Dave Jamieson: Heavyweights in American politics
[Dave Jamieson is a freelance writer in Washington, D.C.]
In New Jersey, any candidate for high office can count on getting smeared over taxes, corruption, the economy, or all of the above. But in this fall's hard-fought gubernatorial race, an unlikely issue has popped up amidst the usual mud-slinging: the portly physique of Republican challenger Chris Christie. Ever since Jon Corzine released his now-infamous attack ad, in which a disdainful voiceover claims Christie improperly "threw his weight around" as a U.S. Attorney, neither candidate has managed to entirely escape the politics of fat.
Asked by a newspaper editorial board if he thought his opponent was overweight, Corzine responded, "Am I bald?" Christie fired back, telling interviewers that his opponent's apparent cheap shot was "beneath the office that he holds." Then, this week, Corzine retreated, telling CNN that it would have been "probably a good idea" for his campaign to have chosen its words differently in the offending ad.
That a campaign and the media would fixate on a candidate's weight, however, should come as no great surprise. Mocking politicians for their girth is an American tradition that stretches back well over a century, to a time when fewer Americans were obese and even fewer had reason to feel self-conscious about it. But being overweight hasn't always been a danger in politics. Although a paunchy look has historically left pols open to caricature, plenty of them have found ways to make their weight work for them. Others, of course, haven't been so lucky.
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The most vicious and sustained fat attack in political history was launched by none other than cartoonist-slash-hitman Thomas Nast, himself a latter-day New Jerseyan. Drawing in the influential pages of Harper's Weekly, Nast used much of his ink in the early 1870s to portray Tammany Hall leader William Marcy "Boss" Tweed as the roly-poly symbol of New York City venality.
By lampooning Tweed's round build, Nast insinuated the same ugly attributes about his target that Corzine's team was probably shooting for in their 33-second spot—arrogance and misconduct. (The television ad claims Christie used his position as a prosecutor to get out of driving infractions; Corzine, in defending the ad's language, has said the issue at hand is "abuse of power.") Nast's pear-shaped Tweed, whose ring of cronies was accused of bilking the city out of tens of millions of dollars, was so distinguished by his fleshy rolls and diamond stickpin that the cartoonist didn't even have to give him a face for readers to know who it was. "Obesity was not a national trend then," says Tweed biographer Kenneth D. Ackerman. "To be overweight was a sign of wealth—you had money to buy food." Nast's message was clear: Tweed grew fat on his spoils while the little man withered away. The tubby caricature devastated Tweed's popular image. "My constituents can't read," he famously griped, "but, damn it, they can see pictures."
Back then, a politician's lack of fitness didn't necessarily suggest a lack of fitness for office. Grover Cleveland, yet another Jersey guy, was among the heaviest politicians ever to reach the White House. He had ballooned by gorging on sausage and beer before becoming the governor of New York. As an Albany reporter once marveled, "His skin hangs on his cheeks in thick, unhealthy-looking folds, [and] the coat buttoned about his large chest and abdomen looks ready to burst with the confined fat." Even though he reportedly sailed past three bills, it seemed as if just as many people were charmed by Cleveland's size as were troubled by it. His nieces and nephews lovingly called him "Uncle Jumbo," and members of his Washington circle referred to him as "the Big One." His plump portrayal in cartoons wasn't necessarily ill-intentioned. "Cleveland was fat," says political cartoon historian Stephen Hess. "There wasn't something so funny about it. The cartoonists were fat, too."...
Read entire article at The New Republic
In New Jersey, any candidate for high office can count on getting smeared over taxes, corruption, the economy, or all of the above. But in this fall's hard-fought gubernatorial race, an unlikely issue has popped up amidst the usual mud-slinging: the portly physique of Republican challenger Chris Christie. Ever since Jon Corzine released his now-infamous attack ad, in which a disdainful voiceover claims Christie improperly "threw his weight around" as a U.S. Attorney, neither candidate has managed to entirely escape the politics of fat.
Asked by a newspaper editorial board if he thought his opponent was overweight, Corzine responded, "Am I bald?" Christie fired back, telling interviewers that his opponent's apparent cheap shot was "beneath the office that he holds." Then, this week, Corzine retreated, telling CNN that it would have been "probably a good idea" for his campaign to have chosen its words differently in the offending ad.
That a campaign and the media would fixate on a candidate's weight, however, should come as no great surprise. Mocking politicians for their girth is an American tradition that stretches back well over a century, to a time when fewer Americans were obese and even fewer had reason to feel self-conscious about it. But being overweight hasn't always been a danger in politics. Although a paunchy look has historically left pols open to caricature, plenty of them have found ways to make their weight work for them. Others, of course, haven't been so lucky.
***
The most vicious and sustained fat attack in political history was launched by none other than cartoonist-slash-hitman Thomas Nast, himself a latter-day New Jerseyan. Drawing in the influential pages of Harper's Weekly, Nast used much of his ink in the early 1870s to portray Tammany Hall leader William Marcy "Boss" Tweed as the roly-poly symbol of New York City venality.
By lampooning Tweed's round build, Nast insinuated the same ugly attributes about his target that Corzine's team was probably shooting for in their 33-second spot—arrogance and misconduct. (The television ad claims Christie used his position as a prosecutor to get out of driving infractions; Corzine, in defending the ad's language, has said the issue at hand is "abuse of power.") Nast's pear-shaped Tweed, whose ring of cronies was accused of bilking the city out of tens of millions of dollars, was so distinguished by his fleshy rolls and diamond stickpin that the cartoonist didn't even have to give him a face for readers to know who it was. "Obesity was not a national trend then," says Tweed biographer Kenneth D. Ackerman. "To be overweight was a sign of wealth—you had money to buy food." Nast's message was clear: Tweed grew fat on his spoils while the little man withered away. The tubby caricature devastated Tweed's popular image. "My constituents can't read," he famously griped, "but, damn it, they can see pictures."
Back then, a politician's lack of fitness didn't necessarily suggest a lack of fitness for office. Grover Cleveland, yet another Jersey guy, was among the heaviest politicians ever to reach the White House. He had ballooned by gorging on sausage and beer before becoming the governor of New York. As an Albany reporter once marveled, "His skin hangs on his cheeks in thick, unhealthy-looking folds, [and] the coat buttoned about his large chest and abdomen looks ready to burst with the confined fat." Even though he reportedly sailed past three bills, it seemed as if just as many people were charmed by Cleveland's size as were troubled by it. His nieces and nephews lovingly called him "Uncle Jumbo," and members of his Washington circle referred to him as "the Big One." His plump portrayal in cartoons wasn't necessarily ill-intentioned. "Cleveland was fat," says political cartoon historian Stephen Hess. "There wasn't something so funny about it. The cartoonists were fat, too."...