TUESDAy, MARCH 3 , 2020. THE WASHINGTON POST EZ RE A
election 2020
BY CHELSEA JANESTwo weeks after he jolted the
political world by winning the
Iowa caucuses and finishing a
close second in New Hampshire,
Pete Buttigieg stopped by a
brunch hosted by African Ameri-
can legislators in Las Vegas to
mark Black History Month.
Just before he started talking,
word came that the buffet was
open. Chairs were scraped back,
and a snaking line formed. Ta bles
were left vacant, and loud talk
filled the room.
When Buttigieg took the mi-
crophone, he was forced to yell,
doing his best to deliver his
message without showing frus-
tration that no one in a room full
of black dignitaries seemed to
want to hear it. When former vice
president Joe Biden took the
same stage later that afternoon,
the room was raucous at his
arrival, then rapt for his remarks.
The episode captured the iro-
ny, and ultimately the downfall,
of Buttigieg’s meteoric campaign.
In an age of identity and repre-
sentation, Buttigieg, a married
gay man, p resented himself as a
longtime outsider, one who un-
derstood what it meant to be
shunned and who promised a
politics of inclusion. But Butt-
igieg could never convince Afri-
can Americans, a pillar of the
Democratic coalition and a group
for whom representation has
moved to the center of public
discussion, that he understood
their experience or how to fight
for their rights.
“He had more broad appeal in
those early, mostly white states
than any of the other candidates,”
said Dan Pfeiffer, a former advis-
er to then-President Barack
Obama. “But ultimately, he was
never able to make any gains with
nonwhite parts of the electorate.
And there’s no path to the Demo-
cratic nomination and the presi-
dency that doesn’t include that.”
Perhaps the greatest legacy of
Buttigieg’s run is to broaden the
nation’s vision of the role of gay
Americans in the nation’s politi-
cal life, as the most successful
openly gay presidential candi-
date ever grew increasingly open
about his marriage and his strug-
gles with his sexuality as the
months went by.
Ye t he found himself Sunday in
his hometown of South Bend,
Ind., the city where his struggles
with racial issues as mayor
earned detractors and support-
ers, telling supporters that “the
path has narrowed to a close.”
In the end, Buttigieg appealed
to enough voters to vault into
serious contention but not
enough to lift him higher. He
built an improbably broad base
that was not broad enough, and
when the primary moved to more
diverse states, he simply could
not keep up.
Buttigieg launched his presi-
dential exploratory committee on
Jan. 23, 2019, with a video in
which he wore a flannel shirt and
sweater, his hair not yet as tightly
cropped as it would be by the
time he announced he would be
leaving the race. The unmistak-
able flecks of gray hadn’t bubbled
up there yet. His face wasn’t q uite
as gaunt.
Later that day, curious report-
ers packed a conference room at
the Holiday Inn in downtown
Washington, peppering Buttigieg
with questions about whether his
candidacy implied he felt the
older generation wasn’t ready to
handle the moment, about what
being gay might mean to it all.
The same question seemed to
underscore all of it: Are you
serious?
Buttigieg was serious about
trying — that much was clear.
From the start, he pitched him-
self as a unique messenger for a
new message: The rise of Presi-
dent Trump had exposed the old
ways of operating as flawed and
unsustainable. A young mayor
from the Midwest might just be
the person to handle what lies
ahead — and in a field that
included senators, former may-
ors and a former vice president,
Buttigieg wanted a chance.
He got more than that, outlast-
ing senators, governors and oth-
ers far more seasoned.
“He’s a very talented messen-
ger with a very sophisticated
understanding of how you com-
municate in this environment,”
Pfeiffer said. “His omnipresence
in the media is something Demo-
crats can learn a lot from.... He
ensured he was always part of the
conversation.”
That strategy, built by commu-
nications director Lis Smith, al-
lowed Buttigieg to rise to promi-
nence in a field that didn’t seem
likely to have much room for
someone like him. Along the way,
it underlined a key point about
politics in the Trump era: Even
without experience, money or
organization, if a candidate —
even an un or tho dox one — k nows
how to play the media, he can
catapult to prominence.
As early favorites such as Sens.
Kamala D. Harris (D-Calif.) and
Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) built
multistate organizations, Butt-
igieg and his husband, Chasten,
along with Smith and another
staffer, Max Harris, would pile
into the car, drive west from
South Bend, and try to find Io-
wans willing to listen to Butt-
igieg.
The whole thing seemed like a
lark to seasoned political ana-
lysts; Buttigieg was 37, barely old
enough to be president, and he
had never even held statewide
office. That c hanged on March 10,
when Buttigieg took the stage for
his first nationally televised town
hall on CNN. Within the Buttigieg
campaign, staffers later referred
to it simply as “the CNN To wn
Hall,” although he had since con-
ducted many others.
Something about his delivery,
his profile and his demeanor
sparked nationwide interest.
Boyish and eloquent, Buttigieg
seemed simultaneously to an-
swer some Democrats’ urgent de-
sire for an anti-Trump and their
long-standing hunger for candi-
dates who are fresh-faced and
rhetorically agile, like John F.
Kennedy and Obama.
That night also provided a
moment of trailblazing, when
Buttigieg joked with CNN host
Jake Tapper that he and his
husband seemed to disagree on
how to pronounce his last name.
An openly gay presidential candi-
date had talked about his hus-
band on national television as if it
were nothing.
That husband, Chasten, would
emerge as something of a cult
hero for Buttigieg supporters,
who often clamored for pictures
with him. An active Twitter ac-
count and numerous personal
appearances showcased Chas-
te n’s earnest, often humorous
style.
Chasten had sat through Butt-
igieg’s speeches before. But after
the CNN town hall, he and his
husband were headed for some-
thing on a much different scale.
Political analyst David Axelrod
recalled hearing almost immedi-
ately from two donors asking
how they could get in touch with
Buttigieg. By the end of the
month, Democratic megadonor
Susie To mpkins Buell had agreed
to host a fundraiser for Buttigieg.
At the time, his campaign staff
was just trying to push Buttigieg
within striking distance of the
donor count needed to qualify for
the debate stage. Within 24
hours, he had reached a third of
the 65,000 donor threshold. Two
days later, his campaign an-
nounced it had reached 55,
individual donors.
This thrust Buttigieg into a
whirlwind of attention and travelthat spat him out in Los Angeles a
week later, where he sat in the
back of a black SUV headed
through West Hollywood on his
way to shake hands with stars
such as Greg Louganis and Billy
Eichner. Buttigieg said that day
he didn’t think the rigors of
campaigning for the presidency
would require much of an adjust-
ment, but he admitted, “I don’t
love repeating myself.”
Buttigieg would spend most of
the next few months repeating
himself, in television interviews
and magazine sit-downs, on CNN
town halls and Sunday shows.
From the earliest days of Butt-
igieg’s bid, Mike Schmuhl, a long-
time friend turned campaign
manager, acknowledged it was a
long shot.
“Most people do not equate
mayor of a town in flyover coun-
try as presidential material, but
Pete is special,” Schmuhl said
then. “Once people get to know
Pete, they are intrigued, interest-
ed, supportive right out of the
gate.”
If the idea was to get as many
people as possible to know him,
Buttigieg had a good person to
help: Smith. As frenetic as Butt-
igieg was steady, as prone to
expletives as Buttigieg was averse
to them, and as intolerant of
stillness as Buttigieg was dedicat-
ed to it, Smith always seemed like
an unlikely partner.
B ut in the first months of his
candidacy — and, as it happened,
the last months, as well — Smith
made sure Buttigieg was booked
on every television show possi-
ble. He s neaked calls to broadcast
stations on almost every drive,
took reporters with him from one
event to another, and talked to
local cameras whenever they
would have him.
So the man who started the
campaign without the hefty
email lists of his competitors,almost entirely unknown to non-
political junkies, raised nearly
$25 million in the second quarter
of 2019.
With money came staff and the
need to scale his operation in less
than half the time of some of his
competitors. His Iowa state di-
rector hit the ground in the first
days of May. By September, the
campaign was opening 20 offices
in the state in 20 days. The
Buttigieg campaign had to find
what talent was left i n other early
states, too.
Soon, New Hampshire, South
Carolina and Nevada operations
sprung up, as well. He hired
senior adviser and key strategist
Michael Halle — one of the archi-
tects behind Buttigieg’s delegate
strategy — in July. By August, he
had a deputy campaign manager,
Hari Sevugan.
But summer also brought trag-
edy — and with it, the kind of
scrutiny Buttigieg had largely
avoided. In South Bend, an un-
armed black man named Eric
Logan was shot and killed by a
white police offer.
Buttigieg left the trail and
headed home, where he was con-
fronted by anguished South Bend
natives arguing he hadn’t taken
the proper steps to console Lo-
gan’s family, nor to eradicate the
systemic racism and bias that
provided the backdrop. Black res-
idents of South Bend shouted at
him during a contentious town
hall.
The South Bend chapter of
Black Lives Matter began protest-
ing Buttigieg. National publica-
tions dug into his record on
issues of race in South Bend, and
they found he had struggled to
diversify its police force. A na-
tional narrative coalesced: Black
voters did not like Buttigieg.
More broadly, the shooting
raised a crucial question: Was
Buttigieg, a young, white, Har-vard-educated man from Indi-
ana, the right candidate to lead a
diverse party? More to the point:
Could he really empathize with
the black experience?
Some argued that Buttigieg
was being unfairly painted as
racially insensitive.
“I do know how it got started —
the shooting and the town hall
meeting,” said Gladys Muham-
mad, a black South Bend native
who stumped on Buttigieg’s be-
half. “Those of us who were not
involved and just in the commu-
nity, we decided not to speak. We
decided to let the grass-roots
people voice their concerns be-
cause they needed to be heard.
We wanted that to happen. As
angry as they were, they needed
to say what they needed to say.
We stepped back and didn’t say
anything.”
Ye t Buttigieg continued to
struggle to find answers to ques-
tions about race. When he said
being gay helped him understand
the importance of tolerance and
acceptance, it provoked a back-
lash from those who argued he
was equating two very different
experiences.
So even as white voters in Iowa
and New Hampshire took to Butt-
igieg, it became increasingly
clear that he was winning almost
no support among African Amer-
icans in more diverse states.
His aides crossed their fingers,
hoping success in Iowa and New
Hampshire might convince a
wider range of voters that Butt-
igieg could win, could lead Demo-
crats to their urgent goal of
unseating Trump.
But Buttigieg’s s tunning win in
Iowa got muddled in a way that
some of his staffers think de-
railed the plan entirely. Buttigieg
took to a Des Moines stage and
declared victory, but because of a
disastrous series of glitches, it
took days for the results to befinalized and Buttigieg to be
proved right.
Privately, his advisers point to
that as a key pivot point in
Buttigieg’s campaign. Instead of
delivering a triumphant victory
speech on national television to a
party eager for a savior, he was
slammed for declaring victory
prematurely. Instead of a week of
coverage of his triumph, outlets
focused on the reporting debacle.
By the time the focus shifted to
New Hampshire, Sen. Amy
Klobuchar (D-Minn.) was staging
her brief but important rise: Butt-
igieg advisers felt her surprise
third-place finish there cost Butt-
igieg a victory, as well as precious
attention. He lost to Sen. Bernie
Sanders by less than two percent-
age points, falling short of would
have been a stunning victory in
the backyard of the independent
from Vermont.
Along the way, younger, more
liberal Democrats progressives
often saw him as a compromise.
They felt he relied too much on
high-dollar fundraisers to be
trusted to change the system.
They watched him struggle to
amass minority support. And
they f elt his “Medicare for all who
want it” plan, his sliding scale for
college tuition relief, and his
relatively less expensive plan to
combat climate change didn’t go
far enough.
H e finished third in Nevada,
garnering just 2 percent support
among black voters. Not long
after voting ended in South Caro-
lina, Buttigieg’s aides checked
their polling models and realized
he probably would fare poorly.
His senior advisers told him
what they saw, k nowing Buttigieg
wouldn’t linger if the prognosis
wasn’t good. He didn’t, and was
out of the race less than 24 hours
later, the upstart candidate so
many Democrats said they were
waiting for who couldn’t quite
transform into the unifying force
they were hoping for.
Chasten Buttigieg was the first
to take the stage Sunday in South
Bend when Buttigieg dropped
out. He fought back tears as he
told the crowd about the day his
husband came home from work
and asked him what he thought
about running for president.
“I laughed,” Chasten said. “Not
at him. Just at life.”
Soon after, he turned things
over to his husband, the first
openly gay candidate to win dele-
gates in a primary, a candidate
who fared so well that he pushed
out of mind notions of just how
improbable his success was.
Sunday’s announcement is
hardly a conclusive end to his
political career. If Buttigieg were
to run for president in 2056, after
all, he would be younger than
Biden is now.
“There are disadvantages to
running for president when
you’re so young, but one of the
advantages is you have your
whole future ahead of you,” Axel-
rod said. “Next time there’s a
conversation about candidates
for president on the Democratic
side, it would be surprising to me
if he weren’t high up on the list of
possibilities.”
[email protected]Crucial pillar unmoved by Buttigieg’s appeals to inclusion
PHOTOS BY MATT MCCLAIN/THE WASHINGTON POSTBlack voters remained
skeptical that candidate
grasped their experienceTOP: Former South Bend, Ind., mayor Pete Buttigieg appears at a caucus night watch party Feb. 3 at
Drake University in Des Moines. The presidential hopeful pulled off a win in Iowa. ABOVE: Buttigieg
greets people at an event in Raleigh, N.C., on Saturday, a day before he would end his campaign.