Riding high in the polls and with the state’s big-name Democrats out of his way, Congressman Bobby Jindal is running for governor almost as the incumbent, but without an incumbent’s record to defend or, for that matter, without any media attention—except when he wants it.
Months ago, he headed off press queries by issuing a blanket “no comment” on whatever the governor and Legislature do until this session adjourns, and so he doesn’t have to craft a response to every issue that comes along, from insurance to cockfighting. But he can selectively waive his blackout, as when he pointed out that the Road Home program was going broke and challenged the governor to do something about it. He ripped off his muzzle again earlier this month—“I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer”—to declare the administration’s budget policies “out of control.”
After firing, he submerged again, staying busy in Congress during the week and touring the state on weekends. His schedule is dotted with speeches to Kiwanis clubs and meet-and-greet cookouts, well away from the cities, in the rural areas and small towns where he lost his first race for governor.
Jindal is doing what he didn’t have enough time for in 2003, talking to and visiting with voters in relaxed settings, and signing up large numbers of them as campaign volunteers or collecting e-mail addressees for his constant stream of messages.
On the stump, his demeanor and speaking style have changed markedly from the wonkish, speed-talking political prodigy of 2003. It’s almost a shock to see Jindal laid back, but he can do it. Leaning on one leg, hand in pocket, casually gesturing with the other, he speaks slower and with more wisecracks, asides and besieged-dad stories of coping with kids and grandparents. Now his lists of challenges to meet and action steps to take rarely number more than three. He uses the term “common sense” a lot, whether describing a bill he authored or shaking his head over Congress’ latest folly.
Yet he does impart a sense of urgency for making full use of recovery dollars and state surpluses by punctuating his points with the phrases, “We better not waste this opportunity,” and “There won’t be a second chance.”
Sundays often find him giving testimony in Pentecostal or Baptist churches, whether large ones in Monroe, Alexandria and Shreveport or before tiny congregations—the farther back in the woods the better. Jindal says his giving witness predates his political life, and that he feels the obligation because “there were people who witnessed to me, and I wouldn’t have become a Christian if they hadn’t.”
He doesn’t talk politics in church, but he doesn’t have to in order to move an audience and to forge a deep personal connection with many who felt nothing in common with him before. Few in Louisiana politics have reached out to Pentacostals this much since Edwin Edwards.
More candidates would run this way if they had nearly universal name recognition, $5 million in the bank and the ability to attract large crowds in small towns. For Jindal, this idyllic phase of his campaign will end soon and the real race—and hostilities—will begin. In his TV commercials, Sen. Walter Boasso is already making fun of Jindal by carrying around a life-sized cutout of him, suggesting that the front-runner’s life experiences are paper thin.
This time around, Jindal has a congressional voting record to defend against the Louisiana Democratic Party and others who will argue that he has put fealty to Washington Republicans ahead of Louisiana. And there will be the rumors of what his conservative policies would lead to, like pervasive ones from the last election that had him closing colleges and hospitals everywhere.
That seems to be the point of his slow-talking tour, to get voters to know him better so that they will be less inclined to believe the worst that will be said about him. Many still will not vote for Bobby Jindal because he is too dark for them. But many more will the deeper he gets them under his skin.
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