Ten years ago this fall, I said goodbye to the Ontario Legislature after 21 years in office.
So, I sat down and watched my last speech to see if it aged well.
Some of it made me laugh. Some made me wonder whether I got it right. And some of it, unexpectedly, choked me up. Especially when I got to this: “This is the toughest part, Speaker — deep breath.”
I was talking about family. I met my wife, Debbie, through politics. Our daughters, Miller and Maitland, grew up scampering through the halls of Queen’s Park. In that final speech, I said nothing would make this dad prouder than seeing one of our girls standing in the Legislature someday as an MPP. Miller is 19 now, casting her first votes. Happily, my prediction that one of our girls would join the NDP hasn’t come true…yet.
On the broader themes I reflected on: were they still on target a decade later?
After 21 years in politics — through the victories, the defeats and plenty of scars — I said I was leaving less cynical than when I arrived. “At the end of the day, I remain an optimist.”
I still believe that.
The arc bends to better.
Sure, politics is angrier. Trust comes harder. It can be frustrating, messy and painfully slow. But step back, take the longer view and history has a bias towards progress.
I reflected then on how much Queen’s Park had changed during my 21 years there: “more open, more transparent and more diverse” and “less the domain of the powerful and more the domain of the people every year.”
Ten years later, I’d qualify that a little. We’ve seen steps backwards as well as forwards, including on transparency. More people have a voice, more people have a seat at the table, information is closer at hand, and there are more ways than ever to participate, organize and hold those in power to account.
The arc doesn’t bend smoothly. But I still believe it bends to better.
Play hard. Play fair.
I borrowed from Theodore Roosevelt that day. I repeated his famous challenge to spend yourself in a worthy cause and, even in failure, to fail while “daring greatly.”
Then I gave my own version:
“Give people clear choices. Don’t be tepid. Don’t be middling. Don’t bite your tongue. You don’t know when the buzzer goes off. Play hard and play fair.”
Public life guarantees criticism. Leadership does too. Choose something that matters. Get into the arena. Take some hits. Risk coming up short. Better that than never getting into the fight at all.
That applies to organizations too. If something matters to the people you represent, you have to be willing to fight for it. Windows close.
And play fair.
Before I spoke that day, Lisa MacLeod (PC), Paul Miller (NDP) and Jim Bradley (Liberal) each rose to say a few words. Lisa spoke warmly about family and the pressures of public life. Paul brought his trademark mischievous humour. We had our political differences, but I always admired how fiercely he went to bat for his community.
And Jim, my fellow Niagara politician, was thoughtful and gracious as only he could be. He had seen an awful lot of politicians come and go over his remarkable career. Jim later served as Niagara Regional Chair and sadly passed away last year.
I had fought plenty of political battles over the years. Watching their remarks again ten years later, I was struck by how much they meant to me.
The battles fade. The relationships don’t.
Everyone has a microphone
Here’s what I didn’t see coming.
In my farewell speech, I reminded my colleagues what an extraordinary job we had:
“We are a privileged 107. There is nobody else on this entire planet and in this province who can actually walk into this chamber. We are given a microphone and a desk by voters…so use it.”
Ten years later, everybody has a microphone. I missed how loud it would get when everybody could broadcast at once.
The scarce commodity today isn’t a microphone. It’s influence.
Credibility, relationships and trust are what make people actually listen.
Know when to leave the stage
This is one I sensed then but now I really get it.
Ambitious people spend a lot of time figuring out how to get onto the stage. I sure did. We spend considerably less time thinking about how to walk off it.
Politics rarely gives you the choice. Neither does business. Or life.
I was fortunate. I got to choose my moment.
A farewell speech is one of those rare moments when you get the last word. The trick is resisting the temptation to use it that way.
Ten years later, I’m glad I left with gratitude rather than grievance. It set me up for a pretty good next.
I ended my farewell speech this way:
“You’ve got a microphone, so use it. Twenty-one years ago, I got this microphone. I’ve used it well. It’s a bit beaten up, it’s a bit worn, but it still works. And now, Speaker, I hand it back to the people who put their faith in me these 21 years.”
Some of it aged well. Some looks different. But ten years later, I’d give pretty much the same advice.