It’s a story we’ve heard a thousand times: A young, idealistic person comes to Washington, D.C., driven by a deep desire to make the world a better place. For many, that idealism eventually gives way to pragmatism — or worse, to cynicism. What’s rare — extraordinary, even — is someone who can spend over 50 years in the Beltway without ever losing that original sense of purpose. What is even scarcer is finding someone who succeeded in making the world a better place. That person was Michael E. Hammond.
Hammond passed to the Lord last week. For anyone involved in Washington conservative politics since 1973, they probably knew Hammond or had heard of him. If anyone was self-made, it was Hammond. He graduated from law school without more than a few dollars to his name. He came to Washington, headed straight to the office of Sen. James Buckley, I-N.Y., and offered to work for free. Buckley reportedly responded with “the price is right,” and the rest is history.
Within days of joining the Senate, Hammond read and memorized Senate rules and procedures and, legend has it, outdebated the parliamentarian within his first month on the job. He soon became a fixture of the Senate, playing a key role in advising the senator and his staff, including on the famous Buckley v. Valeo case, the foundational First Amendment case that protects people’s right to criticize their government and elected officials. He drafted and got passed a rewrite of the U.S. Criminal Code, which he could cite from memory. From deregulation to Reagan’s tax cuts, from judicial nominations to every legislative battle from the late 1970s to the mid-1990s, Mike Hammond’s fingerprints could be found.
One could always recognize Hammond as he often wore the “Wolverines” jacket from the movie Red Dawn. It was presented to him as a gift from the film’s producer for his work as a technical adviser, and we don’t think he took it off, even as he shepherded the famous McClure-Volkmer bill through Congress. The bill was the most significant expansion of Second Amendment protections in generations, and it wouldn’t have happened without Hammond’s drafting, negotiations, and skill.
We met Hammond when we were students at the University of Massachusetts. Brian Darling and Tony Rudy were introduced to Hammond by Dan Perrin, who spent a semester working with him when he was the general counsel of the Senate Steering Committee. Steering was the ad hoc group of two dozen conservative senators that included Sens. Barry Goldwater, R-Ariz.; Jesse Helms, R-N.C.; Steve Symms, R-Idaho; and Jeremiah Denton, R-Ala., among others. Perrin opened the door, and Hammond graciously let us all in.
We immediately learned that Hammond was as eccentric as he was brilliant. At the time, there was no television coverage of the Senate. We listened to the Senate floor on an internal radio/intercom that broadcast the proceedings. Within an hour of meeting Hammond, he sprang into action, grabbing a piece of paper, shoving it into his IBM typewriter, and banging away at the keys with a speed that would make a court reporter blush. Within seconds, he tore the paper out of the typewriter and demanded we run it down to the well of the Senate. He had crafted an amendment, citing specific chapters and sections of federal law — all off the top of his head. We had no idea what to do, but he soon taught us.
Interning for Hammond was unlike any other internship in Washington. Rather than photocopying newspaper stories, he asked us what we wanted to change. We suggested that it was important for the Strategic Defense Initiative that the United States withdraw from the ABM Treaty. Hammond’s reply was great: Draft a letter to President Reagan, and we will have senators sign it. That’s what we did, and within a few days, more than a dozen senators signed our letter. When the intern coordinator from UMass showed up to check up on our internship, we informed him of the letter, and he shockingly replied, “Wow, hope you don’t start a nuclear war. I guess you guys aren’t spending the summer photocopying like the rest of the interns.” If you interned for Hammond, you never went near a copy machine; instead, he threw you headfirst into the machinations of Congress and government.
Soon, other UMass conservative students were working for Hammond, whom he collectively referred to as his “Mooseheads,” or “Mooses” for short. These included Greg Rothman, who is now chairman of the Pennsylvania GOP, and later Ed Corrigan, who now runs the Conservative Partnership Institute.
It’s hard to imagine a group of interns crafting amendments and speeches that were then handed to senators and used to stop Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell, D-Maine, from ramming a liberal agenda through the Senate and on to Reagan’s desk. We don’t have to imagine it; we lived it.
Hammond never let party lines override principles. In the face of opposition from Reagan’s State Department, he single-handedly persuaded senators to appropriate funds directly to Poland’s Solidarity movement. That decisive act helped topple the first communist regime in Eastern Europe. Lech Wałęsa personally honored him for his support at a critical moment, and the Polish government, through its embassy in D.C., awarded him the Knight’s Cross of the Order of Merit in 2017 for sustaining the liberty movement in its darkest hours. Poland’s ambassador to the United States at the time, Piotr Wilczek, later said Hammond’s “actions were crucial in helping secure U.S. financial support for the Polish people and the Solidarity movement.”
Not bad for a poor kid from St. Louis.
Hammond spent his final years working on the causes he loved from his office at Gun Owners of America in Virginia and his home in New Hampshire. There was something about the Granite State that Hammond found special, but we always thought it was perhaps its motto, “Live Free or Die,” because it epitomized his spirit and ethos. He also got to live his version of the Walter Mitty fantasy, writing a play and having it produced.
The Washington Post featured Hammond in a front-page Style section article, weaving his political career with his maiden voyage as a playwright: “Repentance.” Known for his intense and sometimes unorthodox approach, Hammond’s career reflects a blend of political strategy and creative expression, leaving a unique imprint on both U.S. legislative history and the arts.
Mike Hammond’s life was proof that one person’s conviction and intellect can change the course of history. He never sought the spotlight, yet his fingerprints are on some of the most consequential victories for freedom in the last half-century.
For those of us lucky enough to have worked with him, Hammond was more than a mentor. He was a force of nature who inspired us to aim higher, think sharper, and never compromise our principles. He fought for liberty with the same passion in his final days as he did when he first walked into Buckley’s office.
Washington, D.C., is now without a great leader and crusader for liberty. His absence leaves a vacuum for the causes he championed and among the countless lives he touched, who will carry his ideals forward for generations to come.