Carol Moseley Braun has just made history. On March 17, in an upset that stunned political insiders, Braun, 44, the recorder of deeds for Illinois's Cook County, stole the show—and a shot at the U.S. Senate—from both two-term incumbent Alan Dixon and multimillionaire lawyer Al Hofeld. If she beats her Republican opponent in November, Braun will become the first black woman—and a single mother, no less—ever to reach the U.S. Senate.
"It was a back-to-basics campaign that was all about making democracy work and making everyone part of the process," says Braun, who swung into the Illinois senatorial race five months before the primary with a scant war chest that never totaled more than $400,000. (Dixon spent $2.5 million.) Women in particular—even Republican women who crossed over and voted for Braun—were supportive. Though Sen. "Al the Pal" Dixon's old-style backslapping went over well with many male voters, it left women seething—especially, explains Braun, after Dixon voted to confirm Clarence Thomas as a Supreme Court Justice despite Anita Hill's charge of sexual harassment. "The hearings reflected that the Senate was a closed club of millionaire men," says Braun. "It was an embarrassing sideshow that showed how clueless these Senators are. When it became clear that people wanted a champion for the voices that were locked out, I decided to be that champion."
It is a title she carries well—and has for decades. The oldest of four children in a Catholic family from an all-black neighborhood in Chicago's South Side (her late father, Joe Moseley, was a police officer; her mother, Edna, 70, is a retired medical technician), Braun was weaned on community involvement. "My parents were always philosophizing about how to bring about change," says Braun. "To me, people who didn't try to make the world a better place were strange." As a high school student, she staged a one-woman sit-in at a neighborhood restaurant that refused to serve her, withstood a barrage of rocks thrown by angry whites when she defiantly spread her towel at their all-white beach, and inarched alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in a local civil rights demonstration.
Braun earned a B.A. in political science from the University of Illinois, Chicago, graduated from the University of Chicago Law School in 1972 and began working as a federal prosecutor. The following year Carol Moseley married classmate Michael Braun, and in 1977 she gave birth to Matthew, now 14. (She and Braun divorced in 1986.) In 1978 the civic-minded young mother decided to make her activism official: She ran for the State Legislature—and won. "It was immediately obvious that Carol was in her element," says Braun's former legislative aide, Sue Purrington. "She liked the power play and the control."
From day 1, Braun played that power differently. She often brought little Matthew to the House floor, where aides baby-sat as Braun engaged in heated debates. A gourmet chef, she liked to conduct policy discussions with fellow legislators over a home-cooked meal. Fighting for reform in education, gun control, welfare and health care in her 11 years as a state representative, Braun rattled colleagues and opponents alike. Yet when debate had ended, she almost always shook hands and defused anger—sometimes giving opponents a playful T-shirt or even balloons. "Carol is not your usual politician," says Democratic State Rep. Mary Flowers. Adds Sydney Faye-Petrizzi, Braun's deputy press secretary: "She has all the qualities you want in a best friend."
Now she has to prepare for what may be one of the most intensely fought Senate races in the U.S. next fall. While Braun's backers have pledged hefty financial support, Republican opponents have vowed to put at least $4 million behind Braun's adversary, Chicago lawyer and former Bush Administration aide Richard Williamson. Unperturbed, Braun predicts that November will be just like primary week. "If enough people get together," she says, "we can make history."
KAREN S. SCHNEIDER
CIVIA TAMARKIN in Chicago
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