Mitt Romney circa 1962
Several weeks ago I did a blog post entitled: “I was Mitt Romney’s Boss“. If you recall, in 1962 when I was 16 years old, I was a volunteer for the Republican gubernatorial candidate in Michigan, George W. Romney. They put me in charge of the mimeograph room where I worked for the summer. Shortly after I began, the candidate’s son, Mitt, joined me and we spent the next few months together cranking out campaign flyers and strategy notebooks.
The recent news about Romney’s “hi-jinks” as a teenager has brought up a pretty ugly memory of that summer, one that I have repressed for the last 50 years, but about which I can be silent no longer. I’m ready to talk about the day I was bullied by Romney.
It was mid-August. Always a hot and gritty time in Detroit. The campaign was moving into high gear. We were all excited about the new poll results that had just been released showing that George Romney was soaring ahead of the colorless Democratic candidate, John Swainson. To celebrate I asked my mother to take me shopping at Hudson’s to buy a festive outfit that I would wear to the headquarters the following day.
The next morning I put on my new lavender velveteen “smoking” jacket, attached the accompanying pink ascot to the collar of my shirt, and headed down to the Romney for Governor offices.
When I opened the door, I saw Mitt at the mimeograph. He didn’t look up. He was trying to take out some paper that had gotten jammed in the drum. Mitt was dressed in his usual clothes. Old jeans and a torn t-shirt with mimeograph ink smudges almost covering up the silk screened message: “Real Men Do It in a Rambler.”
Then, pulling out the jammed paper, he said, “Andy, dang it, I think we got it now.” He turned toward me. I was still standing in the doorway, trying to look nonchalant, just kind of waiting for him to tell me what a cool outfit I had on.
But that isn’t what happened. Instead Mitt did a double take. His mouth dropped just about down to his pupik. Then as if experiencing a gradual realization of something hideous, his visage turned ugly, even sinister; his expression changed into a crooked sneer.
“Well,” he snarled, “If it isn’t Liberace.”
I didn’t really understand the sub-text of his comment, so I said in all innocence, “Not really. I’ve never learned to play the piano. My mom took me shopping yesterday for this new outfit. I thought it would bring a little color to the mimeograph room.”
For the rest of the morning, Romney was silent. It wasn’t that he behaved with any kind of hostility. He just ignored me. Wouldn’t look me in the eye. When I tried to help him crank the machine, he pulled his hand away and gave me a dark look.
Finally, in order to break the ice a little, I told him that maybe we could take a break. I offered to buy him some brunch. At that point, Mitt completely lost it. He started screaming at me. I don’t remember the exact words. Something like: “You can take your domestic partnerships and shove them up your ass.”
Then Mitt grabbed me by my hair. It was long then, a shock of it came down over one of my eyes. With his other hand he pushed my head into the hollow drum of the mimeograph machine and started cranking it around.
