carried every county in the state. Daddy was a viable candidate, and he was on his way to be at least a kingmaker at a brokered convention, perhaps a vice presidential running mate or even a nominee.
While a few political highbrows acknowledged that Daddy might have a chance, others said “this just can’t happen in America.” But tell that to shouting crowds of angry and dispossessed voters, and they would tell you to go to hell. Daddy understood the power of hate and fear and exploited these feelings to gather support.
Daddy’s politics was more than just bombastic style. The establishment and other politicians viewed him as a demagogue. Nobody will buy what he is selling, they declared. Just take a look at him. Take him out of those Alabama backwoods and he’ll be finished. That was a mistake. And forty-eight years later, disaffected voters responded similarly to Trump. They rebelled against the same intellectualism and paternalism that Daddy railed against.
Daddy tapped into a complicated network of political ideals and cultural values. He was aware of the somewhat perverse attitude of the white middle class toward power. He understood that when middle-class whites perceived that the American Dream was no longer within reach, they would become blindly loyal to the person they believed could reclaim it for them. In 1972 and again in 2016, white working-class Americans needed to feel vindicated. No more handouts or political favors to the elites, no illegal immigrants stealing our jobs, stand up when the flag goes by, anger and fear are justified—get real! Stand Up for America. Make America Great Again.
Daddy and Donald Trump would have agreed on at least one thing. While powerless people may sometimes be skeptical of those who have the power, powerful people are the ones they most often worship, accepting their authority without question and teaching their children that respect for authority is a moral absolute. And that is at the heart of the appeal of both “Stand Up for America” and “Make America Great Again.”
Daddy’s strategy of articulating and mobilizing the grievances of the dispossessed would become one of the core strategies of the Trump campaign forty-four years later. It was the politics of rage and fear. It was resentment for no particular reason. It was a tent revival in the dead of summer, slapping mosquitoes and singing “Amazing Grace” while the preacher was fooling around out back.
On March 13, 1972, the New York Times published an article written by the reporter James T. Wooten that focused on the psychological and political culture of the Wallace campaign. Using a Wallace rally the day before in Orlando as the context, Wooten described the essential elements of the brew of patriotism, evangelism, political poetry, imagery, a dash of fear, and a bit of hate that made a George Wallace rally so powerful. The article was entitled “Wallace’s Rallies Blend Evangelism, Music and Salesmanship.”
Mr. Wallace’s Florida campaign, which has consistently outdrawn those of the other 11 candidates, moves by day from one town to the next in cars and campers, station wagons and jet planes—but the thrust of all of its energies is inevitably pointed to The Rally.
These rallies for Governor Wallace, who has forged a career out of Southern segregation and states’ rights, are a mix of old-time rural evangelism, slick country‐music salesmanship and tried and true.
The Baptist preacher is George Mangum, a 38-year-old minister who has a parish near Selma, Ala., and has worked in Wallace campaigns since 1966. His huge shock of gray hair and his deep, booming voice are enough to attract the initial attention of those who attend the Wallace rallies. Throughout the affairs, he raises his hands above his head, whirling them energetically, calling for applause, and the people consistently respond.
The religious emphasis of the campaign was never more clearly characterized than in the opening prayer at last night’s rally here. “May every head be bowed as we begin a spiritual conversation with our God about some of the political problems in our country,” the Rev. John Book, also a Baptist clergyman, prayed. “We give you thanksgiving, O Lord, for men of courage like George Wallace.”
GRAMMER ON GUITAR
From the prayer, the rally moves quickly to the music of Billy Grammer, a veteran country music star from the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville who is a fixture on the Wallace campaign trail this year. Although he is frequently joined on the stage by other stars, such as Hank Snow, Ferlin Husky, and Grandpa Jones, it is Mr. Grammer whose skill with the guitar and whose broad repertoire of country songs pleases the people night after night. Like many of the other country musicians who have appeared at Wallace rallies, Mr. Grammer seems committed to the Wallace campaign. “I don’t mind anybody knowing how I feel,” the 46-year-old native of Southern Illinois told the crowd last night. “I think a whole lot of things are basically wrong with this country and I think that a lot of them can be cured by a good Christian man like George Wallace being in the White House.”
The rural-church emphasis continues into the middle portion of the rally when Mr. Mangum begins his appeal for campaign funds. As he speaks, young girls with plastic buckets circulate throughout the audience accepting anonymous donations, and when the collection is finished Mr. Mangum continues to exhort the people to sign fundraising petitions.
Meanwhile, in the lobby at every stop, a team of Wallace staff men hawk various souvenirs of the campaign including bumper stickers, lapel pins, and a caricature watch.
It is not known how much money is collected at these rallies. The Wallace campaign has been asked to provide that information but has not.
The people who come to Wallace rallies seem to share a complete disaffection with government at all levels. They are white, blue-collar families. They are old, and they are young, and throughout the evening they show little hesitance about expressing the anger they feel toward the “bureaucrats, hypocrites and uninterested politicians” whom Mr. Wallace castigates in his speech.
“Give it to them, George,” they frequently yell. “That’s right, George,” comes the call. “We love George,” another woman screams.
On the stage, amid the clutter and disarray of camera and sound equipment, four Alabama state troopers stand stolidly at either end, peering intently into the crowd. Their watch seems unnecessary, for throughout the campaign Mr. Wallace has spoken only to sympathetic audiences and has been interrupted three times by hecklers, who were quickly silenced and soon left.
When the speech is finished, Mr. Wallace moves, rather hesitantly at first, to the edge of the stage where the people often flock, their hands raised and stretched toward the candidate.
CUFFLINKS DISAPPEAR
“Glad to see you, glad to see you,” he chants as he moves down the chain of hands, a state trooper moving behind him and holding to his belt. As is the case with many other politicians, cufflinks are often missing after the round of handshakes.
“It seems to me that these rallies ought to tell this country and you newsmen in particular something important,” Mr. Wallace said last week. “If I’m getting all these people out every night, and the other candidates are having to struggle to draw a crowd at all, doesn’t that say something about the truth of what I’m telling these folks?”
Whether that thesis is true or not, The Rally is indeed important to Mr. Wallace. It seems to underscore the confidence that he and his supporters have in the outcome of Tuesday’s voting.
“If he doesn’t win,” a middle‐aged woman wearing at least 17 Wallace buttons across her bodice said last night after The Rally, “there’s not a cow in Texas.”
“Your daddy is back in the dining room eating his breakfast,” Mary, the cook, said as I walked through the mansion’s back door and stepped into the restaurant-sized kitchen. “What you want to eat this morning?” she asked.
“The usual,” I replied.
“You traveling with your daddy today, or do you have school?”
“School,” I replied. “Mondays are one of my long days. My last class doesn’t start until four.”
“Well, today is May 15. At least you don’t have much more time before you get through. Go on in there and sit with your daddy. I’ll bring your breakfast right out.”
After eating, I gave Daddy a kiss on my way out of the dining room. “What time will y’all be home?” I asked.
“Won’t be late,” he replied. “They’re already saying we are going to win Maryland and Michigan tomorrow.”
Daddy looked at his watch and rang the buzzer for the kitchen. “Go tell Cornelia I’m leaving in a few minutes with or without her.”
“You have a good day, be careful on that road,” Mary said as I passed back through the kitchen. “You want a little something to take with you for a snack?’
“I’m fine,” I replied.
“Well, I’ll have something real nice for supper tonight when all y’all get back home.”
Daddy’s car was parked close by, with the engine running. “Have a safe trip,” I said to the driver as I walked down the back steps of the mansion.
“We will,” he replied. “You have a good day. It’s supposed to be beautiful weather all the way up and back.”
I was standing in the front room of the guesthouse when I heard the kitchen door open.
“Let’s go,” Daddy said.
I could hear the sound of his footsteps as he hurried down the stairs.