Virginia's Rumbling Rebels (Page 2)

"I think both parties have been taken over by elites," Webb says over his shoulder after he's done perusing his speech. "The natural base of the Democratic Party, working-class folks, looked at both parties and saw they weren't going to get any more help on economic issues. The one place they thought they could make a difference was on these divisive social issues, so that's how they've been voting. But I think that has run its course now." So, he says, has the "cultural Marxism" of the 1960s that's dominated the Democrats. "We're in a sea change with political terminology and identities," he says. "What is right and what is left anymore? What is conservative and what is liberal?"

With his mix of "foreign policy realism, economic populism and social moderation"--Webb is prochoice and staunchly opposed to the anti-gay marriage amendment on the Virginia ballot this November--he aims to put a crack in the Republicans' recent dominance of federal elections in the South. His challenge is not only to the GOP but to national Democrats and "Yankee liberals" who have increasingly abandoned hope of competing in the South. "This race is a test," Webb says. "If we can get a number of these people to come back to the Democratic Party based on economic populism and fairness, rather than the way they've been maneuvered on issues like flag-burning, God, guts, guns, gays--if they can be reached out to with respect, and in terms of fundamental fairness, I think a lot of them will come back to the Democratic Party."

It seems fitting that if he's going to win on November 7, Virginia's newest fightin' Democrat will have to beat a champion practitioner of the Republicans' faux-populist Southern Strategy. Often viewed as the second coming of Ronald Reagan, George Allen has mastered the art of convincing working-class voters he's a regular guy while carrying water for big money. The Southern California native's blend of Disneyesque optimism, easy-going geniality and tough-guy talk have made him--as a state legislator, congressman, governor and US senator--one of the most popular figures in Virginia history. "He's always been a very smooth, on-message politician," says longtime observer Mark Rozell, professor at George Mason University and co-editor of The New Politics of the Old South. "Allen had a natural touch for the political that could disarm some of his worst enemies, with that nice smile and charm. And he seemed incapable of making a mistake on the campaign trail. It was no surprise that conservatives were seeing him as their best presidential option for 2008."

But in just fifty-nine seconds on the second Friday in August, Allen's veneer cracked. It happened, not coincidentally, in the "Reagan Democrat" stronghold of southwest Virginia, where Allen had deployed "moral" wedge issues to rack up nearly a 2-to-1 margin over Senator Robb in 2000, more than enough to cement his victory statewide. At a small rally in Breaks Interstate Park, Allen was amiably plying his stock of platitudes, promising to "run this campaign on positive, constructive ideas." Then Allen spotted the lone audience member of color, Webb campaign volunteer S.R. Sidarth, a 20-year-old Fairfax native of Indian-Asian descent who'd been following Allen on his summer "listening tour," videotaping his remarks. Jabbing an index finger in Sidarth's direction, Allen said, "This fellow over here in the yellow shirt, Macaca or whatever his name is, he's with my opponent--he's following us around everywhere." Allen flashed his fans a broad, mischievous grin. "And it's just great. We're going to places all over Virginia, and he's having it on film." Allen swiveled back toward Sidarth. "You show it to your opponent [sic], because he's never been here and probably never will come."

In his suddenly awkward way, Allen was sticking to the tried-and-true Southern Strategy script, attempting to paint his Democratic foe as an out-of-touch elitist. Rather than communing with the everyday people of southwest Virginia, he said, Webb "actually right now is with a bunch of Hollywood movie moguls." (Webb was in Los Angeles for a fundraiser.) In contrast to his highfalutin literary opponent, Allen said, "We care about facts, not fiction. So, welcome--let's give a welcome to Macaca here. Welcome to America, and the real world of Virginia."

By nightfall, Allen's remarks were burning their way across the World Wide Web and reviving long-held suspicions about the Senator's racial views. As a state legislator, Allen had voted against Virginia's Martin Luther King Day. As governor, he issued a proclamation honoring Confederate History Month, asserting that the Civil War, far from a slavery dispute, was "a four-year tragic, heroic, and determined struggle for independence, sovereign rights and local government control." In the 1993 gubernatorial campaign, Allen's lifelong passion for the Confederacy--symbolized by the rebel flag displayed in his living room and the noose he'd hung up in his law office--raised eyebrows but did not prevent him from using religious wedge issues to win a surprisingly high slice (as much as 17 percent, according to one poll) of the African-American vote. Once in the Senate, he relied on symbolic gestures--a well-publicized "civil rights pilgrimage" to Alabama, a formal apology for slavery that he co-sponsored--to foster the illusion of racial moderation.

So much for that illusion. "We've always thought George Allen was racially insensitive," says John Boyd Jr., president of the Virginia-based National Black Farmers Association. Allen didn't help matters, especially among working-class voters who like a "stand-up guy," when he subsequently claimed he'd invented the word "macaca" on the spot. He stumbled over questions about his mother's roots in French Tunisia, where "macaca" is a common racial slur.

In a September address to a national conference of black educators, Allen--a professional politician for nearly thirty years--said he'd learned a "valuable lesson about the power of words." Reverting to a familiar campaign theme--in which he scores cultural points by reminding folks that his dad, George Allen Sr., was the longtime Los Angeles Rams and Washington Redskins football coach--the beleaguered Senator cooked up a bizarre explanation for why he never learned to respect racial sensitivities. "On football teams and every team sport, you don't care about someone's religion, race or their ethnicity," he said. "All you care about is if that person can help your team." The color-blind racial utopia of football, Allen went on to say, is precisely what "we should aspire for in our society here in America."

A few weeks later on Salon, three of Allen's former football teammates at the University of Virginia accused him of having used the word "nigger" with some regularity during his college days--claims echoed by well-known Virginia political pundit Larry Sabato, another classmate of Allen's at UVA. Allen flatly denied the accusations, saying, "It is not who I was and is not who I am." But even the old teammates who remembered him fondly also remembered that his affection for country music and the Confederacy had led them to call him "Neck," short for redneck.

Now, it seemed, everybody in Virginia--everybody in America--was buzzing about George Allen's racism. Everybody except his opponent.

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