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To the Right, March!: Jesse Helms

26 minute read
Kurt Andersen

COVER STORIES

Jesse Helms is the New Right’s righteous warrior, and his battle is nigh

The classroom is homely and snug, barely 20 ft. square. In a corner on hangers, squeezed behind a cheap upright piano, hangs a row of blue choir robes. The 25 gentlemen of the Bunn Bible Class (average age about 70), file in smiling, touching each other gently. By 10 a.m. they have eased themselves into folding chairs, as have a cluster of wives and old friends’ widows. Class President Adrian Newton grasps his Bible and introduces this Sunday’s teacher: speaking on “Repentance and Restoration,” the right honorable Senator Jesse Helms.

At 59, Helms is younger and sleeker than the others, and his North Carolina drawl is more circumspect. “The lesson today,” he says, “is based on Moses’ sermon to the Israelites, where he laid it out for ’em—didn’t he, Red? Bear in mind, as I read, America of 1981 … This land of ours was divinely inspired. Thomas Jefferson and all the rest were not smart enough to come up with this system. They got on their knees and prayed for it. That’s what makes our country unique.

“We must not make a God of Government. Liberalism is moving into the churches, and that has invited the tidal wave of secular humanism* engulfing this country and the world … Now, I am not holier than thou. I am not in a position to judge. But I gotta level with you: we become part of what we condone.”

When he is done, Helms lingers by the door, accepting the pats and neighborly murmurs with grave good grace. But it is nearly 11 a.m. Former Deacon Helms nudges his friends into the air-conditioned expanse of Raleigh’s Hayes Barton Baptist Church, and on toward the battle to redeem America from godlessness.

Jesse Helms is tall (6 ft. 1 in.) but not lean, heavy (193 Ibs.) but not flabby, except for some droop below the chin. A sparse crop of fine gray hair sweeps back from his forehead, and the rest is snipped short. His black-rimmed glasses give him a slightly spooked, owlish demeanor. Helms walks with a relaxed spring, his bearing loose and eager if not quite vigorous. His appearance is scrupulously uneccentric, clean and blue-suit respectable, more like a civic-minded small-town bank president than a U.S. Senator.

The name and the face are only vaguely familiar outside North Carolina, for in his eight years in the Senate, Helms has been a legislator only nominally. Instead of cutting deals and mastering the techniques of cloakroom conciliation, he has been a right-wing curiosity, proposing hopeless bills, attacking presidential appointments out of ideological pique, making blustery speeches that go largely unremarked.

But now the conservative current is swift, and Helms’ time has come. Not long after Congress reconvenes this week, both houses will be pressed to confront, as never before, the so-called social issues, that list of New Right grievances upon which Helms has based his political career.

There is his “human life bill,” an anti-abortion measure that would statutorily establish the beginning of human life at conception, and so could make abortion prosecuted as murder. In January, hearings may begin on a Helms proposal to abolish Supreme Court jurisdiction over school prayer cases. Another Helms measure, the one with the best chance of passage, would prohibit the Justice Department from pursuing any school desegregation case that might result in court-ordered busing. All of Helms’ proposals may be overshadowed by more politic New Rightist initiatives, but win or lose, Helms will be point man in the Senate for some of that chamber’s most contentious struggles in years.

The G.O.P. establishment, notably its members in the White House, have been importuning Helms and his supporters to postpone the inevitable legislative combat. The President’s men fear that the emotional debates will destroy their happy, careful consensus. But Helms has not agreed to those pleas for discretion, just as Reagan has declined to give much more than oral support to the cause, thus angering some New Rightists. Though Helms has been for years a resourceful Reagan ally, the two men are respectfully wary of each other, nothing like buddies. Indeed, Helms is notable among conservative legislators for making no effort at a showy intimacy with the President. Thus unbeholden, Helms may be pushed by his impatient followers to lead the New Right charge in Congress, now.

The congressional battles are part of a far larger campaign, a many-faceted crusade in which Helms and other right-wing social activists are pressing to remake the nation in their own image. Helms’ America would be a land where certain stern Christian principles prevail and free enterprise is enshrined, where abortion is outlawed, classrooms ring with the sound of children at prayer and Darwin is just a theorist, where school buses rust quietly in their garages, and sex and violence are banished from television screens and library shelves, where men are men and women know their place, which is in the home.* As America rides the cusp of a Reagan-inspired reversion to basics, that vision seems nearer than it has been in decades.

Helms has a personal following on the right that is second in size and dedication only to that of the President himself —and that trusts him more. He has a computer-driven fund raising organization, the Congressional Club, which has raised millions of dollars for Helms and dozens of other conservative candidates. He has a born politician’s ease with a crowd, a saint’s generosity toward individuals in distress—and a Malthusian indifference to human suffering on a larger scale. He is, in short, in the great tradition of amiable, infuriating, pious, callous, dangerous, ordinary and compelling characters who from time to time emerge to animate American politics.

There are three North Carolinas. The coastal east runs flat and sandy; the Blue Ridge west rises velvety and mountainous. Most populous is the middle Piedmont, a plateau of gentle undulations and pine forests. Scotch-Irish settlers swept onto the Piedmont in 1736. Six years later, two Helms brothers, George and Tillman, were farming on a plot deep in the colony. Before long, there were Helmses all over the place. On the solitary road from Wadesboro to Charlotte, just as the piny hills begin puckering up, grew Union County and the town of Monroe.

At one time, more than one-fifth of the county’s residents were slaves. Cotton was the mainstay of the economy, but this was not grand plantation country: small family parcels made slavery mostly pointless. North Carolina came late to the lost cause of secession. Jesse Helms claims no fallen captains or valiant generals of the Confederacy as ancestors.

On Christmas Eve, 1912, a Monroe boy, Jesse Alexander Helms, married a distant cousin, Ethel Helms. The couple settled, naturally, in Monroe (pop. 3,000 then, 12,700 now). It was a town with five churches, four Republicans, one pool hall and one whorehouse. Helms was a gigantic (6 ft. 5 in.) man who, for a $25 weekly wage, served as both police chief and fire chief. He and Ethel had a prim clapboard house three doors down from the police station. Their second child was born on Oct. 18, 1921. They named him Jesse Alexander Jr.

Jesse was five years younger than Brother Wriston (now 64 and a retired Woolworth store manager) and eight years older than Sister Mary Elizabeth (now 52 and a Monroe housewife). The family led a cozy, righteous life that makes sampler platitudes seem profound. The father, remembers a friend, “was courteous but firm as a rock. People knew he meant business. Young Jesse didn’t argue with him.” On Wednesday night the Helmses were always at First Baptist Church prayer meeting, and on Sunday morning at services. Fundamentalism perked all over North Carolina after World War I. Churchgoers quickened their step. Jesse’s friend Gilmer Clontz remembers: “Everybody went to church. That was the social activity.”

Helms reveres life in the long-gone frame house and the simple bliss it afforded. “You did things at home,” he recalls. “There was never a day in my life that my mother was not at home when I got there. I spent time with my father. He had a fifth-grade education. He was the wisest man I’ve ever known.”

When not at home or church or school (where the children, all of them white, prayed daily), Helms seems to have lived one gamboling, summery pastorale. Along with Wriston, Gilmer, Bill Hinson and sometimes a black child or two, Jesse would trek down to Richardson Creek to whoop and splash around. Was the sun always shining? Was the air always spiced by yellow pine and morning glories? There were even two movie theaters, the Strand and the Pastime. Helms and his pals, for a dime apiece, marveled in the dark at a serial parade of he-men and helpless heroines in peril.

Somewhere along the way there must have been normal childhood terrors and chills. But in Helms’ memory, any trauma is lost in the harmonious glow of oldtime, small-town pleasures. The only local recollection of something like misbehavior was a climb he made up the courthouse clock tower, which sits on George and Tillman Helms’ original farmstead. But it was not a very hazardous feat. “We all did that back then,” says Hinson. “There was a stepladder.”

“Segregation was a way of life,” says Ray House, now 76, Helms’ high school principal. House adds: “Everybody played together—Jesse played with black kids too.” (Helms said, a few years ago, that segregation was “not wrong for its time.”) He was a gangling teen-ager whose schoolwork was only passably good except in math and English. “He had a big vocabulary for a country town,” says Hinson. Clontz agrees: “He always used big words.”

Jesse usually begged off when sides were chosen for a sand-lot ball game, and he had no girlfriend. But he played the violin and he excelled at the tuba. He practiced with the Monroe High School band for hours. At the state tuba championship, Principal House remembers, Helms “got to the middle of his solo and stopped dead.” Imagine the shaky small-town beanpole straining in the embrace of that brass contraption. “He looked at the judge and said, ‘Judge, I’m scared to death.’ The judge said, ‘Son, I’m scared too. Go on and finish it.’ He got the highest rating. That was a big deal.”

Helms worked as a soda jerk at Wilson’s drugstore. He delivered the News from Charlotte. He swept floors at the Monroe Enquirer, where sometimes they let him write high school sports. In a 1938 commencement pamphlet that catalogued seniors’ prospects, Helms said he liked “journalistic work, the life of a pharmacist.” His ambition was “to be a columnist.” House told the boy just before graduation: “Now, Jesse, you may not believe this, but you can own your own home, and you can have two cars, and you can do a lot for your city and county and state and country.” House mulls his old advice. “Jesse’s conservatism,” he figures, “came from right here in Monroe from the day he was born.”

Helms expanded his radius cautiously. First he spent a summer at Wingate College, minuscule and Baptist, seven miles from home. In the fall of 1939 he enrolled at Wake Forest College, half a state away, and spent a year there, proofreading copy at the Raleigh News & Observer to pay his way. (Today he is one of only eight Senators without a degree. He does hold a pair of honorary doctorates, one from South Carolina’s Bob Jones University, the other from Campbell University in Buies Creek, N.C.)

Helms was offered a sports reporter’s job at the News & Observer, but the irregular hours meant his fling with college was finished. Doro thy Coble, a Raleigh girl with soulful eyes, edited the women’s page. Two weeks after Jesse turned 21, they were married.

Helms had tried to enlist in the Army, but his hearing was bad. The Navy was less choosy, and for the duration, Specialist First Class Helms wrote press releases in Elizabeth City, N.C., the farthest he had ever been from home. Just after V-J day, Jane Helms was born, and the family moved in with Dot’s widowed father, a traveling salesman made good, who lived in Raleigh’s neat, green Hayes Barton neighborhood.

The Raleigh Times hired Helms after the war and he promptly became city editor. After a tiff with the printers, Helms quit. Besides, he recalls, he “had this bug about radio,” and went to work for station WCBT in Roanoke Rapids, N.C., as a reporter. But the Helmses returned to Raleigh, where A.J. Fletcher, a snappish, right-wing businessman, operated radio station WRAL out of a three-room office. Helms became the entire news department. He lugged his oversize wire recorder, tuba-like, all over the city, and wrote and broadcast the news himself. (Helms’ voice can still glide to radio-announcer depths; his single idiosyncrasy is a lazy s, making “pastor” sound like “pasture.”)

In 1950 a “New South” was being trumpeted, as it has been often before and since. Thriving North Carolina, with its prestigious universities, became Exhibit A. Behind that progressive facade, however, a Raleigh politician named Willis Smith was running a bilious, Red-and black-baiting U.S. Senate primary campaign against Frank Graham, a widely admired former University of North Carolina president. The slimy tactics, agrees Helms’ friend Judge James (“Pou”) Bailey, “got clean out of hand.” The election is still a sour blotch for North Carolinians; white supremacy had not been an issue since the turn of the century. Helms was a Smith partisan. Graham won the primary, but without a majority, so Smith was entitled to a runoff. He was in no mood for it. “I went on the radio,” Helms says, “telling folks that supporters ought to go out to his house and encourage him.” Several hundred did, and Smith won the second election. Helms disclaims any part in the deceits and hysterical racist broadsides undertaken on Smith’s behalf. “The liberals are trying to get me,” Helms says. “I had nothing to do with the campaign.” Affirms Bailey—almost: “I don’t think Jesse wrote a damn thing for that campaign.”

Helms must have done something to please Smith, for a year later the young radio newsman left Raleigh and WRAL for Washington to work on Smith’s staff. After a year as an administrative aide, he was detached to help with Georgia Senator Richard Russell’s doomed segregationist presidential campaign. A year later, Smith died, and having worked at five jobs in five years, Helms decided to go back home and make a normal life in North Carolina: build a house (a red brick quasi-colonial next door to his father-in-law), join the Rotary Club (chapter president), gab with the Masons (32nd degree, the second highest rank), and devote evenings to making popcorn with Dot and his daughters.

Helms spent the next seven years in a happy humdrum, working as executive director of the North Carolina Bankers Association. The job paid well, and it also introduced him to the state’s corporate Establishment, which found Helms a right-thinking young apprentice. (A curious pattern: small-town boyhood, radio sports reporter, business p.r. man. Ronald Reagan, Jesse Helms.)

Helms has never lost an election. The first victory was in 1957, when he ran for Raleigh city council and became its most conservative voice. “On occasion,” a newspaper said, Helms “dressed down the mayor and other council members he was at odds with.” Stridency became an early political habit.

Midway through his second two-year term, he returned to A.J. Fletcher’s WRAL. “The old man,” says Bailey, “thought the sun rose and set right behind Jesse’s left ear.” WRAL, that hymn-and-hog-price 250-watter, was now Capitol Broadcasting, an empire embracing the radio outlet, Raleigh’s first TV station and a hookup of about 70 rural stations called the Tobacco Radio Network. Fletcher piled three executive titles on Helms and let him do the station’s editorials.

Helms reveled in that part of the job. He had never suffered an instant of doubt about right and wrong. He saw the muck of degeneracy, subversion and secular humanism befouling his cherished America. In 1960 the first of Helms’ five-minute Viewpoints appeared on the 6 o’clock news. The commentaries, more than 2,700 in all, were broadcast twice every weekday until he first ran for the Senate a dozen years later.

Even today, Helms’ eyebrows seem perpetually raised, riding a good half-inch above his bifocals. The effect is of a man always listening, or on the verge of some great surprise. It may be a habit nurtured by Viewpoint. His eyes would flit down to the typescript and stay too long. Then Helms would remember his 98,000 viewers and look up with a start. He does not smile easily, and his on-camera manner had the slightly sweaty earnestness that TV editorialists, North and South, exude by instinct. Unlike the rest of the breed, however, Helms was rarely bland.

In one editorial (transcripts are on file at WRAL and the University of North Carolina) Helms expressed a recurring paranoia about the nation’s journalistic Establishment: he called Walter Cronkite a “hysterical crybaby” who “has been a participant in a vast ultraliberal mechanism tirelessly dedicated to brainwashing the American public.” He was on to welfare parasitism years before the Great Society: “Extreme care should be taken that public assistance is not made a mockery by those who would freeload off their fellow man.” In 1965: “The civil rights movement, as Dr. [Martin Luther] King calls it, has had an uncommon number of moral degenerates leading the parade. The Negroes of America have a Congress that would tomorrow enact Webster’s Dictionary into law with a civil rights label on it.” Even 17th century metaphysicians were not safe. Helms chastised a state university teacher for assigning Andrew Marvell’s poem To His Coy Mistress. The instructor was removed.

Helms’ transcripts are packed with hyperbole and meanspiritedness. Yet, perhaps because this was television, he never crossed the line into ugliness or outright racism—as some Tobacco Network listeners seem to remember he did in his early radio talks (of which no transcripts are known to exist). “There is no question about his having been a segregationist,” says one old Raleigh newspaper hand. “And he says he hasn’t changed his views on segregation.” Tom Ellis, 61, a Raleigh lawyer and Helms’ most powerful political sponsor, defends his man. “He hates the K.K.K. and those people. Is that what racism is all about?” Asked why none of the 112-person Helms staff is black, Ellis answers: “Not a whole pile have applied.”

Helms’ daughter Nancy, then 21, talked him into switching from the Democratic Party to the Republican in 1970. “A little child shall lead you,” he says of that conversion. “A lot of people thought I’d lost my mind.” The next year, Ellis persuaded him to run for the Senate seat of Democrat Everett Jordan. Ellis also arranged for Helms to have his WRAL job back if he lost. That did not seem necessary. The TV broadcasts had made his one of the most familiar faces in the state. Richard Nixon, whom he had once accused on TV of buckling to the Commies, agreed to campaign for him. “I didn’t want to go through the meat grinder,” Helms says of his reluctance to run. “I just couldn’t see myself having any great personal appeal to the voters.” His opponent was Democrat Nick Galifianakis, a moderate U.S. Representative whose Greek name was made the target of subtle innuendo. Helms’ slogan: JESSE HELMS: HE’S ONE OF US. He won, 54% to 46%. Helms went to Washington with big hopes and a modest bankroll. His recorded share of Capitol Broadcasting was a piddling .7%. His daughters were grown—one lives next door in the Coble house, the other near by—but the Helmses still had one youngster at home.

Dot Helms had always wanted to adopt a child. In a 1962 newspaper article, Helms spotted a Greensboro orphan, age nine, who had cerebral palsy and wanted parents for Christmas. Helms succumbed. They arranged to meet at the zoo. Charles Helms, now 27, recalls: “I never will forget how tall Daddy was. I could tell right from the start that they were a unit and stuck together. I had never experienced that.” Before the adoption became official, Helms gave the boy some baseball equipment. “If you won’t keep me,” asked Charles, “can I keep the glove and ball?” Charles, whose balance has improved after four operations, is a senior in forestry at North Carolina State. “Mom and Dad,” he says, “always stressed that whatever your talents, just do the best and you’ll make it.” Says his father: “He is a blessing.”

In the view of one longtime Helms watcher in Raleigh, the son does not entirely erase the sins of the father “Jesse adopted a handicapped son,” says the man. “It cost him a lot of doctor’s bills. He’d give the coat off his back to help someone lying in the street, but he’s not going to vote for food stamps.” Indeed, during his first Senate term, Helms voted against funds for the handicapped.

The first Republican Senator from his state since Jeter Pritchard arrived in Washington in 1895, Helms moved his family into a plain, $46,000 house in suburban Arlington, Va. He assembled a squad of smart, youngish devotees more ruthlessly conservative, if that is possible, than he. After weeks of new-boy floundering, Helms was taken in hand by the late Senator James Allen of Alabama. Allen taught him all the parliamentary angles, and the pupil waded eagerly into the minutiae of procedure.

He learned, principally, how to cause a ruckus. Helms was never seduced by the Senate’s clubbiness. It was as if he had crated up his Raleigh TV scripts, driven five hours north, and started pitching those editorials into the Senate hopper. If anyone took notice, it was generally with a snickering glance: Helms the flailing buffoon, a crossbreed of Dickens’ Pecksniff and Fred Allen’s Claghorn, full of futile cracker righteousness. Yet in Aide John Carbaugh’s phrase, Helms “planted the flag”: his hopeless proposals sometimes forced Senators to take stands on issues they would have just as soon avoided. He introduced numberless bills to stop abortions, to prohibit sex education, to reinstate capital punishment. All lost, by ratios of 10, 20, 50 to 1. He stalled approval of Nixon sub-Cabinet appointees who were not conservative enough for him. He embarrassed Gerald Ford by insisting that the President meet with Alexander Solzhenitsyn.* This year he delayed (but so far not once prevented) the confirmation of six suspect Reagan bureaucrats. Alone he voted against a bill to counter the 1977 Arab boycott of Israel. He promotes South Africa’s racist regime with gusto. After the fall of South Viet Nam, Helms introduced a bill that would make all refugee aid private, and clipped a check for $1,000 to his proposal. Fighting Nelson Rockefeller’s confirmation as Vice President in 1974, Helms declared: “He stole another man’s wife.”

While it once seemed that Helms would be a strange, one-term evanescence, he began to attract a following. He was never sniping away just for the citizens of Raleigh and Asheville and Monroe. By his extreme doggedness on one issue or another—busing, feminism, gold, guns, always abortion—he won the esteem of single-minded sects all over the U.S. Says one first-term Senator who understands the effectiveness of that strategy: “Every person in the Senate knows Jesse could unloose that barrage of letters. It makes them think twice.”

Only when it comes to tobacco has Helms behaved with ordinary congressional pragmatism. The several federal tobacco programs amount to one of the most thoroughgoing intrusions of Government into the agricultural marketplace. Helms, the ferocious free-marketeer, nonetheless strives to perpetuate it. But even in serving that home-state interest (North Carolina produces 40% of the U.S. crop), he has not been altogether successful. As the new chairman of the Agriculture Committee, Helms insisted on a farm bill that would cut food stamps drastically. But his fellow Republicans on the panel, who knew the reductions would draw fierce Senate opposition to Helms’ entire bill, dumped it and wrote their own—which Helms then voted against. If pending legislation succeeds in crimping tobacco programs, Helms’ clumsiness could become a liability in his 1984 re-election campaign.

Not that he isn’t loyal to the tobacco cause. Helms smokes (but does not always inhale) an occasional Lucky Strike. When others light up in his presence, he says, ” ‘Predate it.” Indeed, Helms’ single flamboyance is a maniacal Southern courtesy: he grabs every serving spoon, offers to carry every bag and sheaf in sight and opens every door. In fact, he does not just open a door; he sweeps his beneficiary through with a bow and a flourish.

Whatever it is, Helms would rather do it himself. He fries his own breakfasts (eggs, bacon and biscuits), types his own letters in a spare—truly spare—basement room in Raleigh, and refuses to be chauffeured. He drives his own anonymous 1973 Oldsmobile Delta 88, in which he listens exclusively to what he agrees is “Muzak music.”

At home his record collection runs to albums of Guy Lombardo, John Wayne, Amos ‘n ‘Andy, as well as Strauss waltzes, movie sound tracks and martial anthologies. The Raleigh house is compact, and hugged by camellia bushes and Chinese holly. In the vestibule hangs a Helms coat of arms with a Latin motto, Cassis tutissima virtus, that Jesse and Dot have never bothered to translate. (It means “Virtue is the safest armor” and contains a Latin pun: cassis also means “helm.”) There are not many books. Helms wants to take up reading mysteries—Dot tells him that intellectuals peruse them to relax —but for now a Churchill biography lies on a coffee table. There are autographed portraits: President Reagan, Spiro Agnew, J. Edgar Hoover. Helms has collected dozens of figurines of elephants, but not as a hobby; most were foisted on him by friends. He has no hobbies. When he is in Raleigh, Helms never misses Pou Bailey’s every-other-Thursday-night poker fest, a 35-year-old ritual. Steaks or jambalaya are served, the joshing among old friends is ceaseless, and wagers seldom exceed 10¢. Helms alone does not drink strong waters of any kind. “I’m dumb enough without it,” he says.

One recent afternoon he was at home slouched in a living-room chair, feet in $7 mail-order sneakers flat on the floor. His dog Patches, essentially a beagle, quivered under the couch. Helms emptied his pockets—some change, a silver cross, a Christian medallion—and talked about his curious perch in American politics. “Some folks say I’m scary,” he says. “The people here don’t think I’m scary.” Two of his four grandchildren, capering in the yard, call him “Sir,” but they are not scared. He does not want to be scary.

“I am just speaking for me and what’s right for me. Why not go back to traditional moorings? You say that conservatism is guilty of being too simplistic. It is more a choice of right and wrong,” he says, settling the question. “My friends say they agree with me on everything except abortion,” Helms admits. “Some have gone as far as to say they doubt they can support me. If I have to come on home on the principle of the rights of the unborn, then I’ll come on home.”

Helms belittles his role at the last two Republican National Conventions, where he shoved the party platforms as far to the right as they could go. Both times his name was placed in nomination for Vice President, and he ceremoniously declined. A third, charmed time? “No need to be cute about it. If I want to be Vice President, I’ll be out on the hustings. You’ll know.” His current frenzy of banquets and rallies, then, is not to be considered hustings. “You get a certain serenity out of this,” he says of his fractious Senate role. “You can’t change the world all by yourself, but there is a serenity in trying.” Aide Tom Ellis may have a straighter bead on any vice-presidential bid: “If Jesse thought it was in the best interests of his country, I think we could get the old bird into it.”

On another, more public afternoon in Mocksville, N.C., at a Masonic picnic, Helms is not asked to account for his future. His speech is scheduled between Ferris wheel rides and an all-you-can-eat feast of baked ham and lemon pie. Supporters mob him all day. He is happy.

“Jesse, I grew up here, you know. I’ve remarried…”

“Why, yes ma’am. Bless your heart.”

A well-wisher flutters up, and Helms remembers. “What kin are you to R.L.?” he asks.

“I’m his wife.”

“Well, bless your heart.”

Another Southern man of the people, Louisiana’s Huey Long, would have found Helms incomprehensible. “Anybody that lets his public policies get mixed up with his religious prejudices,” Long said, “is a goddamned fool.” But Helms, heedless, faces the crowd this day in bleachers on the parched crab grass and delivers a sermon. He rhapsodizes about his pen pal Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s dedication to freedom and Christianity. He flagrantly overstates Alexis de Tocqueville’s 19th century observations about American piety. Most of all, he praises God. “The Lord is speaking to us: ‘I have need for thee.’ To uphold the principles and the laws, to be dedicated to the freedom, strength and nobility of those who preceded us.”

When he finishes, the citizens of Mocksville stand proud and applaud their elected representative nearly forever. Helms just shoos them away: “Now y’all go ahead and start eating. Don’t be waiting on me.

—By Kurt Andersen. Reported by Joseph N. Boyce and Joseph J. Kane/ Raleigh and John F. Stacks/Washington

* In the mid-1970s, fundamentalist Christians began using “secular humanism” as a term of opprobrium for nonreligious education. It has grown into a New Rightist code word for the precepts and practices of almost anyone this side of Communism who disagrees with them, including liberals, feminists, atheists, civil libertarians, internationalists.

* According to a survey for the National Republican Committee, 25% of the U.S. agrees with New Right positions on four or five of the main “social issues”: abortion, capital punishment, busing, ERA and homosexual rights. A Gallup poll in June found that one-third of Americans consider themselves at least “moderately” right-wing.

* Helms began a correspondence with the exiled novelist in 1973, which Solzhenitsyn carried on, Helms says, “at a little Russian typewriter with scratch-outs, just like we do it.”

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