Blind Allegiance to Sarah Palin (4 page)

As Sarah Palin rose to prominence as a visible and sometimes controversial mayor from 1996 until 2002, she spoke from the heart about what we had in common as Alaskans, including a desire for freedom, a return to ethical governance, and the protection of our most prized and state-owned resources, especially oil. A tough-talking woman with a reputation for backing her words with action appealed to a
broad cross section of our population. Head down, children in tow, and confrontational when necessary, she represented our unique spirit.

She was photogenic, she was charming, and she spoke to our concerns. Sarah Palin seemed worthy of our faith and trust. She arrived on the political scene at the right time, at the right place; she was accessible, willing to boldly state her case, say “hello,” or simply smile and shake a neighbor's hand.

As for her experience, starting out as mayor of a tiny town like Wasilla from 1996 to 2002 wouldn't inspire executive credibility in most of the civilized world. Yet with only six thousand residents, Wasilla was growing rapidly; it is now Alaska's fourth-largest city with a population of eleven thousand. With a citizenry that prides itself on being independent thinkers—over 57 percent of registered Alaskan voters are not affiliated with either major political party—the burden of inexperience is not a major priority for most voters. That she engineered the construction of an indoor sports complex in tiny Wasilla was, by our standards, a big deal. (As we discovered years later, it also displayed her ability to downplay critics who complained she raised costs dramatically by failing to secure the land prior to construction, left the city $22 million in debt, and raised taxes to help with financing.)

Natural resources and the state's legacy of political corruption are by far the two most critical issues on voters' minds. Not surprisingly, oil industry money was the primary engine in producing the massive ethical lapses in what eventually became known as the Corrupt Bastards Club: a group of eleven lawmakers who received large campaign contributions from executives of the state's oilfield service companies in return for political favors; the ensuing investigation resulted in five fraud-related indictments. Emphasizing her record for combating and attacking those whom she called evildoers, Sarah practiced the art of sticking to talking points that resonated with voters: business as usual, bad; oil companies, bad; all establishment politicians and bureaucrats, very, very bad. In a close but unsuccessful bid for lieutenant governor in 2002, she put herself in a bright statewide spotlight.

Friend and foe began predicting that this “no more business as usual” candidate was a force to be reckoned with. Stories of the housewife-ex-mayor
who was toting kids door to door in a red wagon to solicit votes brought to mind that all-important pioneer spirit and mother-bear tenaciousness. Later that image would transition with her famous campaign question, “What is the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull?”

By this time, I was married, with a toddler and an infant, and I had spent several years in Anchorage working in the airline industry, first as a baggage handler and then in middle management. These responsibilities did not, however, lessen my financial struggles or grueling hours. With economic and personal struggles unabated, I became aware of the nasty state of Alaska's political elite, people who sold out to special interests in what was a reverse Robin Hood. Our bountiful state wealth was being handed over to oil and gas company executives, to the detriment of Alaskan citizens. My own Republican Party, including Frank Murkowski, had sold us out for political gain.

When then senator Frank Murkowski (a man we came to call “Murky”) ran for and won election as the state's tenth governor in 2002, he couldn't wait to pounce onto a pile of political scat. The seventy-year-old lifetime politician had, as governor, the privilege of appointing his own successor in the U.S. Senate. After interviewing several candidates for show (including Sarah), he appointed his daughter Lisa to the powerful position. In a backroom deal, the senate seat went from father to daughter as if it were a family-owned asset. The governor's subsequent self-serving actions galled Sarah and thousands like me.

Much later, in reference to Governor Murkowski's shocking appointment, Sarah wrote to me,
“I despise dynastic succession.”
As far as Sarah and many of us on the sidelines were concerned, differences with the Alaska GOP political machine were irreconcilable. Somebody needed to address this egregiousness. I for one knew in my heart that this upstart beauty was the only person willing and able to take on that challenge. While Murky had the GOP machine and big donors, I believed that Sarah Palin had God's blessing and people's love and faith. Check and mate.

As a distant observer, I perceived a principled, clean-house Republican, unafraid of the entrenched good ol' boys. Possessing Ronald
Reagan's conservatism and principles, she was David to Murkowski's Goliath. And many of us suspected this was only the beginning. Sarah held similarly larger ambitions. During her 1996 run for mayor of Wasilla, her campaign manager, Laura Chase, once said to her, “You know, Sarah, within ten years you could be governor.”

“Governor?” Sarah answered. “I want to be president.”

As if hand delivered by fate, Sarah found a way to establish her anticorruption chops. Shortly after the outrage over dynastic succession—and maybe in an attempt to placate a potential foe—Governor Murkowski appointed the increasingly vocal Sarah Palin to a prestigious and well-paid post on the Alaska Oil and Gas Conservation Commission (AOGCC), an agency that helps determine how best to safely bring Alaska's North Slope oil and gas to market. Within the first year of a six-year term, Sarah called out a fellow commissioner for ethical lapses and later resigned when told she was under a gag order and could not publicize her complaints. The commissioner in question happened to be the Republican Party chair, Randy Ruedrich. He eventually paid a hefty fine for passing along confidential committee documents to oil interests. Equally troubling to many was that as GOP Party chair, Ruedrich's job was to solicit oil money from the industry's top executives for political candidates. That he was simultaneously on the AOGCC was another example of grimy politics. What's more, Sarah also exposed him for running Republican Party business from his AOGCC office, a violation of using state resources for political activity.

When later running for the GOP nomination for governor, Team Palin summarized this saga in an email written to counteract an editorial in the conservative
Anchorage Times
suggesting that she was a political lightweight:

While Sarah exaggerated the importance of the AOGCC (Alaska supplies not 20 percent but only about 2.4 percent of the U.S. domestic supply of energy), she displayed an early hyperbolic willingness to attack and defend.

In 2004 Richard Mauer reported in the
Anchorage Daily News
on the lengths to which Sarah went to uncover Ruedrich's violation:

With this widely reported and praised resignation for principle and antiestablishment rhetoric, Sarah branded herself the people's champion. Sacrificing the arrogant party stalwarts to gain favor with true conservatives, she traded up.

Upon learning Sarah might take a run at unseating Frank Murkowski as governor in the 2006 election, I felt drawn to volunteer. I looked up the name Palin in the phone book. The Wasilla phone number was listed right there in the White Pages. (Don't forget, this is Alaska.)

“Hi, is this Sarah?”

I explained about wanting her to run for governor and how the state, the party, and the people needed her. I said that I'd do whatever I could to help her win.

My wife, Janeen (Neen), thought I was nuts. “You just picked up the phone and called her like that, right out of the blue? Isn't that kind of weird?” I hadn't really thought about the implausibility, but, yeah, there was a certain amount of serendipity in what I'd done. Certainly Frank Murkowski wasn't listed in the phone book, and I doubt he'd be interested in having Mr. Nobody do much more than write him a check.

Apparently my immediate follow-up email expressing disgust with Governor Murkowski struck a chord.

Sarah responded, indicating that she'd be in touch if she decided to run. More than three months later, in October, she officially announced her candidacy. I sent another email: