Ben Nighthorse Campbell: A tribute to my friend, Orrin Hatch

On the surface, Orrin Hatch and I had nothing in common. When I was sworn-in to the U.S. Senate in January 1993, Sen. Hatch (R-Utah), then well into his third term, was already on his way to being one of the “Lions of the Senate.” 

Orrin Hatch was the epitome of what a senator should be — an erudite intellectual, impeccably dressed, well-spoken, with a certain elegance in his manner. I was a mixed-blood kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the offspring of an alcoholic father and a tubercular mother, in and out of orphanages, a high school dropout saved by a stint in the military and the discipline of sport. I chafed at wearing neckties and had to get permission to wear a bolo tie or scarf-slide on the Senate floor, and I preferred cowboy boots to Oxfords. I also happened to be a Democrat.

I met Sen. Hatch a couple of years earlier, when I was in the House, and I liked him right away. This polished, sophisticated senator had an easy demeanor and disarming smile that made him very approachable and likable. I had no idea that when I got to the Senate, he would become my dearest friend in that chamber.

For anybody that has ever watched C-SPAN, I believe the health of American political discourse can be discerned by watching which senators are visiting on the floor during votes. Senators’ schedules are incredibly full; although those schedules include various gatherings with their same-party colleagues, many cross-party relationships are built in the give-and-take while seeing each other on the floor during votes. Orrin Hatch was always a man I looked forward to seeing on the floor and later visiting with at length when the opportunity presented itself.

As our friendship grew, I learned that, despite our obvious differences, we shared much in common. Orrin Hatch did not grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth — far from it. He, like I, grew up during the Depression. He grew up poor, in a home with no indoor plumbing; he worked as a janitor and as a union lather to put himself through college and law school. (After the Korean War, in addition to my GI bill, I picked vegetables and drove a truck as a Teamster to put myself through school.) Orrin had a love of combat sports and had once been a pretty fair boxer. (I had competed in judo for many years, culminating in my participation in the Olympic games.) Orrin had a passion for the arts; he was a wonderful poet and lyricist and could write music as well. (I have spent much of my real life as a jewelry designer and artist.) And, yes, even the well-coiffed Orrin shed his necktie in favor of a bolo and encouraged the rest of the Senate GOP caucus to do the same as a welcome when I became a Republican.

Orrin Hatch grew to be a titan in the Senate. At various times, he served as chairman or ranking member of various committees, including HELP (Health, Education, Labor and Pensions), Finance and Judiciary, putting his unmistakable stamp on them all. He was staunchly conservative, but he was never an abject partisan. I am told that Orrin Hatch sponsored more bills that became law than any senator in history. If he’s not at the top, I am sure he is among the all-time leaders. 

The U.S. Senate traditionally has been the body where the voice of the minority party is given much credence and the majority cannot — and should not — be able to pass legislation without some level of bipartisan support. Orrin Hatch could not have been so prodigious at lawmaking without his ability to reach across the aisle. He had many friends across the aisle, perhaps most famously Sen. Ted Kennedy (D-Mass.), with whom he coauthored the Children’s Health Insurance Program. When Sen. Kennedy and his wife, Victoria, announced their engagement, Orrin wrote a poem for the couple that they later asked him to put to music, and it was played at their wedding.

Orrin Hatch was never caught up in the power of his position. He sincerely wanted to do what was good and right for the country. In 2012, with the tenor of American politics becoming more rancorous, he announced that he would seek one final term. I asked him why he would want to do this. His response: “I think I can still do some good.”

A man of great faith, Orrin Hatch was an elder in the Church of Latter-day Saints. As a dutiful missionary, for the past nearly 30 years, he has been good-natured in his efforts to baptize me. Not long ago, when he brought up the subject, I teased that I had heard that the LDS Church provides for posthumous baptism, so he could baptize me after I died. With a smile on his face and a glint in his eye, he didn’t miss a beat: “Well, I always planned on doing that, but I can get more credit if I do it while you’re alive.”

Orrin was such an expert in so many areas of national policy and was such a powerful figure on Capitol Hill that it seemed he was always running from meeting to meeting, even more than the rest of us. We always sat next to each other at every Tuesday caucus lunch, joined at our table by Sens. Ted Stevens (R-Alaska) and Pete Domenici (R-N.M.) — and, every week, Orrin would be running late due to one of his commitments and he would always call out to me: “Ben, save my seat!”

I loved Orrin Hatch. For those not lucky enough to have known him, I can only tell you that Orrin Hatch was the most kind, honest, ethical and reliable man I have known. I have always referred to him as a “Prince of a Human Being,” and I will miss him.

Orrin, save my seat!

Ben Nighthorse Campbell was a congressman from Colorado from 1987 to 1993 and a senator from 1993 to 2005. A member of the Council of Chiefs of the Northern Cheyenne Indian Tribe, he is the last Native American elected to the Senate. He switched from the Democratic to the Republican parties in 1995, and he is a co-founder of the Ben Nighthorse Consultants lobbying firm.