Presidential Ambitions Born from Fatherly Absence

Bill Clinton lost his father before birth. George W. Bush lived in H.W.'s overwhelming shadow. Barack Obama wrote of being "haunted" by a father who gave him nothing but skin color. Donald Trump's father was cold, controlling, and vicious to his eldest son who dared to reject the family real estate empire.

America's recent presidents share a striking commonality: absent or emotionally distant fathers. Did these men seek from voters what their own fathers couldn't provide?

The Getty Shadow

California Governor Gavin Newsom's new memoir, Young Man in a Hurry—essentially campaign literature for his presidential ambitions—is dominated by his father Bill Newsom's emotional distance. Unlike the tragic absences that shaped other political figures, Bill was physically present but emotionally unavailable, leaving his family in San Francisco to live 200 miles away in Lake Tahoe.

Newsom's childhood was defined by proximity to immense privilege through the family's friendship with oil heir Gordon Getty, coupled with the constant awareness that it could vanish instantly. This status anxiety might be perfect preparation for American politics, where navigating relationships with mega-donors without becoming their puppet is essential.

The elder Newsom served as Gordon's bridge to the social world—but he was also his employee. In one telling incident, when 8-year-old Hilary called their benefactor "Gordon" while traveling first-class on Getty's dime, he snapped back: "I'm Mr. Getty." As Hilary burst into tears and ran to her father, Bill said nothing. "Back then, I did not understand my father's silence," Newsom writes. "It appeared to me a swallowing of pride, one more abrogation of fatherly duty."

The Courtier's Dilemma

Newsom's early career reads like a masterclass in elite networking. His first real job selling shoe inserts? At his uncle's company. His position with real estate titan Walter Shorenstein? Arranged by dad. He lived rent-free in the Getty mansion "in return for keeping an eye on contractors and handling shipments of artwork from Sotheby's."

When Newsom launched his wine business PlumpJack with Billy Getty, they named it after Gordon's opera to secure his investment. But in 1999, after Billy's marriage, paranoia set in. Billy ordered a forensic audit, convinced Newsom was cheating him. Gordon took Gavin's side, bought out Billy, and their friendship never recovered.

This rupture forced a revelation: Billy had offered Newsom the same deal Gordon gave his father—live a "millionaire's lifestyle" on Getty money, but as a courtier. Despite his father's cautionary example, Newsom had been walking the same path.

The Empty Suit Syndrome

Newsom is often dismissed as an "empty suit"—all teeth and hair gel. His memoir surprisingly validates this criticism while explaining its origins. He frames himself as a lost soul constantly trying on different identities.

As a child, he wanted to be "the Great Gavini," a magician. As a teenager, he dressed like TV's roguish Remington Steele. He went through a phase listening to self-help guru Tony Robbins on Andrew Getty's Walkman. When future wife Jennifer first saw his apartment, the undecorated space reminded her of Patrick Bateman's home in American Psycho—a charming psychopath with slicked-back hair who has absolutely no idea who he really is.

This identity crisis made him malleable. As San Francisco mayor, he posed sprawled on a carpet for Harper's Bazaar—a picture of cringe-making arrogance that still haunts him—because his then-wife Kimberly Guilfoyle and patron Ann Getty told him to. "You have a pattern of letting the women in your life dictate your movements," his sister Hilary observed.

Power, Privilege, and Psychological Wounds

The memoir's most arresting scene comes in 2018 when governor-elect Newsom first meets Donald Trump after California wildfires. On Marine One, Trump tells a story about trying to set up daughter Ivanka with NFL quarterback Tom Brady, only to discover she was dating "some schmuck whose father had just got out of prison"—Jared Kushner, sitting right there as his father-in-law laments what could have been.

"Trump was making his son-in-law feel two feet tall," Newsom writes. "And Kushner just let him do it." Even Trump, in Newsom's telling, is another controlling patriarch whose approval remains impossible to win.

The Unread Journal

Young Man in a Hurry ends with Newsom in his study, contemplating his late father's journal. He glimpses an entry—"May 26, 2002: 'Tessa died in San Francisco last week and we buried her in Dutch Flat'"—but cannot bring himself to read further.

When Newsom won the 2018 gubernatorial race, fulfilling his father's dream (Bill ran twice unsuccessfully), his dying father still couldn't say "I love you," even when prompted by caregivers. "He would not utter those words," Newsom writes. "And yet I had not one ounce of doubt that he loved me dearly."

Perhaps for someone who has lived in the shadow of distant patriarchs, perpetually wondering what father really thought is preferable to knowing for certain.