Yes, Graham Platner may have been able to beat long-time Republican Senator Susan Collins, but even before allegations of sexual assault, there were the allegations of mistreating girlfriends, the sexting with other women while he was married, and, oh yes, that Nazi tattoo. But those who favored Platner might want to read the recent obituary for former Oregon Senator Bob Packwood.
Packwood was a big champion of women’s rights – and, allegedly, a big abuser of women who worked for him. There was also a hint of corruption. After a damning 1991 report by the Senate Ethics Committee report — chaired by Mitch McConnell — he resigned just before the Senate could vote to expel him.
There was something in that early-90s air. Packwood resigned in 1991, the year of the disgraceful Clarence Thomas confirmation hearings, and the year before Washington’s own Senator Brock Adams announced, after a string of sexual misconduct allegations, which included drugging and molesting the 24-year-old daughter of old family friends, that he wouldn’t run again for his Senate seat. That opened a path for the then-unknown Patty Murray. It’s nice to think that politicians can’t just brush off allegations like that anymore. But then how do you explain the success of one Donald J. Trump? Perhaps, being seen as a transgressive asshole undercut the images of Packwood and Adams… and… Platner, but that persona is part of Trump’s brand.
When I read Packwood’s New York Times obituary, I couldn’t help noticing the parallels and the fact that the Times didn’t mention how Packwood had been elected in the first place.
It was 1968. Democrat Wayne Morse had held the seat for four terms. Packwood beat him narrowly. In 1964, Morse had been one of only two Senators who voted against the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which gave then-President Lyndon Johnson carte blanche to ramp up the Vietnam War.
Organized labor was pro-War. Before election day, the Tet offensive had demonstrated that North Vietnam was still very much in the fight, and the star TV anchor Walter Cronkite had visited Vietnam and concluded the U.S. couldn’t win. Richard Nixon had been campaigning on his secret plan to end the war, but the U.S. and North Vietnam didn’t sign a peace treaty until 1973, after another 25,000 Americans had died in Southeast Asia. That was a year before Nixon resigned rather than being impeached for the Watergate scandal. But labor had still stood strong for the war. Oregon unions abandoned Morse, giving Packwood the opening he needed.
Six years later, when virtually everyone realized the Vietnam War had been a bad idea, Morse started a campaign to win back his old seat. He died before the primary. Before that happened, my wife and I drove down to Portland to talk him, and I also spoke with an Oregon labor leader about organized labor’s defection in 1968. He told me, “We are so ashamed of what we did to Wayne Morse.”
In this age of shamelessness, I don’t envision any public figure saying that again, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, looking back at a dishonest and/or delusional rationale for a war inspireded by hubris and domestic politics, some current public figures wind up wishing they, like Wayne Morse, had just had the guts to say no. `
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