“Civility is not a sign of weakness,” said President Brack Obama. “Civility is the glue that holds our democracy together,” echoed Senator John McCain.
Fast forward to today—where “civility” is treated like a four-letter word, replaced by social media tantrums, 30-second attack ads, and campaign slogans that sound like loyalty oaths to Dear Leader.
It’s no longer enough for candidates to say, “Here’s what I believe.” Now they must declare their opponents dangerous, godless, and possibly demonic. And we, the voters, are expected to pick a side and shout “Go Team!” like democracy is a cage match. It’s unrepentant pugilism.
When was the last time Senator Steve Daines held a public town hall? Don’t pull a muscle trying to remember. Our delegation—Daines, Sheehy, Zinke, and Downing—treats Montanans like a mildly inconvenient audience between Fox News appearances. They prefer echo chambers where the only tough question is, “How do you stay so loyal to Donald Trump?”
It wasn’t always this way. No, really.
In 1871, Kentucky’s Democratic Gubernatorial candidate Preston Leslie and his Republican opponent John Marshall Harlan campaigned together—literally. They rode in the same buggy from debate to debate, shared meals, and—brace yourself—shared the same bed.
Go ahead. Picture Daines, Sheehy, Zinke and Downing spooning with their opponents in a roadside inn after a long day of debates. I’ll wait.
Leslie and Harlan debated each other 40 times on issues like Reconstruction and race, yet they didn’t come away hating each other. In fact, Harlan later recommended Leslie for a federal post after losing to him. President Rutherford B. Hayes—a Republican—was so impressed by their mutual respect that he appointed Leslie, a Democrat, as Montana’s territorial governor.
Imagine that kind of class today.
Harlan went on to become a U.S. Supreme Court Justice—the lone dissenter in Plessy v. Ferguson, the case that upheld segregation. One man, standing alone for civil rights and justice. The same man who once bunked with his political rival.
He called Leslie “so gallant a political knight” that they emerged from their campaign as friends. Gallant! Try using that word to describe anyone in Montana’s current congressional delegation. Daines, Sheehy, Zinke, and Downing couldn’t find “gallant” in a dictionary without a lobbyist to spell it out.
Modern campaigns aren’t about ideas—they’re about loyalty, volume, and fundraising. They’re about who can shout “radical left” or “woke mob” the loudest while cashing checks from billionaires. Stray even slightly from the party line, and you end up like Marc Racicot—excommunicated for committing the unpardonable sin of having a conscience.
Sure, politicians don’t have to share a mattress these days. But would it kill them to share a conversation?
Here’s a thought: instead of spending millions trashing opponents, what if Daines, Sheehy, Zinke, and Downing actually talked to voters? What if they committed to—dare I say it—40 debates across Montana? Think how much they’d learn. Think how much we’d learn. And think how much better we’d all sleep knowing our representatives were working for us instead of their party bosses and corporate donors.
But that kind of transparency is so 19th century.
Still, one can dream. Maybe if we keep telling stories like the one about Leslie and Harlan—two men who literally shared a bed and ended up sharing a vision of public service—we might remind today’s politicians that public office isn’t a fan club. It’s a public trust.
Until then, Montanans can rest easy knowing Daines, Sheehy, Zinke, and Downing are sleeping soundly—tucked in under a blanket of dark money, with their consciences safely stored in the nightstand.
Doug James is a Montana attorney and the great, great grandson of Gov. Preston H. Leslie. He lives in Billings.