One of the more candid moments in Thursday's Republican presidential debate here in Ames, Iowa came when the Washington Examiner's Byron York asked Rep. Michele Bachmann (R-Minn.) if she submits to her husband. The normal response when confronted with an uncomfortable query is to segue to talking points about "jobs" instead, but of course that's hard to do in this case, and so Bachmann didn't. Instead, after waiting for the booing audience to quiet down, she came up with this:
Marcus and I will be married for 33 years this September 10th. I'm in love with him, I'm so proud of him. And what submission means to us—if that's what your question is—is respect. I respect my husband...and he respects me as his wife. That's how we operate our marriage. We respect each other, we love each other.
The context is that Bachmann has previously said, at least when she's speaking to Christian audiences, that she took orders from her husband about whether to pursue a degree in tax law, noting that Ephesians 5:21-33 calls for women to be submissive to their husbands. But there are varying arguments about just what "submission" looks like. Here's how Janice Shaw Crouse explained it in the Washington Post in July:
In the context of women in leadership, it is important to note that biblical submission is about harmony and well-being within the home and the relationship between a husband and a wife; it has nothing to do with leadership responsibilities, except that no one—even the president of the United States—should treat others with disrespect, expect a subservient spirit from anyone or demand total surrender of another person’s will. Thus, a woman who willingly submits to her husband—and enjoys his equal submission, nurturing and cherishing—does not have a similar relationship with the men at work.
Right. Another way to think of it in that context is that it's the opposite of "domination," which is not really recommended for long-term relationships anyhow. Crouse is specifically frustrated with the notion that submissive wives are depicted as "Stepford wives"—a stereotype that's been promoted by at least one Bachmann chronicler. In this case it's clear that Bachmann's "submission" hasn't kept her down, in the sense that she's a successful politician who's now a plausible candidate for the most powerful job in the world (her husband, Marcus, is neither of those things.)
It's the role of older women to help her understand her priorities. Those priorities may include rising early to feed the family, being available anytime to satisfy a husband's desires (barring a few "ungodly" or "homosexual" acts), seeking his approval regarding work, appearance, and leisure, and accepting that he has the "burden" of final say in arguments. After a wife has respectfully appealed her spouse's decision—a privilege she should not abuse—she must accept his final answer as "God's will for her at that time," Peace advises.
That sounds a bit different, right? It's not unheard of for this to become a political issue: Last summer, when Rep. Dan Webster (R-Fla.) was running to unseat Democrat Alan Grayson, Webster's endorsement of Christian patriarchy prompted Grayson to dub him "Taliban Dan." York is defending his question, and that's fine; as he noted, it would be kind of shocking if no one asked Bachmann about this over the next year or so.
Still, given the pointed, gotcha nature of the questions last night (I mean that in a good way), this might have been a missed opportunity. Bachmann has been cutting off interviews left and right when the subject turns to homosexuality. Why not ask her whether she still believes gays are attempting to indoctrinate young children?
Mitt Romney makes a campaign appearance at the Iowa State Fair.
On Saturday morning, candidates, Republican operatives, and tens of thousands of Hawkeye State voters will descend upon Ames, about forty minutes of north of Des Moines, for the first certifiably major event of the 2012 presidential campaign: The Ames Straw Poll, a non-binding election that doubles as a fundraiser for the Iowa Republican Party. It is, to put it gently, something of a circus.
To its boosters, of which there are many, Ames carries with it a singular sense of urgency, a chance to measure where the candidates stand four months before the first real votes are cast. It can be what us Washington folks call a "game-changer." Sometimes. John McCain skipped the straw poll and the state entirely en route to the nomination in 2008—but Mike Huckabee’s strong second-place performance there was a sign that he was a force to be reckoned with (it also demonstrated the power of the home school movement).
Here's a quick primer:
Who will be there? The big question this time around is who won't be there. That would be former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney, former Utah Gov. Jon Huntsman, former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich, and Texas Governor-for-life Rick Perry (also-rans Gary Johnson and Buddy Roemer, who have been excluded from virtually everything else, have other plans).
The truancy of four of the major candidates has not gone unnoticed by Iowa Republicans, who are increasingly paranoid (with some merit) that New Hampshire, South Carolina, and even Florida will surpass them in influence. Romney will be in New Hampshire instead, at a house party; Perry will be kicking off his presidential campaign in South Carolina.
How does it work? It's pretty straightforward, actually. Any Iowa resident can show up and vote, provided they have proof of Iowa residency and are willing to shell out $30 for a ticket. You can only vote once, most votes win, etc. The kicker is that, because most Iowans (and everyone else for that matter) don't want to pay $30 plus gas for a non-binding vote, the campaigns sometimes offer to cover the expenses and provide buses from the far corners of the state.
Is there ice cream? Yes. And Christian rock. In an effort to convince straw poll attendees to vote for them, candidates employ a variety of ruses, usually in the form of food, drink, and live music. Pawlenty announced long ago that he would be serving Famous Dave's barbecue, and has since expanded the operations to include frozen dairy products. Mike Huckabee, who has not endorsed a candidate, will be playing bass guitar for both Pawlenty and Herman Cain (Cain will join in on vocals; If only Huntsman were there with his keyboard). Michele Bachmann has invited country music star Randy Travis to perform on her stage (unrelatedly, or perhaps not: Travis starred in the film adaptation of John Hagee's book, Jerusalem Countdown). Rick Santorum, to the delight of Dan Savage, is bringing home-made peach jelly.
So is this just a giant circus, right? In a matter of speaking: yes.
Then why do we care? To be fair, plenty of people don't. The New Republic's Jonathan Chait captured the anti-Ames backlash pretty well on Wednesday: "It's not a test of anything. It's a racket to raise money for the Iowa GOP. It's not democratic. It's not predictive. It's just a sideshow."
There's some truth to some of that, but the dirty truth is that campaigns can sometimes be as superficial as the coverage suggests. And so, while “expectations-setting” by campaigns is often inane and sometimes insufferable, many people—notably big-money donors—still put some weight into it. No one wants to waste their money on a failing candidacy, and Ames is the first, best test.
The obvious candidate to watch is Tim Pawlenty. From the start, the former Minnesota governor has attempted to seize the mantle as of the Romney Alternative. But the last few months have instead given rise to a slew of alternative Alternatives, like Cain, Bachmann, and now Perry. Pawlenty's campaign has stated that he needs a positive showing at Ames, but his definition of what such a showing would look like has fluctuated. A strong performance by Pawlenty (say, top two) would at least validate some of the millions of dollars he's poured into Iowa over the past two months, while a poor showing would only reinforce the notion that people just aren't that into him. And that's sort of the entire point of elections.
Paul, for one, isn't downplaying the importance of the event: "We’d better do better than the last go around or I will be very disappointed," he told supporters on Thursday morning. He's playing up his credentials as a home-school advocate (as well as more niche issues, like support for the sale of raw milk) in the run-up to the vote.
How do I follow it? We'll be offering live updates here and on twitter @timothypmurphy. You can watch the speeches on C-Span. Or you can hitch a ride on one of Pawlenty’s buses and enjoy some free barbecue yourself.
When former Minnesota Gov. Tim Pawlenty entered the back room for a meet-and-greet at Cronk's Café in Denison, Iowa on Wednesday afternoon, my neighbor offered a blunt assessment: "They had a much bigger crowd here Monday." That was when Herman Cain, the former Godfather's Pizza CEO, stopped by.
That's just the way things have been going for Pawlenty, who, despite more or less entering the race as soon as the last one ended at Grant Park, has been going backwards in the nation's first primary state. With three days to go until the Ames Straw Poll, Pawlenty's ratcheting up his rhetoric and taking less thinly veiled shots at his competitors. (He is also offering an enticement of a different sort to prospective straw poll attendees: free barbecue and ice cream.)
Pawlenty showed up on time, which counts for something perhaps, but, as my neighbor noted, it was hardly an overflow crowd. About 30 people showed up—restaurant staff included—mostly elderly, many of them still undecided and less than enthusiastic at the Governor's message. Pawlenty begins with the same message he closes with: Republicans need to go with the sure thing, not the flavor of the month. As he explains it, every candidate on the GOP ballot will support spending cuts, oppose abortion, and vow to appoint conservative judges; he's the only one who's actually done these things. "The hour is late, and the country is in big trouble," he said. "We need to get it done."
But the knock on Pawlenty, at least among Republicans, and there may be something to that. He speaks with a directness that his supporters would likely cast as unsparing and tough, but which can also come across as earnest and perhaps a little pleading (also: loud). He doesn't so much deliver his stump speech as paraphrase it in a long series of bullet-pointed resume items. Listen for a little while and you can start to see why his campaign sets all of his commercials to action-movie music.
There wasn't a lack of red meat. On the Environmental Protection Agency? He'd keep it (unlike Bachmann) but "the woman who runs it should be fired." On Social Security? "They running a Ponzi scheme." Responding to a question about the National Labor Relations Board's decision to intervene in a Boeing plant in South Carolina, he pulls the red card: "This isn't the Soviet Union in the 1950s. This is America." Which is true. He describes the government's purchase of treasury bills as "taking their Visa card to pay off their Discover card."
Not everyone was persuaded. "I agree with him—I mean, what's not to agree with?" said Cyrila Roberts of Dunlap, Iowa. "But does he have the strength of character and fortitude to do what he says he'll do? That's what I'm wondering." Having seen both candidates now, she's more impressed by Cain. Her top issue, she says, is "the illegals." Cain, who has promised to build a Great Wall of China-style barrier on the border along with a alligator-filled moat, would seem to have that one down. Michael Peters, a 26-year-old from Denison and one of the few young people in attendance, appreciated Pawlenty's answer to his question about Obamacare (he's against it). But he still likes Cain: "He's not so much a politician. He came down to the working man. When he was CEO of Godfather's, he came down to the working man."
After first casting himself as the alternative to Mitt Romney, Pawlenty has been successively one-upped by a series of alternatives to the alternative: first Cain, then fellow Minnesotan Rep. Michele Bachmann, and—coming soon!—Texas Gov. Rick Perry. His message now is clear: Don't make the same mistake Democrats made; go with the sure thing. The question is, is anyone listening?
Gov. Rick Perry (R-Texas) says the Supreme Court was wrong to knock down a Texas law that criminalized "homosexual conduct."
Dan Hirschhorn reports that former Sen. Rick Santorum (R-Penn.) is continuing to hammer likely GOP presidential candidate Rick Perry on gay marriage—even after the Texas governor announced that he would support an effort to ban gay marriage nationwide:
"When someone who is a serious candidate for president is doing things that will be destructive not just for the Republican Party, but for the country, I'm going to point that out any chance I get," Santorum told POLITICO.
Santorum is upset, or at least pretend campaign-upset, that Perry told Colorado GOPers in July that New York's decision to legalize gay marriage was their right. "That's New York, and that's their business, and that's fine with me.”
But next to Santorum, Perry might be the least lgbt-friendly candidate in the race. More so than former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich, who warns we face an existential threat from "gay and secular fascism"; more so, even, than Rep. Michele Bachmann, who once feared that the Lion King would corrupt children because its soundtrack was created by Elton John.
So what exactly has Perry done? Well, for one, he is (still) a supporter of the Texas "homosexual conduct" statute, an archaic law that made it a crime for two consenting, unrelated adults to have sex if they were of the same gender. The law was ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court in the landmark 2002 case Lawrence v. Texas, but, despite repeated efforts, Texas has yet to formally repeal the statute. When Perry was asked about the Lawrence case in 2002, he defended the anti-sodomy statute: "I think our law is appropriate that we have on the books." He wrote about the case in his 2011 book Fed Up, too, citing the Lawrence decision as the product of "nine oligarchs in robes" and an example of what's wrong with our judicial system. And last spring, when Perry ran for his third full term as governor, he did so on a state GOP platform that exlicitly stated "we oppose the legalization of sodomy."
The irony is that the Lawrence case was the impetus for Santorum's famous comparison of gay sex to "man on dog" relations—which, in turn, was the impetus for Santorum becoming, well, "santorum." He can try to carve out some space to the right of Rick Perry on this issue, but there's really not that much room.
The words "work makes free"—a somewhat-garbled translation of the words that hung above the entrance to the Nazi-run concentration camp Auschwitz—are shown across the screen in a scene from the movie Guinea Pig Kids.
In a 2002 film highlighting her work as an education activist, Michele Bachmann endorsed the argument of her colleague, Michael Chapman, who claimed that state and federal education reforms were leading the United States toward its own Holocaust. Minnesota's new curriculum standards, Bachmann contended, were going to "undermine our freedom and undermine our national sovereignty" and turn children into "global citizens." The "brave new world" Chapman warned about, she said, wouldn't be far behind.
Before Bachmann served in the Minnesota state Senate, led the tea party caucus in the House of Representatives, or ran for president, she worked as an education activist with a conservative group called the Maple River Education Coalition (MREC). Together with Chapman, Bachmann criss-crossed Minnesota, speaking to church groups and warning them about the dire consequences of state and federal education reform.
In the middle of all of this, Bachmann and Chapman made a movie.
Guinea Pig Kids is not, as its name might suggest, a B-list horror film. The impetus for the film was the Profile of Learning, a set of state curriculum standards adopted by Republican Gov. Arne Carlson's administration in 1998. To Bachmann and Chapman, the standards were nefarious and part of a a far-reaching globalist plot.
As Bachmann and Chapman explained, a little-known federal program called Goals 2000, initiated under the Clinton administration but consistent with a similar plan supported by President George H.W. Bush, was paving the way for a national curriculum. The new curriculum, the two speakers maintained, moved the state away from established truths like the supposedly Christian founding documents, and replaced them with secular documents, such as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, that allowed the state to craft its own set of values. Guinea Pig Kids was designed to explain "Minnesota's new centrally-planned education, workforce & economic system and how citizens are trying to reverse it." Over the course of the film's two hours, Bachmann and Chapman did just that.