The newly formed Peterson government faced its first by-election in 1986 in the riding of York East. Conservative MPP and former minister of labour Robert Elgie had no interest in serving in opposition following the defeat of his Conservative government. He accepted an appointment from Premier Peterson as chair of the Workers’ Compensation Board of Ontario, as it was then known (now the Workplace Safety and Insurance Board). Elgie’s resignation paved the way for Peterson’s first political test as a minority government, increasing the pressure for a win.
We wanted a woman candidate to demonstrate Premier Peterson’s commitment to advancing the role of women in government. We recruited Christine Hart, a young, bright lawyer who lived in the riding. As she had never run before, she needed a crash course in politics, which is not abnormal in a by-election. But it was also the case that Christine was not political; she had no close political advisors to turn to with her questions and doubts. The upshot was too much second-guessing of decisions against a tight timeline by well-meaning but uninformed people who did not understand how things worked in the backroom.
I didn’t get assigned to the by-election right away—I was focused on pre-writ readiness for the next general election—but Christine managed to chase away her first four campaign managers. As the by-election was about to be called, the premier was brought into the picture. His response? “Send in the bitch.” A few minutes later, I was in his office and he told me I had to get in there and fix it. Although I didn’t think his comment about me was very nice, I knew he meant it as a compliment. I took solace in the fact that he knew I’d be single-minded about winning.
Lesson: It’s particularly true that in politics, when the going gets tough, the tough have to get going. You don’t get to cut and run, you stand your ground and fight.
I liked Christine; she was a good candidate and there for the right reasons. She had pressures of her own. I quickly came to understand her family was the source of tension and the definitive factor in the departure of her first four campaign managers.
On my very first day I was sitting at my desk when Christine’s brother Hugh approached me. In no uncertain terms he informed me that he considered it his job to make my life miserable. Without a word, I calmly studied him over my glasses until I could sense he was getting uncomfortable. I then advised him, in my most dismissive and firm tone, that he’d be way too busy putting up signs and canvassing to have any time to bother me. But believe me, he tried.
Christine’s then-husband Rob Warren demanded a lot of input. I was prepared to give it to him on the promise he not discuss what he heard with the candidate, given that she needed to stay focused on meeting voters and not worry about campaign organization. It was quickly evident Rob was not prepared to keep that commitment, so I stopped telling him things. I could feel the pressure around the family dynamic building.
The boiling point was reached on Hugh’s birthday (although I was unaware of that until after the blow up). The premier’s wife, Shelley Peterson, arrived in the morning to accompany Christine to seniors’ residences to seek that critical vote. They were both beautifully dressed and there was no doubt they’d be a hit with that sector. Christine told me that Hugh would be joining them for the day, which was okay with me until I saw him. He was dressed in cut-off jeans and a ragged T-shirt and when he refused to go home and change, I sent him to put up signs.
When Christine returned to the campaign office, she was furious with me, as Hugh had called her to complain. To demonstrate her unhappiness, Christine advised me she would not be campaigning anymore that day. With my frustration already pretty high, my temper boiled over. Christine was leaving out the front door and I was at the back of the campaign headquarters. Tears of anger and exasperation rolling down my face, I began to shout. I told her to go ahead and leave; if she didn’t care about winning this campaign, why should the rest of us? My reaction was over the top, and it was certainly inappropriate to yell at my candidate.
But the real problem was that once in full flight, I was unable to rein in my Italian temper. I continued to shout and stamp my feet. It was unprofessional and unbecoming. My friend Bill Murray was nearby watching in disbelief. Recognizing I had lost it and was unable to pull back, he took the only action he could think of to bring the altercation to an end. Bigger and stronger, he stepped behind me, turned me around and pushed me out the back door into the pouring rain. I was instantly drenched.
Shocked and standing in the cold rain, I calmed down. Christine did not return that day. I spent the day sorting through my fatigue and the source of all that anger. I thought seriously about leaving the campaign, but I knew I couldn’t do that to the party or the premier. And I wasn’t going to risk a hit to my reputation by running away when the going got tough. I thanked Bill for his timely, albeit drastic, intervention. He truly could see no other way to get me to stop yelling. It turned into one of those special moments that bond people who survive the pressures of politics.
With my perspective back in place and my temper in check, the next day I apologized to Christine. We moved forward, won the by-election and remain friends to this day. This anecdote is more than a story for me. It speaks to the person I was becoming in politics. By then I had been around long enough to know there were those who saw it as a fun place to be, and those who were dedicated to the cause. It’s not that the two were always mutually exclusive, as almost everyone had a commitment to the long-term health of the party. It was that I needed people to focus on the serious part when it mattered. And by-elections mattered.
Lesson: For a woman in politics, it’s a fine line between being a boss and being liked.
I wanted to be a leader and I’d established my credentials as a hard worker. But I also wanted to be liked and have friends. Far too often, those two realities clashed, as politics often feels like a personality contest. The social element was extensive and far-reaching. MPPs living away from home during the week and younger staffers who were often away from home for the first time had no other place to be, so it meant they socialized frequently. It became the norm to follow the pressure-filled days with a night at the bar with friends.
An introvert by nature, I could take only so much socializing. I’d show up for the must-attends—like holiday gatherings or all-staff nights—but I rarely made it to the end of an evening. As well, when you work at the Centre and you’re out for the evening, people don’t often ask about how you are doing. They want to make an impression or discuss an issue or their future, which was fine with me as it made conversations easier and I was prepared to share my experience and advice. But for me, socializing in politics was not downtime.
The day after the York East by-election, Christine came by while we were clearing out the office to thank me for all I’d done to get her elected. She handed me a large bouquet of flowers, stating, “You probably don’t even like flowers.” I took it to mean that flowers represented the soft side of someone and she’d not seen any such side of me. I understood it but it hurt a little. And it made me think about how hard it was for a woman to be both demanding and likeable.
It was not uncommon for people unhappy with my management style to let me know that I was unpopular. I’d hear, “People would like you better if you weren’t so nasty to them.” It was upsetting at times, but I tried not to let it show. Usually it would happen in a stressful situation or in the lead-up to a large event, like an election or an annual meeting of the party. My response would be, “I’m not here to make friends; I have enough friends. I’m here to get the job done.”
It sometimes felt like I could not have both. If I wanted to be seen as a serious person and compete for senior roles, I could not make a mistake or fail at whatever task I was handed. I regularly carried a large load between my day job in government and my political work, so I rarely had time to socialize. I was racking up wins on the political side of the ledger, but I struggled with how I was seen as a person.
It was essential to develop a thick skin. At home, I might cry or rage to manage my emotions (those who have worked with me know I call that “kicking garbage cans”), but I tried not to show weakness in the room. Not when I was fighting my way into the big leagues. I’d journal my thoughts and feelings and occasionally