Republicans transform into rubber stamps

Imagine you are a Republican congressperson from Iowa. At the pinnacle of success.

You’ve given countless speeches. Held innumerable fundraisers. Honed your knowledge of complex issues. Crafted the right message. Endured difficult town halls. Been ridiculed by intemperate editorials. Managed expensive accommodations in Washington and Iowa (with barely enough salary to order a decent meal in D.C.). You’ve learned the ropes.

Perhaps you are an ophthalmologist, with years of education and training to sharpen your clinical judgment. Or an Army Colonel, enduring the rigors and deprivations of Army life in order to rise in leadership. You have worked hard, put your life on the line, risked everything.

You have achieved success and been elected by the people. Now you are ready to go to work, bringing all your years of experience to bear on the pressing problems of our Country.

But suddenly Donald Trump is elected. Everything changes. Your skills are no longer needed. Your input is not necessary. Everything is decided for you. All you need to do is salute and say “yes sir.”

Talking points are provided to you. Votes are choreographed. No critical thinking necessary. No independent judgment involved. No analysis by staff. No crafting of compromises with colleagues. The outcome is predetermined. You are becoming a rubber stamp.

Your strange transition into a rubber stamp begins with a sort of numbness — a thickening of your skin, perhaps. At first you think it’s just callouses — and aren’t they the inevitable result of political life? Then you notice a rubbery bounce to your step, as if you are losing gravity.

One day you find that you can’t feel much of anything. No joy, no kindness, no empathy. Things that should make an impact on you only bounce off. The panic and agony of your constituents doesn’t touch you. The nagging fear that you are hurting your own people leaves no mark. Your rubberization is almost complete. …

You’ve become the low-tech tool of another person — a rubber stamp, or a marionette. You wonder if this is where the hard work has brought you. You have reached the mountain top and it is void. There is nothing for you to do except lend your small inkspot of approval to whatever Trump dictates. …

You should meet with your constituents, but what’s the point? You’ve been given the words to speak, but where’s the joy in it? How many times must you trot out the same tired platitudes, cliches, and half-truths?

The message is not your own, the legislative accomplishments are abhorred, and your task is the soul-destroying recitation of a misleading script.

Now your next election cycle begins. You must ramp up fundraising. You have calls to make. You have a campaign to plan. It’s going to be a hard slog. Another endless series of carefully curated appearances. Some unpleasant town halls. And you can’t shake the feeling: What’s the point of it all? You’ve become irrelevant.

Curt Johnson,

Williamsburg