off the hook so easily because he was sure he could quickly find someone else for the job. Of course, she’s wrong.
The only other person I sought counsel from was Haley Barbour. I had gotten to know Haley a little bit and I knew three things about him. First, he had been the most successful chairman the Republican Party has ever had. Second, he is a policy wonk like me. And third, he’s a southerner from our neighboring state of Mississippi, where he now serves as governor. But when I first talked to him, I was worried he would think I had lost my mind. He didn’t, or at least if he did, he didn’t say so. He encouraged me to explore running and put me in contact with Curt Anderson, a guy who had been his political director at the Republican National Committee, and who ended up helping my campaigns. Curt has been a close friend since.
Eventually, I made a final decision to run for governor. Many mistakenly view a political campaign as glamorous, full of adoring fans and appearances on the evening news. Perhaps it’s like that when you run for president, but that wasn’t my experience running for governor. Being a first-time candidate running in a field of seventeen candidates, many of whom were better-known and had more political experience than I had, was actually pretty far from glamorous.
On one campaign trip to north Louisiana, our campaign didn’t have much money so we mostly travelled by car, and I stayed in people’s homes whenever I could to save the price of a hotel. This trip came during a grueling part of the schedule, after we’d travelled several days without much rest. I was due to make a speech later that
evening, so I decided to lie down for an hour in the nearby home of a staffer’s cousin.
Looking back, I wish I’d paid more attention to the “For Sale” sign in the front yard—because just as I drifted off, the homeowner, a realtor, and some prospective buyers walked into the bedroom where I was sleeping. I’ll never forget what the homeowner said: “Oh, this is Bobby Jindal, he’s running for governor.” The buyers, I’m sure, were thinking, “Bobby who? And if he’s running for governor, why is he sleeping in your house in the middle of the day?” I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be dead. It worked and they left. Fortunately, the prospective buyers did not ask if I “conveyed” with the property.
My campaign took a long time to gain traction. The first poll we took had me in dead last with just 3 percent of the vote—and those 3 percent were probably confused. I had no network of donors and didn’t have my own fortune to sink into the race. I had a strong résumé and some good accomplishments on the policy front, but absolutely no idea how to run a campaign. Oh, and did I mention my parents are from India? Or that I was thirty-one years old? So, to put it mildly, there were a few skeptics of my campaign. The son of Indian immigrants running for governor in the Deep South? In the state where former KKK member David Duke made a credible run for governor? Sounds like a novel.
But I did have one thing going for me, in addition to Supriya, and that was then-Governor Mike Foster. Mike was a risk taker who hired me as a 24-year-old to run his Department of Health and Hospitals. Additionally, he was not the product of any political machine in Louisiana. When he first ran for governor, the pundits considered his candidacy a joke, so this was a road he’d been down before.
Mike is one of those types that make this country great. He believes that in America, if you can dream it, you can do it. He’s an anti-politician; a good ol’ boy if there ever was one. During his two terms as governor he rarely travelled to Washington; he just flat out doesn’t like the place and doesn’t think much good comes out of it. Besides, as he once told me, the hunting in D.C. is no good.
Our campaign office was a small house in Baton Rouge, the former headquarters of a funeral parlor
The only other person I sought counsel from was Haley Barbour. I had gotten to know Haley a little bit and I knew three things about him. First, he had been the most successful chairman the Republican Party has ever had. Second, he is a policy wonk like me. And third, he’s a southerner from our neighboring state of Mississippi, where he now serves as governor. But when I first talked to him, I was worried he would think I had lost my mind. He didn’t, or at least if he did, he didn’t say so. He encouraged me to explore running and put me in contact with Curt Anderson, a guy who had been his political director at the Republican National Committee, and who ended up helping my campaigns. Curt has been a close friend since.
Eventually, I made a final decision to run for governor. Many mistakenly view a political campaign as glamorous, full of adoring fans and appearances on the evening news. Perhaps it’s like that when you run for president, but that wasn’t my experience running for governor. Being a first-time candidate running in a field of seventeen candidates, many of whom were better-known and had more political experience than I had, was actually pretty far from glamorous.
On one campaign trip to north Louisiana, our campaign didn’t have much money so we mostly travelled by car, and I stayed in people’s homes whenever I could to save the price of a hotel. This trip came during a grueling part of the schedule, after we’d travelled several days without much rest. I was due to make a speech later that
evening, so I decided to lie down for an hour in the nearby home of a staffer’s cousin.
Looking back, I wish I’d paid more attention to the “For Sale” sign in the front yard—because just as I drifted off, the homeowner, a realtor, and some prospective buyers walked into the bedroom where I was sleeping. I’ll never forget what the homeowner said: “Oh, this is Bobby Jindal, he’s running for governor.” The buyers, I’m sure, were thinking, “Bobby who? And if he’s running for governor, why is he sleeping in your house in the middle of the day?” I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be dead. It worked and they left. Fortunately, the prospective buyers did not ask if I “conveyed” with the property.
My campaign took a long time to gain traction. The first poll we took had me in dead last with just 3 percent of the vote—and those 3 percent were probably confused. I had no network of donors and didn’t have my own fortune to sink into the race. I had a strong résumé and some good accomplishments on the policy front, but absolutely no idea how to run a campaign. Oh, and did I mention my parents are from India? Or that I was thirty-one years old? So, to put it mildly, there were a few skeptics of my campaign. The son of Indian immigrants running for governor in the Deep South? In the state where former KKK member David Duke made a credible run for governor? Sounds like a novel.
But I did have one thing going for me, in addition to Supriya, and that was then-Governor Mike Foster. Mike was a risk taker who hired me as a 24-year-old to run his Department of Health and Hospitals. Additionally, he was not the product of any political machine in Louisiana. When he first ran for governor, the pundits considered his candidacy a joke, so this was a road he’d been down before.
Mike is one of those types that make this country great. He believes that in America, if you can dream it, you can do it. He’s an anti-politician; a good ol’ boy if there ever was one. During his two terms as governor he rarely travelled to Washington; he just flat out doesn’t like the place and doesn’t think much good comes out of it. Besides, as he once told me, the hunting in D.C. is no good.
Our campaign office was a small house in Baton Rouge, the former headquarters of a funeral parlor
Similar Books
