Notes for the Soul

We all remember one cardinal rule from our school days; passing notes during class is disrespectful. However, on the floor of the House of Representatives that rule doesn’t apply because passing notes is the only way to learn during the course of debates.

Anybody who has watched coverage of the legislature’s floor session has witnessed legislative pages scurrying between members probably without realizing that in their hands they hold the vital communiqués that share the opinions and strategies that drive the legislative process. God bless those blue blazored young Alaskans.

So as I recently sifted through my old note file, thumbing through scraps of different colored notepaper and cards, they evoked a wide range of emotions like laughter and relief that I was taking a break from elected office but in the end a feeling of incomparable gratitude to my constituents for allowing me to serve them while receiving an incredible education.
I smiled after reading a note that was sent to me minutes after I stood on the floor last May and announced I would not be seeking re-election. It read, “Andrew, but who will give me candy and who will send me notes? I miss you already.” One should never under estimate the political power of Hot Tamales and M & M’s. Little did my former colleague realize that less than a year later she’d be receiving notes on a different floor from colleagues with last names such as Stevens, Frist and Dole. It made me once again realize that sometimes in politics it’s better to have a few close friends you can always count on rather than whole bunch of friends that are never around when you need them.

I shook my head after reading a note that was sent to me during a contentious floor debate on a long-range fiscal plan. It read, “ I enjoyed your presentation and I agree with you except I cannot support this bill. I believe this will be a stop gap and that it will make what we really need to do even harder”. The words “enjoyed” and “I agree with you” were underlined. It made me once again realize that progress will continue to elude Alaska if we keep hiring leaders who are afraid to lead.

The note that moved me most wasn’t from a fellow legislator, it was an undated message sent to me on the floor from my office that read; “Your Mother returned your call” and “Majority caucus after session”. Never in my four years of politics did two things so clearly represent the divergence of good and bad, hope and frustration.

The difference between the opportunity to chat a few minutes with your mother during tense times in Juneau and the obligation of sitting in closed door caucus discussing issues that colleagues refused to talk about while the door was open is like the difference between getting an unexpected refund check from the IRS and opening that same envelope to find out that you’re returns for the last five years are being audited.

Telephone conversations with my Mother during the difficult times in Juneau were always essential, as she’d offer words of encouragement and reminded me of a childhood rule she called the three c’s. “Try not to criticize, condemn or complain”, she’d say, “always be constructive”. My response was that if she worked with some of the same people I did the three c’s would stand for something quite different, the first one probably meaning crazy or confused. She’d laugh then close with a reassuring thought about how every morning before she goes out to get the newspaper she’d say a prayer for me just in case my picture was on the front page again. That’s what’s so great about Moms; they always watch your back.

As far as closed-door majority caucuses, that’s an entire column all by itself, which I’ll soon share.
Meanwhile I’ll raise my glass to toast the new class of 2003 as they begin delivering on the promise of a new day in Juneau, leaving them with two pieces of advice; respect the pages and don’t forget to call your Mother.