The Man vs. The Brand
The Truth about the Duality in Politics
One of the hardest truths about working in politics is this: most politicians are two people at once.
There’s the public figure, the one voters see on stage delivering speeches, on television, attending events, and answering questions with practiced lines. Then there’s the person behind the curtain. The human being with flaws, habits, doubts, and moments of reflection.
Sometimes people hear that and assume it means the politician is fake. Sometimes that’s true. But most of the time, it’s about managing the brand.
Politics is performance. That’s not cynical. It’s just the reality of public life. When every move is watched and analyzed, even the smallest details matter. Did they thank everyone? Did they shake the right hands? Did they hold their spouse’s hand or pat their child on the head? These things get noticed. They get replayed. They get judged.
When you work for someone in that world, you don’t work for the person. You work for the brand.
That was my experience with Mark Sanford.
The Mark Sanford Business
For better or worse, I’m tied to him. I joined his congressional staff in 1996. He called me “My Left Brain” because I could explain every vote he’d taken and why. In 2002, I worked on his campaign for governor. When he won, I helped launch his administration and stayed all eight years. In 2015, for complicated reasons, I came back briefly to help in his congressional office after he got elected to the U.S. House in 2013.
That’s nearly two decades working in what I half-jokingly called The Mark Sanford Business.
On his last day as governor in January 2011, we were sitting in my nearly empty office. Just the two of us. We reminisced and shared a few laughs. Then, just before he walked out to hand the reins to Governor-elect Nikki Haley, he turned to me, hugged me, and said, “I love you, man.”
I’m not someone who usually goes in for hugs. But I returned it. It felt like the right thing in that moment. Not for me, but for what was left of the man who emerged from a rise and fall as governor and potential presidential contender.
After everything, the highs, the mistakes, the scandal, he had made it to the finish line. Many people didn’t think he would. But there we were. In that moment he was Mark Sanford, The Man, not The Brand.
My role was evident. Whenever Mark Sanford, The Man, showed up, I had to be ready to take him out to protect The Brand. That created a strange dynamic for both of us, as I began to view The Man as a threat, and he was human at times. Unfortunately, I’m not equipped to deal with humanity as well as I’d like. This fact was the source of frustration.
But how did we get there?
The Sugar Speech
The first time I saw the two versions of him clearly was back in 1997.
Sanford was scheduled to give a one-minute floor speech in support of an amendment to eliminate the federal sugar subsidy. It was a straightforward policy issue, one I knew well. I pulled the numbers, built the argument, and drafted the talking points. I was still early in my career, and I gave the assignment everything I had.
“Mark doesn’t read speeches,” my Legislative Director warned me, “He’s looking for good arguments.” David wanted to manage my expectations, but I wasn’t slowed.
I went to his office to hand him the speech, ready to answer any questions, and go over the talking points. Instead, he took the memo and closed the door.
In those days, Sanford had a podium in his office, and he would practice his speeches, timing them to make sure he didn’t go too long. Here’s the thing: he won’t read speeches. So, he memorizes the speech and delivers it as if it had just sprung from his head. Usually with a scrap of paper in his hand with a few words written on it for prompts. This was good for The Brand.
When he walked up to the microphone on the House floor, here’s what he said:
Mr. SANFORD. Mr. Chairman, I rise in support of this amendment because there has been much talk about commitment. Yet what I think we need to ultimately be committed to is to the simple theme of common sense.
What we have with our sugar subsidy program is a system that does not make common sense.
I say that because here we have a program that costs American consumers an additional $1.4 billion a year in the form of higher sugar price.
All that benefit is handed to in essence the hands of a very few, for instance the Fanjul family that live down in Palm Beach and get $65 million a year of personal benefit.
They have got yachts and helicopters and planes. They are on the Forbes 400 list.
So what I have got are people that live in my home district, living in trailers subsidizing the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
To me that does not make common sense.
I urge adoption of this amendment.
He delivered the message almost exactly as I had written it. The core argument, the data, and the structure. I nailed it.
The Lesson
Later that day, we were walking to a committee hearing. I said, “You did a good job with the sugar speech.”
He stopped, looked at me, and asked, “Why?”
The question caught me off guard. I expected a simple ‘thank you’ or some feedback. But instead, he gave me an important lesson.
“Well, you made the point that the program cost taxpayers...”
“Did you notice I was leaning on the podium?” he asked.
“Sure, but you also brought up the Fanjul brothers and…”
He stopped me again, “Did you notice I had a pen in my hand and was pointing at people?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Look,” he said, “You’re a smart guy. You know this program and the points I should make. But when I’m leaning on the podium and pointing a pen at people, they stop listening to what I’m saying and start wondering what’s wrong with me. I need you to deliver a good product and then tell me how to do better. No one buys your arguments if they don’t buy you. Got that?”
“Of course.”
“Then don’t kiss my ass,” he said, “Tell me what I did wrong and how to fix it. You’ve got to hit me over the head. (he loved using this phrase) I can pay some college kid nothing to tell me I’m good, but we’re in the business of making arguments. That’s what matters.”
That was the job description. Maybe not officially, but certainly in practice.
The Divide
I stood there for what seemed like 10 minutes thinking to myself, “I just wanted an ‘Atta Boy.’”
I shook my head, and he pushed the button to the elevator, and when the door opened, he smiled at the three people on the elevator and said, “Heyhowyou?” like he always does (yes, it is one word when he says it), and we were off. That exchange is the most explicit managerial direction Sanford ever gave me.
For me, I suddenly saw two Mark Sanfords, one driven to fight the national debt, wasteful spending, and for limited, constitutional government, and the other, a socially awkward guy who cared more about The Brand than himself. So, in a hallway in the Longworth Building in 1997, I was enlisted to protect The Brand, even from Mark Sanford, The Man.
That’s where my role began to shift.
I wasn’t just there to write, research, or explain policy. I was there to protect The Brand, even if it meant shielding it from The Man himself.
It was a strange responsibility. I wasn’t always comfortable with that.
The Steward
In Barton Swaim’s book The Speechwriter: A Brief Education in Politics, he gives me the pseudonym “Stewart.” He later told me it was a nod to the House of Stuart and to the old term “steward,” someone who served as an advisor in medieval times. He didn’t know, but it was also my father-in-law’s name. So my wife hated the choice.
He wrote about me:
His jeremiads were notorious. When an adversary criticized the governor, Stewart would emit long streams of profane and grammatically flawless invective in defense of the administration. By the end, you wondered what reason anyone could have for criticizing policies so obviously reasonable. After a year or so it started to seem improbable that we were so consistently and wholly right about everything, but even then Stewart’s jeremiads offered warm reassurance that we were basically, if not always wholly, in the right.
It’s a vivid description. And to be honest, it wasn’t wrong.
So I was the Keeper of the Faith. I believed in what we were doing. I fought for and defended the policies, sometimes forcefully. I carried the weight of the argument, not just because it was my job but because I believed it mattered.
I did my best over the years to protect The Brand. At some point, I stopped watching Mark Sanford, The Man, and in that moment, he destroyed Mark Sanford, The Brand.
But that’s still twelve years away from this story.
Can't wait to read next chapter.