Senator No's Last Stand

In the last few years, it was possible to think that Jesse Helms had gotten soft in his old age. The senator who sometimes sounded like he wanted to build a Chinese wall around the United States got teary at pictures of starving Rwandan children. Helms actually bonded with Bono, the activist lead singer of U2, and went along to a concert. ("It was so loud I really couldn't understand what he was saying," Helms reported, and it was probably better that way.) He even agreed finally to let Congress pay off its debts to the United Nations, which he scorned. But in the Capitol, even leaders of his own Republican Party knew better than to count on Helms's kindness. He personally held up the nomination of four top-level Treasury aides because he wanted the Bush administration to protect North Carolina's textile workers from a new trade law. Earlier this month George W. Bush became the latest in a long line of presidents, both Republican and Democrat, to bend to the will of "Senator No."

Helms could never say no to his wife, the indomitable "Miss Dot"; with her husband suffering from a nerve disorder, among other ailments, she wanted the old bull home with the grandkids. And so last week Helms announced that he would not run again, ending a 30-year right-wing crusade that made him one of the most polarizing figures in Washington. His departure heartened contenders for his seat, most notably Elizabeth Dole, the former presidential candidate. (She hasn't lived in North Carolina for decades and could face fierce competition.) But no one who follows Helms will be able to match his influence on modern politics. He all but invented the big-money campaign, with its hired mercenaries and scare tactics. And he helped build a cultural-conservative movement that ultimately delivered the South to the GOP. Helms leaves Washington as the last of the old-line, unapologetic reactionaries--a breed less compromising than their successors, and yet more civil toward those who disagreed with them.

Elected in 1972, Helms built his formidable machine on a new political tool: direct-mail advertising, which he used to advance the earliest family-values agenda. "Helms was Horatio at the bridge," says Richard Viguerie, who helped him then. "He was there when there was no one." Helms ran divisive campaigns that saw him narrowly elected by rural whites, and almost no one else. His most famous ad, from his 1990 campaign against Harvey Gantt, showed a man's white hands crumpling a rejection notice after losing his job to a black man. A deft politician, Helms was credited with turning around Ronald Reagan's abysmal 1976 presidential campaign in North Carolina--setting up the Gipper for a win in 1980.

In the Senate, when Helms saw a challenge to his hard-edged conservative cause, no one--not even a president from his own party--could keep him from using every parliamentary tool at his disposal. He repeatedly attacked the National Endowment for the Arts and went so far as to display life-size examples of Robert Mapplethorpe's art while holding forth on the Senate floor. Important nominations had to meet his approval. He even torpedoed a GOP governor, William Weld, when President Bill Clinton chose him as ambassador to Mexico. Party loyalty mattered little; Weld was just too moderate.

The Old South gave way to the New during Helms's long reign on Capitol Hill. North Carolina elected as its junior senator John Edwards, a progressive Democrat who stands for just about everything Helms distrusts. Even Strom Thurmond, 20 years Helms's senior, made his peace with minorities and voted for the Voting Rights Act in 1982. Helms remains unbowed. Unlike other post-Reagan conservatives, he never swerved toward the center to attract votes from the suburbs. He never voted for a civil-rights bill, never toned down his rhetoric and never even hired a press secretary.

In fact, Helms made hating the media popular, refusing to answer questions unless they were faxed, and then faxing his answers back. When he was rumored to be sick last year, his office issued a statement that read, in part: "He is absolutely fine and will (God willing) be around to torment you (journalists) for a long time to come. Relax and accept it." It turned out to be a false prediction; Helms will not remain to torment his legions of enemies. But the visceral brand of politics he pioneered will probably never go away.

© 2001