Commentary—

The Only Civics Lesson You’ll Need

John Breen

 Worried that high school students mistake Britney Spears for the First Lady and their towns’ three selectmen for folk singing trios, legislators were shepherding a bill through the sausage factory last week as the plant prepared to close for the season that would require students to complete a half-credit course in old-fashioned civics before graduation.

It’s probably true that many teenagers don’t know how the president is elected, but many 50-year-olds don’t, either. How many times have you heard one yelp, “How did that jerk get elected, anyhow?” So it’s doubtful that half a course, 20 minutes a day, will do anything to clear up that sort of confusion.

But a civics requirement could give seniors an appreciation for politics; those who enjoy humor and drama might consider falling into a life of legislating, which isn’t as demanding as standing on the back end of an asphalt spreader on I-91 in mid-August.

Fortunately, my syllabus is prepared. Kids, if you want to understand politics, if you want to be your party’s nominee for state representative, or if you just want to graduate, listen up. Remember – I love to give pop quizzes.

First, forget about alerting the television cameras, ordering balloons, and hiring stooges to write position papers. You can’t afford them anyway and lots of nominating conventions around here are held in the woods, in buildings two gusts of wind away from getting turned into cellar holes, chosen only because they have liquor licenses.

For example, let’s study how civics intervened to give US Rep Sam Gejdenson his first nomination for state representative in the old 48th House District.

His convention was held in a rod and gun club with a meeting room upstairs and a saloon downstairs. With Gejdenson were two other candidates, delegates from four towns and a clutch of supporters on hand to clap and cheer. The chairman called the convention to order and explained how many delegates the winner would need and the order of voting.

The first vote produced a three-way tie. The chairman looked around in wild surmise, banged his gavel, and declared a 15-minute recess. So everyone stood up and went downstairs and ordered a drink, except for the candidates, who walked from table to table, reassuring their delegates, thanking their supporters, and wooing the others’ delegates to switch their votes.

Back upstairs, the chairman again called for a vote. Again it was a three-way tie. The chairman thought about this for a moment, banged his gavel, and declared a 20-minute recess. So everyone went back downstairs and ordered more drinks. This went on for some time, and although the recesses got longer and longer, the three-way tie held.

Finally, about 11:50 pm, the chairman called for another vote, which produced another tie. But just as everyone got up to go downstairs again, the chairman adjourned the convention, which caused some in the crowd to accuse him of being a spoilsport. But the convention had been legally warned only for that day; any vote after midnight would have been illegal. Gejdenson later won the nomination in a primary and his seat in the general election.

Now comes the fun part: turning bills into laws to promote the common weal, just as your textbook instructs. In your course materials you have a wonderful handout from the League of Women Voters titled “How a bill becomes a law in Connecticut.” Forget it. Here’s how it really works:

Not long into his first term, Gejdenson was asked to get a bill reported out of a committee and happily started lining up votes. After awhile, he had enough, by one, to pry the bill loose. But the representatives voted alphabetically and Gejdenson’s winning vote, as it happened, came at the end of the roll call, so when the chairman asked for his vote, he voted the wrong way; the bill stayed put.

Naturally, Gejdenson approached the representative after the meeting, intending to inflict some major bodily damage. But the representative hadn’t double-crossed him at all. In fact, he was distraught.

“Sam, I’m so sorry,” he said. “But by the time the chairman got to me, I forgot how I was supposed to vote.”

 From then on, he always sat right next to Gejdenson.

 So the civics lessons here, kids, are: a) keep moving and use the clock; and b) don’t count your chickens before they’ve voted. Now go get those diplomas.

(John Breen is a columnist for the Journal Inquirer in Manchester and teaches journalism at the University of Connecticut in Storrs.)