Presidential Candidates: A Ghetto Kid Who Remembers His Roots

By LAURENCE I. BARRETT/RICHMOND

His candidacy, Douglas Wilder says, with unaccustomed modesty, is the "longest of long shots." Democratic Party leaders, in unaccustomed consensus, whisper, At least Wilder's got that right. Granted, the Virginian wrote history in bold script two years ago by becoming the nation's first black elected Governor. Certainly he set a record for brass when he quickly seduced the Great Mentioner -- that Ozlike creature manipulated by pundits and political junkies that pronounces instant presidential prospects -- and challenged Jesse Jackson's primacy as the country's leading African-American politician. But Wilder for President?

He has no nationwide organization, no cadre of experienced advisers and scant prospects for raising a large campaign chest. He is emphasizing a message of fiscal austerity that puts him to the right of many Democratic primary voters. A party strategist who knows Wilder well describes his guiding philosophy as "none, zip, zero." Wilder's insistence on playing the governorship by his own quirky rules has also caused his Virginia poll numbers to sink. Says Brad Coker, president of Mason-Dixon Opinion Research: "If he ran for re-election today, he could not win."

Wilder has seen this movie before. From the time he emerged from the genteel poverty of Richmond's Church Hill section, through a career as a flamboyant criminal lawyer and real estate investor that made him rich, during 22 contentious years in politics, Wilder, 60, has dealt repeatedly with rejection. Defying the Establishment, whether white or black, is his vocation. "I don't need the anointers," he says. "I don't need the appointers. Nor do I need the laying on of hands."

A crucial biographical fact appears only between the lines of his resume. Almost alone among prominent black politicians of his vintage, Wilder has not made race his crusade. Neither the church nor the civil rights movement served as Wilder's launching pad. A sense of personal entitlement served him instead, a belief that "as long as the Constitution was written for others, it was written for me." Often his color represented an impediment to be surmounted or a weapon to be used. He learned to do either well.

Thirty years ago, when so many of Virginia's whites enlisted in a "massive resistance" movement to oppose desegregation, Wilder maneuvered deftly among pro-integration factions. He served occasionally with a moderate group, switched to a more militant black organization, then back again, flirted with yet a third outfit composed mostly of white business leaders. He made friends in all three groups. In 1969 Wilder ran for the state senate in a special election. Against two white candidates, Wilder captured 18% of the white vote -- enough to make him the state's sole black senator. But the new legislator, liberal by the standards of time and place, was a lonely figure. Jay Shropshire, then a legislative aide and now Wilder's chief of staff, recalls, "He was frozen out for the most part, ignored, bypassed." So Wilder became a leader of the "palace revolt," in which remnants of segregationist Harry Byrd's machine were ousted.

Wilder learned to exercise the power levers well and eventually became chairman of the group that controlled committee assignments. After a dozen years, he saw himself as the "cock of the roost in Richmond," eager and ready for higher office. But a larger rooster in the person of Charles Robb had moved into the barnyard, winning statewide elections without having served an apprenticeship. The advent of Lyndon Johnson's son-in-law rankled Wilder because it delayed his own ascent. An ugly feud began that still ignites periodically, burning both men. In the 1982 round, however, Wilder emerged victorious. He thwarted Robb's choice for the U.S. Senate by threatening to run as an independent and sop up the black vote. Robb's candidate, Owen Pickett, withdrew in favor of a more liberal candidate, Richard Davis.

A victory of principle? Hardly. Wilder was simply strutting his power. He soon reconciled with the ostensibly conservative Pickett, even blessing Pickett's candidacy for Congress. Then he broke with Davis. By the time Wilder ran for lieutenant governor in 1985, he was shedding layers of his liberalism. "He began to modify some of those positions," recalls Joe Gartlan, his longtime ally in the state senate. "He moved toward the right." Wilder had already abandoned his opposition to capital punishment. Now he emphasized fiscal frugality and crime fighting. Some black leaders muttered about opportunism, but most understood that Wilder had to be perceived as a centrist to have a shot at high office. Henry Marsh, the first black mayor of Richmond in the 1970s and a civil rights activist for decades, says, in Wilder's defense, "Flexibility is the mark of a successful political leader."

Wilder's "flexibility" -- along with bumbling by his Republican opposition -- enabled him to win in 1985 and 1989. Just as he assumed the governorship, Virginia became an early victim of the recession. Wilder faced a budget gap of $2.2 billion, but instead of raising taxes, he deftly shaved expenses without cutting major arteries. He also created a $200 million contingency fund as a buffer against a 1992 deficit. Even some of his critics concede that he managed the crisis well.

The cash crunch inhibited innovation, but Wilder had not come into office with an ambitious agenda. He has reorganized the state's antidrug efforts, but that has yet to show concrete results. He made a token start on improving education assistance to impoverished districts, but has no resources to make that change meaningful. Nevertheless, Wilder takes his Virginia record on the road, contrasting his austere ways with Washington's profligacy. Unlike the other announced candidates, he enjoys twitting the unannounced Mario Cuomo. Virginia has done better than New York in hard times, Wilder implies. Besides, he observes, "who needs him sitting in the background, constantly carping, criticizing other candidates. He should come out here ((as an active candidate)) or shut up."

How bold would President Wilder be? His first formal proposal, announced in New Hampshire, was pea-size, despite its grandiose title, the Put America First Initiative. He proposed a $50 billion spending cut, $35 billion in breaks for middle-class families and $15 billion in "reduce bureaucracy grants" to states. How this game of musical dollars would lessen the deficit is murky. Much clearer have been his recent attacks on George Bush as the first President in six decades to try to "turn back the clock on civil rights."

When massaging voters or talking to reporters, Wilder is genial, open, almost impossible to ruffle. But when managing the store in Richmond, he operates in a tight circle, rarely confiding in anyone but a few top advisers. He refused to consult key legislative leaders on his budget cuts. Public criticism can bring stern retaliation, even against allies in the General Assembly. The most recent instance of gratuitous vengeance involved his former press secretary, Laura Dillard. Disillusioned with her ex-boss, she told a campus audience that Wilder was capable of being a better Governor than his presidential ambitions allowed. Soon after, a leaked story in one newspaper implied that Dillard was fired for her animosity toward blacks and Jews. The item was so obviously nonsensical that no one who knows Dillard gave it credence, but it had the effect of silencing her.

Wilder denies being secretive, vindictive or unnecessarily combative. On the other hand, he says he likes having once been described as Richmond's "lonely bull." Pointing to his buttocks, he says, "If a foot is coming toward my behind, I usually grab it." As he seizes the invisible offender, he adds, "Some people call that confrontation. I say no, you can't kick me."

Life experience tells him everything is possible for he who gambles. For decades, Wilder, grandson of slaves and son of the ghetto, has taken advantage of every possibility available. A Virginia Governor cannot succeed himself, and Wilder is in love with public life; if he cannot get the presidential nomination, he isn't coy about being willing to take the second slot. "My future is now," he likes to say. Years ago, even some of his friends told him he was foolish to try for statewide office. He sees no reason to believe his adversaries, the insiders whom he has always confounded, when they tell him that national office is beyond his reach.