Taking Jesse Seriously

Any American child can grow up to be President.

That idealistic sentiment began as part of the catechism of democracy, but through generations of rote it has degenerated into a kindergarten fable. Adults, of course, know the truth. The presidency is reserved for white men who have held high office and who have almost always avoided embracing a cause or expressing a sentiment that is far outside the mainstream of established opinion.

But there are rare moments when the truths that seemed self-evident begin to be re-examined. The recalibration is a slow process, and it does not always immediately lead to dramatic consequences. Still, just the act of toying with a previously unimaginable possibility leaves an indelible mark. Even if the surface of life goes on pretty much as before, a seed has been planted that may someday bloom.

And so it is in the spring of 1988 with the campaign of Jesse Jackson. Twenty years after the assassination of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., a disciple of the civil rights martyr has seized the crown of Democratic front runner. Jackson was not merely an acolyte; he was the impetuous rebel in King's official family, the one who appeared on television the day after the shooting wearing a bloody shirt and boldly -- and inaccurately -- claiming that it was he, Jesse, who cradled the dying Martin in his arms. Now exactly two decades after the death of the man who fought for the right to vote, Jackson is demanding the political rights that come with those votes. And so, for the first time in the nation's history, a major political party was grappling with one of the biggest what-ifs of all: What if Democratic voters actually nominate a black man for President?

That question would be explosive if the contender were a safe token, a man who had held all the right offices, adopted all the sensible positions, and differed from the majority's norms only by the accident of his race. But this contender challenges all the established verities at once. For Jackson, the illegitimate son of a teenage mother, is a fiery preacher who rose to national prominence through controversy and tumult, and he now heads a left-wing populist movement that confronts the centrist assumptions of political life.

Such a nomination would have been unthinkable four years ago. Indeed, it was unthinkable just two weeks ago. But then Jackson's makeshift coalition of inner-city blacks, imperiled autoworkers, college students and affluent liberals swept the Michigan caucuses with 55% of the vote (the highest of any Democratic candidate outside his home state) and humbled the party favorite, Michael Dukakis. The electrifying magnitude of this Rust Belt rebellion gave the preacher-politician the credibility he had long craved. Suddenly party leaders took seriously the inexorable delegate arithmetic that showed Jackson running neck and neck with Dukakis for the lead. At week's end the fast- shifting delegate tote board gave Dukakis 653 to Jackson's 646, with Albert Gore stalled in third place with 381.