He's been attacked from every angle, but Pete Buttigieg has remained presidential — and that counts for a lot

My wife has met countless mayors in her line of work, but the one she always told me should run for president? Mayor Pete

In the bleak, small hours of November 9, 2016, reeling as America’s Electoral College handed the White House to an unstable goon, I made a vow: I would back the Democrat's presidential nominee in 2020. No matter what.

The problem? While even the least impressive of the men and women likely to vie for the nomination back then were infinitely preferable to Donald Trump, few were terribly inspiring. Some were born in the first half of the last century; others were finger-wagging scolds; one was the mayor of New York.

Then, earlier this year, a funny thing happened. And by funny I mean wonderful.

In mid-April, the mayor of a small Indiana city tossed his hat in the ring. A millennial, a veteran, and a well-read, thoughtful man of faith, he had a goofy grin, a hard-to-pronounce last name and, by all accounts, a charming husband.

As it happened, I already knew a bit about Pete Buttigieg. My wife heads a nonprofit that helps cities engage citizens in solving local problems. She has met countless mayors, and admires the traits shared by the best of them: common sense; a collaborative spirit; grit.

But Mayor Pete stood out. Mayor Pete, she said, should run for president.

I was skeptical. A nation that installed a septuagenarian draft-dodger in the Oval Office was unlikely to turn around and elect a married gay man in his 30s as president, no matter how accomplished he might be. Right?

Still, I paid attention.

I heard Buttigieg speak from the heart about his decision to come out during his 2015 re-election bid — a contest he won in a landslide.

I studied how he handled the 2012 firing of South Bend's first African American police chief (poorly) and how he handled the firing's divisive fallout (admirably).

This summer, after a white South Bend police officer shot and killed a 54-year-old black man named Eric Logan, I watched as Buttigieg once again wrestled — openly, awkwardly — with his city's enduring racial ills and with America's centuries-old legacy of white-on-black violence. (Eric Logan's family filed a federal lawsuit against the officer, Sgt. Ryan O'Neill, and South Bend in June. O'Neill resigned from the force in July.)

I’ve watched, too, as Buttigieg has struggled to gain traction with black voters. One painful reason for this must surely be that socially conservative, churchgoing African Americans are less likely than other Americans to embrace same-sex marriage, or LGBTQ civil rights in general. And this resistance from a traditional, core Democratic constituency might doom Mayor Pete’s candidacy.

But Buttigieg, to his credit, is no quitter — and that, too, says something about him, and where he’s from. A stable, post-Cold War, Midwestern childhood shaped him. Military service taught him that trusting men and women of diverse backgrounds and faiths, and proving trustworthy himself, could literally keep him alive. Coming out to friends, family, and political foes freed him.

All of this has, evidently, helped forge that rare political animal: a man unafraid.

Few will argue that Pete Buttigieg is uniquely suited to this charged political moment. After all, seen through a particular lens, he is another white man vying for power. His detractors, meanwhile, dismiss his defining characteristic — a lifelong curiosity — as quaint, at best. (The New York Times derided Buttigieg’s "meaningless erudition" as "internetty smarts" — a phrase that, let’s face it, could only have been coined by someone with a terminal case of internetty smarts.)

Then there is his brief stint with McKinsey & Company, the consulting colossus implicated in heinous behavior around the globe. Little indicates that Buttigieg embraces the most mercenary of McKinsey's values — but his work there has certainly spooked some on the left.

In the end, Buttigieg takes heat from all sides: he's not gay enough (whatever that means); or he’s too gay (whatever that means); he's too centrist; too neoliberal; too wonky; too white.

But here's the rub: For more than two years, Donald Trump and his minions have undermined America’s national security; rewarded mega-polluters, predatory lenders, and other corporate thugs; emboldened white supremacists and home-grown terrorists; and demonized the weakest among us. Any 2020 Democratic contender — Elizabeth Warren, Cory Booker, Kamala Harris, even addled, handsy Joe Biden — would make for a more competent, more legitimate leader.

With all that in mind, I’m sticking with the candidate whose positions on healthcare, climate change, racial justice, reproductive rights, income inequality, and gun control jibe most closely with mine; the candidate who refrains from shouting and finger-pointing whenever he appears in public; one whose humor is perfectly gauged to skewer fringe-right demagogues and frauds; one who has acted and sounded presidential at every turn, ever since he decided to run.

Pete Buttigieg is mired in single digits in most polls, but from the start he has sparked an uncanny, long-dormant sensation in Americans across the political divide.

I believe it’s called optimism. And in light of where we are right now, as a nation and a planet, by god I’ll take it.