Strom Thurmond, who died
yesterday at the age of 100, was the longest-serving U.S. senator
in history and the oldest person ever to hold that office. That
secures his place in the trivia books, but history will remember
him more for his resistance to racial integration, expressed in his
1948 statement that "all the laws of Washington and all the
bayonets of the Army cannot force the Negro into our homes, into
our schools, our churches and our places of recreation and
amusement."
Half a century afterwards, with race an unhealed wound in our
politics, Thurmond could still ignite passions. When Trent Lott
paid tribute to the centenarian at his last birthday party by
saying that America "wouldn't have had all these problems over all
these years" had Thurmond been elected president, the ensuing
controversy forced Lott to resign as Senate Majority Leader.
Yet Thurmond himself had reached the point where, no matter how
strongly people condemned his past, practically no one spoke ill of
the man. I'm not sure when this happened, but it was certainly by
the time of his last campaign.
One day in the fall of 1996, I was sitting in a Yale dining
hall, listening to some professors discuss the upcoming elections.
Polls at the time suggested that the Democrats might retake the
Senate, and all the faculty members present were anxiously rooting
for this. Then one of the group, a distinguished sociologist with
all the marks of the left-wing intellectual -- sandals, beard,
beret and a record of marching with the university's maintenance
staff whenever they went on strike -- introduced a lighter
note.
"How about Strom Thurmond?" the sociologist said with a smile.
"Wouldn't it be something to have a hundred-year-old senator?"
All the bien pensant scholars joined him in regarding
this prospect -- the reelection of an unrepentant former
segregationist, possibly tipping the balance in favor of the hated
GOP -- like the latest news of feisty Great-Aunt Sally, still
taking her morning constitutional when all her contemporaries were
dead or vegetating in retirement homes.
No ordinary politician could pull that off. Thurmond was a
master, and retained his touch well into his 90s. At the 1996
Republican National Convention, he showed his aplomb in an
encounter with Public Enemy's Chuck D, covering the event for
MTV.
The burly rapper approached the senator in the lobby of the
convention center and asked him, on camera, if he had anything to
say to African-American youth. It seemed a sure recipe for
embarrassment -- excruciating or delectable, depending on your
politics.
Thurmond answered with some boilerplate about equal opportunity
for all.
But, Chuck D insisted, had that always been his
position?
The senator smiled. "The times have changed, and I've changed
with the times," he said.
That was enough to disprove rumors of senility, but it wouldn't
have sufficed to charm his fiercest opponents (those whom he hadn't
outlived). It was Thurmond's sheer endurance that finally won
almost everybody's admiration.
When Thurmond was in his late eighties, on a trip to some remote
part of South Carolina, a mix-up required him to share a hotel room
with one of his staff. Lying in bed at the end of an exhausting
day, the young aide was startled to hear the senator moving around
on the floor. Doing push-ups, as it turned out.
Thurmond showed his stamina in more sensational ways. At the age
of 66 he married a 22-year-old beauty queen who went on to bear him
four children. Receiving a female acquaintance at his Senate office
a few years back, he briefly confused the lady with her mother -- a
forgivable error, since at different times he had dated both women.
Eventually even feminists started to forgive his flirting and
fanny-grabbing. Longevity covers a multitude of sins.
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