Montana Viewpoint

It was January 1991. I was a second term legislator who, for a reason I can’t remember, wanted to take on a leadership role and sought and won the position of running the first meeting of the House Democrats. That was the meeting where we elected our leaders. It was before term limits, at a time when newer legislators were expected to know their place in the pecking order, defer to their seniors and rise through the ranks. Even knowing that, I had nonetheless inserted myself into a minor leadership position and was, I suppose, viewed by some as arrogant and overreaching. Knowing all this, I was not totally confident in my new role, and maybe showed it.

I was seated at a table in the front of the room and all the legislators were seated facing me, except one. Francis Bardanouve, who had conquered poverty and a severe speech impediment to become the longest serving House member and the chairman of the powerful Appropriations Committee, stood behind me. Francis and I had been seatmates in the previous Legislature, and we got to know and like one another. Before I could rap the gavel on the table to begin the meeting, I felt Francis rest his calloused rancher’s hands on my shoulders. I was not prepared for this, and it felt awkward and somewhat uncomfortable for me. I was constantly aware that they were there, and they remained there for many minutes. So were those facing me aware of this, and Francis wanted them to be aware of it. He was communicating one message to me and another to the legislators seated in front of me. To me it was showing his trust in me and giving me confidence. To the others it was that I was running the meeting with his blessing and approval.

And even though it felt somewhat uncomfortable, I was grateful for his kindness and support.

It meant a lot to me then, and it still does.

Politicians — especially the male of the species — are the most tactile group of people I have ever known. There is a constant laying on of hands, pats on the shoulder, arms over others’ shoulders, hands on others’ knees, heads close together, words spoken softly into the ear of the listener. I liked it, and frankly, I miss it. It gave us a feeling of belonging, of being important as a person, of being a friend, of being a confidant.

Most of my memories are of man-to-man behavior, but I will never forget Representative Carolyn Squires grabbing me by the lapels and pulling me toward her while she explained to me — maybe “told me” is a better way to put it — what she wanted of me. There was no one more passionate than Carolyn about defending the well-being of the middle-class, the poor and people with disabilities. She had been there, lived all that. She had had a hard beginning in life. She had been a single mother on welfare, and by hard work she became self-sufficient and confident. Carolyn carried a lot of weight with all of us and was loved and trusted even by those who disagreed with her.

She would grab people by the arm as they walked past her desk and often would rest her forearm on my shoulder with her head next to mine while talking to me. I thought she was a grand person.

Not everyone enjoyed being touched and most of us could sense people’s personal boundaries and respected them. Sometimes people were thoughtless, and sometimes even purposely aggressive. We knew this because there were complaints made to the leadership.

Frankly, it took me a while to become used to this tactile way of communicating, but once I did, I realized that not only was I being accepted by my peers, I was accepting of them. I learned the language of touch in the Legislature, and I learned both how to use it, and, I hope, how to not use it.

Touching is a way of communicating and like any of the ways we communicate can be used to hurt or intimidate, encourage or show affection. Like any communication, it can be interpreted correctly or incorrectly. But because touch is the most intimate of all the ways we communicate it is so important to know how to use it and to use it responsibly.

Jim Elliott served 16 years in the Montana Legislature as a state representative and state senator and four years as chairman of the Montana Democratic Party. He lives on his ranch in Trout Creek. Montana Viewpoint appears in weekly papers across Montana and online at missoulacurrent.com.