There’s something about getting older that changes the way you look at politics.
You begin to realize that some of the people you’ve argued with over the years are also people you’ve admired, laughed with, learned from, and considered friends.
And then there’s Washington, where apparently you’re supposed to forget all of that the moment somebody ends up on the wrong side of the latest political argument.
I was reminded of this over the weekend when President Trump was asked about Karl Rove.
A reporter brought up a Wall Street Journal column in which Rove had questioned Trump’s campaign strategy and warned about the possibility of a backlash.
Trump’s response was vintage Trump.
“Karl Rove, he’s a loser.”
And just in case anybody missed the point, the president added that Rove had been a loser all his life.
Well!
I suppose we can safely assume Karl won’t be receiving a Christmas card from Mar-a-Lago.
Now, I know Karl Rove isn’t everybody’s favorite political figure. He has his critics on the right, on the left, and probably in several places that haven’t been assigned political coordinates yet.
My dear friend Princess Diana has given me grief about him for years.
But here’s the thing.
I don’t abandon my friends simply because they’ve become politically unpopular.
And I certainly don’t erase the good things they’ve done for me because somebody else has decided they’re no longer fashionable.
Let me take you back a few years.
During the George W. Bush administration, Rush Limbaugh and I were invited to the White House for a luncheon.
Think about that for a moment.
The White House.
Rush Limbaugh.
And yours truly.
Now, I had been around politics and powerful people for quite some time. But there are certain experiences that stay with you no matter how many doors you’ve walked through.
That luncheon was one of them.
It was an amazingly beautiful occasion, and I still remember the feeling of being there.
Not because I was suddenly impressed by political power. Working in this business my whole life cured me of any temptation to worship politicians.
But because I understood the history of the place, the significance of the invitation, and the extraordinary journey that had brought me there.
Rush and I had spent years talking about Washington, analyzing its characters, challenging its assumptions, and occasionally laughing at its absurdities.
And there we were, inside the White House itself.
Life has a funny way of delivering moments you couldn’t possibly have imagined when you were younger.
Tony Snow was part of that Bush-era world, too. And Karl Rove was another person I came to know.
Over the years, Karl would send me books.
Not the usual political merchandise that arrives in the mail with a note asking for a donation.
Actual books.
Books he thought I would enjoy.
Books he believed were worth reading.
And one of them made a particularly lasting impression on me.
It was called Troublesome Young Men.
If you haven’t read it, I recommend putting it on your list.
It’s about the political turmoil surrounding Winston Churchill and the men who challenged the British establishment during the years leading up to his return to power.
The fascinating thing about Churchill is that we tend to remember the finished portrait.
The bulldog.
The cigar.
The speeches.
The man who stood against Hitler.
But before Churchill became the towering figure history remembers, he was a deeply controversial politician.
He had made mistakes.
He had accumulated enemies.
He had been dismissed, criticized, and pushed toward the political wilderness.
There were plenty of people who believed his best days were behind him.
And yet history wasn’t finished with Winston Churchill.
Not by a long shot.
I remember being captivated by that book.
The political intrigue, the personalities, the struggles, the uncertainty of what would happen next.
It was a wonderful reminder that history isn’t written in advance.
The people dismissed as finished today may turn out to be indispensable tomorrow.
And the people confidently predicting the future may discover that history has a rather wicked sense of humor.
I remember thinking the book would make a terrific movie.
I still think so.
And every time I see it on my shelf, I’m reminded of the person who introduced me to it.
Karl Rove.
Now, does that mean I agree with every political judgment Karl has ever made?
Of course not.
Good heavens, if agreement were a requirement for friendship, Washington would be a city of people eating dinner alone.
Does it mean Donald Trump isn’t entitled to disagree with him?
Absolutely not.
Trump has every right to defend his campaign strategy, challenge Rove’s analysis, and argue that his own political instincts are better.
That’s politics.
But there’s something about our current political culture that troubles me.
We’ve developed this peculiar habit of treating disagreement as a demand for personal exile.
Somebody criticizes your favorite politician, and suddenly every decent thing that person ever did is supposed to disappear.
Somebody takes the wrong position on an issue, and the friendship is over.
Somebody changes political teams, and the old photographs might as well be burned.
What kind of way is that to live?
I spent many years working alongside Rush Limbaugh, a man who understood political conflict as well as anybody who ever sat behind a microphone.
Rush could take apart an argument with extraordinary precision.
He could expose contradictions, challenge the conventional wisdom, and make millions of people laugh while doing it.
And believe me, he knew how to recognize a political adversary.
But one of the things I appreciated about my years with Rush was the opportunity to encounter people and ideas I might never otherwise have encountered.
There were politicians, authors, broadcasters, historians, and all sorts of fascinating personalities.
Some became acquaintances.
Some became friends.
And some left lasting impressions through the simplest gestures.
Like sending somebody a book because you think he’ll enjoy reading it.
That may sound like a small thing.
It isn’t.
A thoughtful gift says something about the person giving it.
It says, “I know something about your interests. I remembered you. I thought this might mean something to you.”
In a world where people are forever trying to impress one another with their importance, there’s something refreshing about a gesture that isn’t about the giver at all.
And I don’t intend to forget those gestures.
Now, before somebody gets carried away, let me make something clear.
I’m not writing a political defense of Karl Rove.
He doesn’t need me to do that.
And I’m not suggesting that friendship requires silence when somebody is wrong.
Quite the opposite.
Real friendship ought to leave room for disagreement.
Sometimes substantial disagreement.
You can tell a friend you think he’s mistaken without deciding he’s suddenly become a terrible human being.
You can admire somebody’s generosity while questioning his judgment.
You can remember a wonderful experience without endorsing every decision made by every person who happened to be there.
Why is that so difficult?
I suspect part of the problem is that politics has become a kind of permanent identity test.
Every day brings another demand to declare which side you’re on.
Every controversy requires another denunciation.
And heaven help the person who says, “Well, actually, I know him, and my experience has been a little different.”
That kind of answer doesn’t fit neatly into a social media post.
It’s much easier to shout.
It’s much easier to divide everybody into heroes and villains.
It’s much easier to pretend that people are nothing more than their latest political opinion.
But human beings are considerably more complicated than that.
Thank goodness.
When I think back on that White House luncheon with Rush, I don’t think about which faction was winning an argument that particular week.
I remember the experience.
I remember the privilege of being there.
I remember a chapter of my life that still means a great deal to me.
And when I think about Karl Rove, I remember the books.
I remember the thoughtfulness.
I remember Troublesome Young Men and the hours I spent immersed in its pages.
Those memories belong to me.
No political argument can take them away.
Maybe that’s one of the advantages of having been around long enough to accumulate a few stories.
You learn that today’s political feud will eventually become yesterday’s news.
The television cameras will move on.
The headlines will fade.
The people who were supposedly indispensable will leave office.
And the political experts will find somebody new to argue about.
But the friendships you maintained, the kindnesses you received, and the experiences you shared can stay with you for a lifetime.
I don’t know whether Donald Trump and Karl Rove will ever agree about campaign strategy.
I rather doubt they’ll be exchanging reading recommendations anytime soon.
That’s their business.
As for me, I’ll continue to judge the people I’ve known by more than their position in the latest political argument.
And I think I’ll go find my copy of Troublesome Young Men.
It’s been years since I read it.
I remember how much I enjoyed it.
I remember the impression it left on me.
And I remember the friend who sent it.
— Bo
