Decision Points

Dukakis tapped Texas Senator Lloyd Bentsen .
    ** I later heard that General Shinseki’s staff had not invited Don to attend. I think he should have gone anyway.
    *** In 2004, the nonpartisan Butler Report concluded that the statement was “well-founded.”

n the heart of central London sat a thirty-four-story gray building. One floor contained a large, open space known as the Fertilizing Room. Inside, technicians meticulously mixed eggs and sperm in test tubes to produce the next generation. The hatchery served as the lifeblood of a new world government, which had mastered the formula for engineering a productive and stable society.
    That scene was not the creation of Jay Lefkowitz , the bright lawyer reading aloud to me in the Oval Office in 2001. It came from Aldous Huxley ’s 1932 novel,
Brave New World
. With the recent breakthroughs in biotechnology and genetics, the book now seemed chillingly relevant. So did its lesson: For all its efficiency, Huxley’s utopian world seemed sterile, joyless, and empty of meaning. The quest to perfect humanity ended in the loss of humanity.
    In April of that same year, another piece of writing turned up in the Oval Office. Describing what she called a “wrenching family journey,” the author urged me to support the “miracle possibilities” of embryonic stem cell research to provide cures for people like her husband, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s. She closed, “Mr. President, I have some personal experience regarding the many decisions you face each day. … I’d be very grateful if you would take my thoughts and prayers into your consideration on this critical issue. Most sincerely, Nancy Reagan .”
    The juxtaposition of Mrs. Reagan’s letter and the Huxley novel framed the decision I faced on stem cell research. Many felt the federal government had a responsibility to fund medical research that might help save the lives of people like President Reagan. Others argued that supporting the destruction of human embryos could take us off a moral cliff towardan uncaring society that devalued life. The contrast was stark, and I faced a difficult decision.

    “Sometimes our differences run so deep it seems we share a continent, but not a country,” I said in my Inaugural Address on January 20, 2001. “We do not accept this, and we will not allow it. Our unity, our union, is the serious work of leaders and citizens in every generation. And this is my solemn pledge: I will work to build a single nation of justice and opportunity.”
    After a luncheon with dignitaries at the Capitol, Laura and I made our way to the White House as part of the official Inaugural parade. Pennsylvania Avenue was lined by well-wishers, along with a few pockets of protesters. They carried big signs with foul language, hurled eggs at the motorcade, and screamed at the top of their lungs. I spent most of the ride in the presidential limo behind thick glass windows, so their shouting came across in pantomime. While I couldn’t make out their words, their middle fingers spoke loudly: The bitterness of the 2000 election was not going away anytime soon.
    Laura and I watched the rest of the parade from the reviewing stand at the White House. We waved to the marchers from every state and were thrilled to see high school bands from Midland and Crawford. After the parade, I went to check out the Oval Office. As I walked over from the residence, the room looked like it was glowing. Its bright lights and gold drapes stood out in vivid contrast from the dark winter sky.
    Each president decorates the Oval Office in his own style. I hung several Texas paintings, including Julian Onderdonk ’s renditions of the Alamo, a West Texas landscape, and a field of bluebonnets—a daily reminder of our ranch in Crawford. I also brought a painting called
Rio Grande
from an El Paso artist and friend, Tom Lea , and a scene of a horseman charging up a hill by W.H.D. Koerner . The name of the piece,
A Charge to Keep
, echoed a Methodist hymn by Charles Wesley, which we sang at my first inauguration as governor. Both the painting and hymn reflect the importance of serving a cause larger than oneself.

    The Oval Office as it looked during my presidency.
White House/Eric Draper
    I decided to keep the Rembrandt Peale portrait of George Washington that Dad and Bill Clinton had placed over the mantel. I added busts of Abraham Lincoln , Dwight Eisenhower , and Winston Churchill —a gift on loan from the British