Death of a Saleswoman
How Hillary Clinton lost me—and a generation of young voters.
Meghan O'Rourke joined fellow "XX Factor" bloggers in an online chat with readers about Hillary Clinton's feminist dilemma. Seethe transcript.
"That bitter cynicism of yours is something you've acquired since you left Radcliffe."
"That cynicism you refer to I acquired the day I discovered little girls were different from little boys!"
—Lloyd Richards to Karen Richards, and vice versa, All About Eve
In the coming days, as Hillary Clinton moves to the sidelines and Barack Obama takes the stage alone, many people will suggest that America just wasn't ready for a female president. This may be true. But we'll never entirely know, because Clinton did not invite us to spend much time contemplating the momentous fact that she was the first female presidential candidate with any chance of occupying that position. Her problem wasn't that she was a feminist. Her problem was that she wasn't feminist enough.
For me, at least, she wasn't—and for many young women my age. Back in the mid-1990s, as a college student, I spent an afternoon on the New Haven Green, adjacent to Yale University, waiting for Hillary Rodham Clinton to speak. There was a huge crowd of mostly young women. I found her impressive, if not entirely galvanizing. She had a girlish voice and soft, wispy bangs, as I recall, and she struck me as a real person—not merely a wife performing the role of first lady. I remember wondering if she might some day run for president. I also remember feeling that it seemed outside the realm of the imagination.
That's no longer the case. When Clinton announced her candidacy in January 2007, she raised hopes and possibilities in the minds of young women across America. But the substance of her presidential run seems far more dismal than I would ever have imagined back in 1995. You can't be a historic first unless you act like one, and Hillary Clinton has not. In the Wellesley commencement speech that made her famous before she got to Yale Law School, she spoke about "searching for more immediate, ecstatic, and penetrating modes of living." Yet Clinton ran away from the revolutionary aspects of her own candidacy. There's been nothing of the ecstatic in her presidential bid—that mode, instead, has been embodied by Barack Obama. He appealed to voters' desire for liberation and revolution, and on the strength of that appeal won them over.
Clinton didn't trust that the message of revolution embodied in her candidacy could animate American voters, particularly male voters. And she lacked the courage of her young, ecstasy-seeking self. And so she sent the message that gender was not a factor. Presumably, she did this based on the reasonable assumption that it was politically perilous to be a woman. But the paradox is that in taking the safe tack she thought made her more electable, she actually made herself less electable. She presented herself as a hard-bitten Washington insider, running on experience when a lot of American voters, particularly young women, were looking for transformation.
Obama understood this from early on. Contrast their opening bids: Obama skillfully announced his in Springfield, Ill., with a speech that echoed Abraham Lincoln. Clinton, by contrast, announced hers in a risk-averse video recording on her Web site: "I'm in it to win," she said redundantly. As her campaign progressed, she rarely invoked the historic predecessors that made her candidacy possible—Susan B. Anthony, say, or Jeannette Rankin, a pacifist and suffragette who was the first woman to be elected to Congress (and who always had the courage of her convictions, voting against the First World War). To be sure, Clinton did praise Eleanor Roosevelt's "thick skin"—rather the way one nerd praises another's social-avoidance techniques. It was part of acting as if she were a man inoculated against the slings and arrows of sexism.
In this regard, Clinton never really was the first American matriarch. Instead, she may be best remembered as our last patriarch. The more her campaign floundered as Obama offered ecstasy and she didn't, the more masculine and hard-nosed she made herself out to be. Cannily reversing gender roles, she told Obama supporters that if he couldn't "take the heat" he should "get out of the kitchen"—a subtle put-down of her own gender aimed at working-class male voters who wanted reassurance that Clinton was manlier than the girlie men the Democrats had of late been nominating. Her supporters (among them, Sen. Evan Bayh of Indiana) invoked stories of steelworkers waxing enthusiastic about her "testicular fortitude." While Obama went on rhetorical flights about hope, she compared herself to the hyper-masculine Rocky Balboa—an underdog, to be sure, but a stoic one who keeps getting up. None of this was accidental, even if the source wasn't always Hillary herself. She was "manning up." Over the years, her hair had grown shorter, and her make-up thicker, like a mask. She played the men's game so well that James Carville eventually quipped, "If she gave [Obama] one of her cojones, they'd both have two."
Meghan O'Rourke is Slate's culture critic and an advisory editor. She was previously an editor at The New Yorker. The Long Goodbye, a memoir about her mother's death, is now out in paperback.
Illustration by Charlie Powell.