Electing the Vegetarian

When Jurgen Philips announced that he was running for President, we didn't give him a chance. It wasn't his party affiliation -- he was a moderate, and he identified himself as a Republican. It wasn't his lack of funding -- he had made millions during the Internet Bubble and, unlike the rest of us, had known when to get out. Neither was it his platform -- populist, pro-family, pro-business, with a strong Federalist and individualist undercurrent that played well in the Red States. He's a stand-up guy and a Gulf War veteran with a purple heart. He went to Johns Hopkins to study medicine on a scholarship. He's handsome, with a wife and two lovely children.

We still didn't give him a chance, and, no, not because his father (a german immigrant who fled Nazi Germany and so he could enlist with the American Army) had given him that god-awful name.

No, Jurgen Philips didn't have a chance in hell of being elected President of these United States, despite his wealth, his good-lucks, his perfect family, and his "mainstream" right-leaning politics.

Jurgen Philips was a vegetarian.

"Jay," I told him, since all his friends called him Jay, "you don't believe in eating meat. Who'll vote for you?"

Jurgen seemed perplexed. "What should that matter? I don't believe in eating meat, true. That is my belief. Have you ever known me to insult or ridicule those who believe in eating meat?"

"No," I agreed, "I've never known you to do that."

"And yet," he continued, "you maintain that because I do not believe in eating meat, people will see me as somehow unfit to be President? Explain, please." Jurgen was like this, a crackingly sharp mind always prepared to hear all-sides of a debate openly.

"Well," I began, "yes. Apparently, 90-some-odd percent of the American public say they believe in eating meat. It stands to reason that they would want to vote for someone who also believes in eating meat, someone who shares their beliefs."

He stared at me for a moment, thinking about this. Then, he said, "I am fully capable of being President. I have the experience, I have the education, my politics are sound. I have great ideas for leading the country."

All these things were true. Jurgen had been active in local, state, and national politics for most of his adult life. He had, as a successful businessman, traveled abroad and met with world leaders in business, religion, and statecraft. Everybody liked him. I'd heard some of his ideas for leading the country, and they were great. They were ideas that forced you to slap yourself on the head and say, "It's so simple! Why didn't I think of that?" before you realized who'd told it to you -- Jurgen Philips, the man who always had the best ideas first.

He leaned over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Have faith in the American People. Once they meet me, hear me, get to know me, the fact I am a vegetarian won't matter. It's a little thing, what I believe, compared to what I know and what I can do." He smiled, and I believed him.

...

We all joined the Jurgen Philips Campaign for President. I was assigned the task of press secretary. We all worked for free, because we knew Jurgen was the one man fit to be President. He campaigned tirelessly, pressing palms in Littlevilles all over the country, driving himself to cook-outs and barbecues, where he'd stump for hours. His speeches were electrifying. Not in the way a Buchanan or Reagan would electrify with passages of strident nationalism, but in an intellectual way. He knew what he wanted to say to the people, and he knew how to say it so that they could understand it. He never lied, he never fled from the difficult questions. He'd look his questioner in the eye and, without even pausing to reflect, give his honest opinion.

To my great surprise and delight, the campaign took off like a rocket, fueled by Jurgen's ceaseless energy, verve, and dedication. The crowds grew larger and larger. The press took notice, and soon he was making the rounds on the Sunday morning talk shows.

And The Question always came up, on every talk show, in every interview, so often you'd think people would get tired of it.

"Mr. Philips," the interviewer would say, as if reading from a script (as often they were), "do you really think the American people will vote for a vegetarian to be President?"

Jurgen would always smile and reply, "Although I do not have a belief that encompasses the eating of meat, my belief does encompass something very dear to me: the American people and this country of ours. Yes, I think -- no, I have faith -- that they'll vote for me. My abilities and qualifications speak for themselves."

A few interviewers would press the issue. "Aren't you just insulting those who believe in eating meat?" or "Shouldn't the beliefs of the President match the beliefs of the people he serves?"

When asked questions like this, Jurgen would reply, "This is a country founded on freedom, physical, religious, and dietary freedom. We recognize that each person has the right to choose his beliefs and to live with his choices. I make no apologies for my beliefs nor would I expect any citizen, vegetarian or not, to apologize for their beliefs."

Not everyone was delighted with Jurgen, however. The far-right wing of the Republican party despised him, as he was a threat to their idealogical meat-eating core. The Democrats feared him, for here was the truly liberal candidate, liberal in the real sense of the word, a man free of pretention, dogma, and vice who spoke with clarity and vision.

When Jurgen proved his mettle and rolled over the other Republican candidates in the first debates, we knew he was as good-as-President. One candidate, a Midwestern Atkins-Friendly senator, had gone so far to carelessly compare Jurgen to Hitler incarnate (who was a vegetarian) before an open microphone. Jurgen simply said, "Senator, I don't believe in eating him, either." and drew a round of laughter and applause from the audience. He winked at me from the dias then, as if saying "See, have faith in the people. They'll never let you down." I nearly cried.

...

The first primaries were rough. Despite a ground-swell of popularity, the far-right wing of the party came out in force. The Midwestern Senator stumped almost exclusively in meat-packing plants, railing against the "immoral voices in the party, voices that do not believe in eating meat." It amused and frightened me that Jurgen could be painted as immoral simply because he didn't believe in eating meat.

The questions and arguments against him became tougher and shriller. "Since you don't believe in eating meat, is it true that you don't believe in the Six Basic Food Groups of the Food Pyramid?" was a common one in the Southern Atkins-Friendly States. Jurgen would tackle this one with, "While I obviously do not believe that meat belongs on the Food Pyramid, since I do not believe in eating meat, this does not mean that I dismiss the fundamental eating guidelines expressed in the Food Pyramid. I equate the Food Pyramid with other progressive documents in the history of humankind, like Hammurabi's Code or the Magna Carta or the Declaration of Independence or the Bill of Rights."

The Midwestern Senator would declaim these remarks as wishy-washy "Hitler-esque" nonsense, going on to call for the erection of large Food Pyramids in every school lunchroom in the country, "to protect and instruct the diets of our children."

The inevitable questions about meat in school and eating eggs would come up. Jurgen didn't care for meat in school, but he didn't care if a child chose to eat meat in school privately, either. Private meat-eating stemmed from belief, and enforcing belief was not the business of the public schools or the state. Eating eggs proved more difficult for him and required him to refine a tricky message -- he supported eating eggs when there was no other choice (for example, in a cake), but strongly disapproved of it first-choice food for breakfast, especially when other choices, like cereals and fruits, existed.

He vigorously debated any argument that included "healthy", "Atkins-friendly" or "Southbeach-approved" as an adjective. Thus, he found himself constantly debating the "high-protein, low carbs" or the "evils of pasta", subjects on which his opponents (and I) felt he was vulnerable. Jurgen would plunge into these debates wide-eyed and eager, certain that his message of reason would come through. His opponents would try to get Jurgen to utter "Pasta is not evil..." or "High protein, meat-centric diets are not healthy..." as a preamble to his rebuttal, forcing Jurgen to carefully weave his statements lest he offend outright the many Atkins and Southbeach dieters that populated the right-wing of the party.

Finally, he struck gold with "First, as a courtesy, would you please define the word 'healthy'?", momentarily backing his opponents into a corner. Some would, of course, link healthiness with cleanliness, giving Jurgen the out he needed: "As a vegetarian, it's obvious that I can agree that something, like cleanliness, has meaning and import without necessarily being linked to a belief in eating meat. I wash my vegetables, after all." Some would not make the healthy-equals-clean link, excusing the word as a euphemism for "tasty" or just "really, really good for you." Again, Jurgen had the out he needed, since no one could deny that vegetables are both "tasty" and "really, really good" for you.

...

The pictures surfaced late in the campaign and proved the most damaging. The Midwestern Senator quickly jumped on them. They showed a young man, clearly identifiable as Jurgen Philips, eating at a fast-food burger joint with some friends. He was wearing a paper-crown and looked a little bleary-eyed. It was a picture from college, when he was a poor student.

"Do you deny, Mr. Philips, that you are in this photo, clearly shown eating meat?", the Senator railed at one of the debates.

"Yes, that is me, eating a burger with friends." admitted Jurgen stoically.

"I suppose you're going to tell us that you didn't swallow." teased the Senator.

"No, Senator, I definitely swallowed that burger." replied Jurgen.

"Then you admit that you are a hypocrit?" pressed the Senator.

"No," answered Jurgen, "I only admit that this photo shows me eating a burger when I was a student in college. That was over twenty years ago. I believe the phrase youthful indiscretion comes to mind." Laughs and applause went up.

Unfortunately, our numbers went down after the debate. Polls showed that the voters were beginning to doubt Jurgen's sincerity and consistency. Despite his eloquence, editorials began to question the source and strength of Jurgen's vegetarian beliefs. The Midwestern Senator hammered at the same question on the Sunday Talk shows. Rush Limbaugh, who shilled for steak houses, went on the attack and called Jurgen a Veganazi. That was the death-knell for the campaign.

...

Jurgen lost the nomination to the Atkins-friendly Senator. In his concession speech, Jurgen said, "We fought the good fight, but in the end, the American people have spoken and they have selected another man to lead the party to the Presidency. Now I, too, throw my support behind my former opponent. However, for myself, tonight represents the end of my political career."

The next day, with his characteristc lack of rancor, he shook the Midwestern Seantor's hand, wished him the best of luck, and made the round of the TV talk-shows to dissect why his campaign had imploded over the what became called the "Burger Bust". Jurgen was all smiles and grace. I was miserable for him.

We haven't talked much since then. Jurgen, good to his word, left politics and took up a general practice in one of the quaint Littlevilles he had visited during the campaign. He left the Republican party soon thereafter, which he felt had become too beholden to the far-right meat-eaters after the selection of the Midwestern Senator, who had no inclination for dietary tolerance. He's still a vegetarian, and I'm told he keeps a framed copy of the Burger Bust photo on his desk.