I realized at that moment that Daddy was finally enjoying the comforts of the retirement he deserved. His life had turned around since those dark days in Denver when his professional life crashed around him. It had been hard work rebuilding his life after Mother’s death. But he had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. In 1994, for his work on behalf of minority communities in Denver and East Palo Alto, the National Alliance of Black School Educators presented him with their Living Legend award. In 1998, the City of Palo Alto honored him with a lifetime achievement award. And the community college system in California still awards John W. Rice Jr. diversity fellowships every year.
As good as life was, I knew that my time as provost had to come to an end. Gerhard had been president for seven years and was starting to think about his successor. I loved being provost but didn’t want to be president, even of Stanford, with the job’s emphasis on conducting the external affairs of the university—alumni and government relations and fund-raising. Gerhard needed a new provost who could be groomed to succeed him.
I was also beginning to feel that I’d done all that I could do. My tenure had been somewhat controversial, but I don’t doubt that the trustees appreciated the six budget surpluses I’d produced, the renewal of undergraduate education that Gerhard and I had championed, and the repair of the physical campus. Even the students had come to like me. When I announced I was stepping down from the post, the Stanford Daily ran an editorial entitled “Farewell, Provost Rice,” which featured a line that I will always treasure: “Condi leaves a legacy as a powerful administrator who cares about students.” Even the minority communities—particularly the black community—showed its appreciation with a wonderful farewell event, complete with gospel versions of my favorite hymns.
As for the faculty, I’m not so sure. I’d made a lot of tough decisions with directness and without showing much patience for the veto groups that populate a university faculty. Many colleagues called to say that they’d miss my clear and unapologetic leadership. Nonetheless, I’m sure that many others were relieved when, in the announcement of my decision to step down, I made clear that I was done with university administration. The fact that I’d signed on to help Governor George W. Bush in his run for the Presidency of the United States convinced everyone that I meant what I’d said. But I was absolutely truthful when, at the event held to honor my service, I said that being provost of Stanford was the best job I’d ever had.
chapter forty
The evening after Stanford’s event in my honor, my father and I had dinner. He was a little pensive but jokingly said that maybe I’d have more time for dinner now that I was no longer going to be provost. Hearing that, I made a silent vow to see him more.
“So, what are you going to do for an encore?” he asked.
I explained that I liked management and the private sector and thought that I might try to combine the two.
“Aren’t you going to help George W. Bush on foreign policy?” Daddy asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “But that won’t be full-time.”
“Sure,” Daddy said incredulously—and presciently.
My association with Governor Bush had begun in earnest in August 1998 when George H. W. Bush called to invite me to spend a little time with his son Governor George W. Bush, just so we could get to know each other better and talk a little about foreign policy.
When the then–Texas governor told me that he’d likely make a run for the White House, his presidential bid struck me as having long odds for success. The Clinton years had been morally tarnished but peaceful and relatively prosperous. The governor was untested and would likely face a real pro in Vice President Al Gore. I was too polite to say these things, but I sure thought them.
George W. Bush was still a few months from being reelected as Texas governor in a landslide victory, carrying 68 percent of the vote. He told me that he was confident of reelection and that if he won impressively (which he fully expected), he’d likely run for the Presidency. He wanted to start thinking about what to do in foreign policy if he got elected. Throughout the weekend, while fishing (he fished, I sat in the boat and watched) or exercising side by side in the small family gym on the compound, we talked about Russia, China, and Latin America. I soon realized that he knew our southern neighbors, particularly Mexico, far better than I did.
But we also talked about other things. He was interested in my upbringing in segregated Birmingham. I was attracted to his passion for improving education for disadvantaged youth.
We emailed back and forth several times during the fall, and a couple of days after the election, I received a note from him. From that time on, we began to follow international events together. In March 1999 I received a call asking if I’d come down to Austin to talk to the governor about the upcoming campaign. When my picture appeared on the front page of the New York Times as a member of the exploratory committee dedicated to electing George W. Bush President of the United States, my father was the first person I called.
The campaign itself proved professionally fulfilling, but early on I realized that it would require my full-time focus. Foreign policy would be the governor’s Achilles’ heel against more seasoned candidates in the primaries and, eventually, in the general election. I knew that George Bush would look to me to help answer the inevitable questions about his readiness to assume the mantle of commander in chief.
I was having fun. Anyone who’s interested in politics should do a campaign from the ground floor at least once. I loved the pace and the sense of being a part of an adventure.
Then, in February 2000, Daddy suffered cardiac arrest. I was in a meeting when my assistant burst in and said that something had happened to Daddy. I rushed out and sped to his house. It looked like a scene from a TV medical drama. Daddy was on the floor and they were shocking his heart. I heard the medic say, “I have a weak pulse.” We all rushed to the hospital and waited. It hadn’t been a heart attack, but his heart had stopped long enough to deprive his brain of oxygen, and he was now in a coma. No one could say what the prognosis was.
Daddy continued in a coma for about a week and then he began to stir. But he’d sustained significant brain damage. A few times we were asked those awful questions about whether to continue life-sustaining support. Here I have to say that I was weaker than my stepmother, who was prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to keep my father alive. I just wasn’t so sure and prayed every day and night for guidance about what to do.
Then one day I was in his room and the basketball game was on television. I thought I could see him tracking the game with his eyes. Not long after, Daddy began to improve, and eventually he was transferred to a nursing home for long-term care.
Soon after, I resumed my campaign activities. I called several times a day to check on Daddy, and friends took daily shifts to sit with my father. The nursing home had wonderful, caring attendants, but such facilities are woefully understaffed, so I never trusted the quality of care enough to leave him alone, even for a minute.
Sometimes Clara or my aunt Gee, my mother’s sister who’d come out to help us, would put Daddy on the phone. He seemed to know that he was talking to me. I tried never to be away from home for too long, returning to help oversee his multiple therapies and feeding tubes or struggle with Medicare and insurance. And I would endure those terrible episodes when he would yell out for what seemed like hours. This was, according to the doctors, a good sign that his brain was repairing itself. To me it sounded as if my father was being flung into the depths of hell.