Editor’s note: Chester E. “Checker” Finn, Jr. is currently enjoying a brief sabbatical, hanging out at the Calvin Coolidge Institute on the campus of W. Averell Harriman III University and slaving over a memoir of his 40 years in education reform. Here are a few excerpts from the first draft.
***
***
I remember it like it was yesterday (actually, I’m old enough to be having some problems with yesterday)—the Nixon White House. My first job out of graduate school. Burning the midnight oil. Taking Pat Moynihan’s laundry to the cleaners. Modeling my haircut on H. R. Haldeman’s.
The White House was besieged daily by legions of the Great Unwashed—hippies—who worshipped at the altars of Communism, free-love, cannabis, teachers unions and such. We had to bring in buses to wall them off.
Walking to work one day, I was accosted by a smelly chap who accused me of “selling out to The Man” and called me unbecoming names. Instinctively, I used the jujitsu I had picked up at the Harvard Ed School and swatted him square in the Adam’s apple. He crumpled and fell to the sidewalk. I turned to his buddies and asked, quite slowly and loudly, “Who’s next?” Most of them left. My hand hurt, however, so I took the morning off, sipped some Tennessee sippin’ whisky out of Mason jars for a few hours with Lamar, then went back to work.
I was really junior so Nixon didn’t have too much to do with me. Didn’t know my name, really. The only time I actually spoke with him was at a meeting about school finance. White House meetings were dreadful, especially the transcripts. Nixon rattled and rambled with such speed that Rose Mary Woods could hardly keep up. The next day, we’d get notes that would inevitably leave out key points. (E.g.: I argued for school vouchers, not school bouncers.) Finally, I had enough.
“Mr. President,” I volunteered. “The transcripts from these meetings are often jumbled and incomplete. Ms. Woods has many virtues but shorthand is not her forte. Might I suggest that we start tape recording them?” He seemed to like the idea.
***
Lamar and I got into more bar fights than I care to recollect. Let’s just say, I had Lamar’s back, and he had mine. And if anything shady went down, we were ready for it.
Back in the 80s, living in Tennessee—teaching at Vanderbilt, slopping up barbeque, and playing with a local country music band (I was the guy who blew on the jug)—I worked with Lamar quite a bit. I remember one Saturday night in particular. We were in the middle of the “career ladder” battle in the legislature. We met at Hog Heaven, site of the best baby-back ribs in town. I got there first, and had slammed a brew or two by the time the guv rolled in. He took one look at me and started laughing.
“Checker, what the heck are you wearing?”
“Lamar,” I explained with a sheepish grin, “let me give you some advice. Let’s say you’re speaking at an edu-blob-fest. It’s best to wear these cheesy ties with drawings of kids on them. And when you’re trying to fit in with ‘the people’ at your local barbeque joint, it’s best to wear plaid. Red and black.”
“Plaid, huh,” he said. “That’s a pretty good idea.”
***
It’s ’87. October maybe. I’m in Chicago, and let me tell you, it ain’t morning in America. My skull feels worse than the time Shanker put me in a headlock. Man, that Bennett can drink.
It started innocently enough. A couple of Tanqueray martinis at the hotel bar, a friendly poker game in the Big Man’s room. Low stakes, I think we were playing for #2 pencils. But Gary “choirboy” Bauer went on a lucky streak and things got nasty. Voices were raised, Bill Kristol preemptively threw pillows, then a chair, fists flew, next thing I know I’m face down in the Jacuzzi. I still can’t remember how I got back to my room.
The Secretary must have dragged himself up, because I’m watching him on T.V. “Chicago Public Schools are the worst in America” I hear him say. Neat quote. “Worst schools in the world”—that’s what I would have said. When speaking the truth, it’s best to use hyperbole.
Then I went back to the A.E.R.A. conference at the Hilton. My hangover worsened.
***
If only Monica had let me take the pizza to him, it all would have ended differently.
Those were heady days. There the Pres and I were, working late into the night on his Voluntary National Test proposal. We first got to be friendly back in Charlottesville when I was taken with this young governor from Arkansas and his commitment to standards and accountability. But we bonded over the Big Macs—and the steaks at Doe’s.
In ’92, however, we had to keep our friendship a secret. I was advising Bush 41, after all. And getting paid by Chris Whittle. But we found ways to communicate, mostly through that squirrelly guy on his staff who now writes the anti-W diatribes at the front of the New Yorker. Through Bill’s years in office I would send ideas and he would enact them into law. (Think: Public Charter Schools Program.) Of course, to keep my street cred, I would write nasty op eds about him and, to keep his, he would push the occasional dumb education idea like class size reduction. In private, though, we always knew we were making progress.
And there we were, heading toward the final culmination: turning NAEP into a test any kid could take. Finally, the dream would become reality.
But we got sloppy. Bill let his guard down, and had his staff invite me into the West Wing for a work session. Mike Mohan from the Department of Education was there, and Randy Edubonk from the DPC. Diane Ravage was on the speakerphone. We were hashing out policy and strategy. Things were going great. Or so I thought.
Monica was there, too, taking notes—for some dumb reason the White House had ditched the tape recorder—and grinning at photos of the Pres and occasionally offering a half-baked idea. Harmless, I thought. But now I know better. Just as we were putting our finishing touches on a masterful strategic plan, the Domino’s kid arrived with a “giant Meat Lover’s.” Monica offered to take a slice to the big man himself, a few steps down the hall. The rest, as they say, is history.
Bill, of course, stopped taking my calls. The testing plan died. I was despondent. I couldn’t eat pizza or anything. Finally I made myself forget and move on to other things. Kept busy enough. Until a few months ago. Diane came back from Davos and handed me a sealed letter. It was from him! I tore it open, pulled it out, and read its nine words. “Finn: get to work. National testing’s time has come.”
Giddyup, Bubba. Giddyup.
Giddyup, Bubba. Giddyup.