Reluctant Warrior Bests Gov.

It was late October, 13 days from the special election, and the forces arrayed against Arnold Schwarzenegger faced a key decision: how best to close their TV broadside against the governor and his slate of ballot measures.

For half an hour, tethered via conference call, strategists in Washington and Sacramento weighed their options. Some favored sticking with an ad already airing, a 30-second spot that showed the governor yukking it up on late-night TV and crowing about “always kicking” the butts of professional nurses.

But consultants for the California Teachers Assn. favored a different approach. For close to a year, the union had supplied most of the money and muscle behind the anti-Schwarzenegger effort. When lead strategist Gale Kaufman spoke up, the matter was settled.

And so, once more, television screens across California filled with the image of schoolteacher Liane Cismowski, peering straight into the camera and politely but firmly reproaching the governor for “too many broken promises and bad ideas on education.”

Schwarzenegger and his advisors conceived of Tuesday’s election more than a year ago, back when his approval ratings scraped the sky and it seemed he could sell California voters on just about anything. But after a brutal campaign of pillory and protests, it was Cismowski -- “nothing, a nobody,” in her words -- who outshined the governor and helped deliver a major political setback to Schwarzenegger.

Voters on Tuesday rejected all four of the measures the governor presented as his agenda, including ones that could have slashed education spending and lengthened the probationary period for new teachers.

Much of the credit -- or blame -- goes to the union and the soft-spoken Cismowski, who improbably became one of the most recognized faces of the special election campaign. The union and its allies spent about $20 million on TV ads featuring the high school English teacher, building the “Liane brand,” as one strategist put it.

The campaign defied many of the accepted rules of political advertising. There were no famous personalities or jazzy camera angles. There was no ripped-from-the-headlines sense of phony urgency. The advertising seemed to work for that very reason.

“Too many spots talk at you,” said John Russonello, a Washington strategist who helped shape the eight-month ad campaign. “We didn’t want to be in that voice.”

For Cismowski, whose previous public exposure was limited to singing in her church choir, the starring role was thrilling and a bit frightening. Thrilling because it was so different from anything the Bay Area teacher had ever done. Scary because it worked so well.

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The anti-Schwarzenegger campaign didn’t start out with Nov. 8 in mind.

At first, the association, the state’s largest teachers union, merely sought to persuade the governor to restore $2 billion he borrowed from the education budget to help balance the state’s books. When that didn’t work, the group joined other public employee unions in trying to cow Schwarzenegger into canceling Tuesday’s vote. When that, too, failed, they set out to bludgeon Schwarzenegger at the polls.

But that decision was still months away when the teachers union began shaping its political strategy in January.

The question then was how to take on a popular governor with a seemingly deep reservoir of good will. “People believed he was trying to do the right thing, his heart was in the right place,” said Mark Mellman, a longtime teachers union pollster. “All of that made it harder to make political attacks, or foment foam-at-the-mouth anger.”

So rather than aggressively attack the governor and risk alienating voters, it was decided the best strategy would be a low-key, conversational approach.

Strategists held a series of open-ended discussions with voters around the state. The idea of such focus groups was to identify the words people used to express their feelings about public schools, a constant source of concern in California.

What seemed to bother participants most, strategists found, was the idea that Schwarzenegger had broken his word by failing to repay the $2 billion once state revenues picked up -- something the governor denies -- and thus proved himself a typical politician.

“People had a pretty high level of expectation for this governor that when he said he would be different, it wasn’t just rhetoric,” said advertising consultant Rich Davis, who produced the teachers union spots with his partner, David Dixon.

So the question was who could best make the case against the governor. A rival politician? A union leader? An academic?

Liane Cismowski turned up almost by accident.

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On Jan. 5, union President Barbara Kerr watched the governor’s State of the State speech on a small TV at her headquarters near San Francisco airport. As Schwarzenegger spoke, Kerr’s anger grew.

A few weeks earlier, she had met with the governor to discuss the borrowed money. There might be problems paying it back right away, he said, though the meeting ended inconclusively.

Now, as Schwarzenegger spoke in the ornate Assembly chamber, it was clear the money would not be coming anytime soon. Worse, as Kerr and others saw it, the governor was blaming teachers for the problems of the public schools. With Schwarzenegger’s image still playing on her TV, Kerr got up and walked through the office, turning over several photographs of herself and the governor. “OK,” she told staffers gathered around. “I guess we’re in a battle.”

Within days, Mellman had completed a statewide poll. Two things stood out. While 62% of respondents viewed the governor favorably, nearly two-thirds said his failure to keep his word about the $2 billion was a convincing reason to oppose his political agenda. And when it came to teachers, 24% agreed they were a “special interest” while 65% felt they had “the best interest of kids at heart.”

In his speech, the governor had called for dramatic action, including an overhaul of the budget process, the public schools and the way California’s political lines are drawn. If legislators failed to act, he said, “the people will rise up.... And I will join them. And I will fight with them.”

That was a clear allusion to a special election. But for the time being, the union was focused on the repayment, along with additional funds the union felt schools were owed under Proposition 98, the state’s education spending formula. Kerr recorded a radio spot scolding the governor and the Democratic-run Legislature for scrimping on schools. “It’s time for lawmakers to keep their word,” she said.

The ad did not play well in the governor’s office. In early February, Kerr met with Schwarzenegger a final time to discuss the budget. The atmosphere was chilly. The governor joked about Kerr’s performance on the radio, comparing her to Shelley Winters, the hefty screen actress. To Kerr, “It was not a compliment” but a signal to forget, once and for all, about getting anything from Schwarzenegger.

Working with their Democratic allies and other public employee unions, the group shifted strategy, hoping to avert the special election. “Everything in politics is calculation and risk,” said Bob Cherry, a union strategist who had a major hand in the anti-Schwarzenegger effort. “We tried to make sure he understood the risk.”

In Washington, Davis and others began shaping the ad campaign.

Years of polling showed that teachers were the most effective advocates for education. But Davis wanted something more. He asked the union to find him “teachers of the year,” figuring that “added weight and credibility to whatever that person might say on camera.”

Sandra Jackson, the union’s deputy communications chief, began calling around the state. She asked about a healthcare teacher in Concord, an East Bay suburb of San Francisco. But that woman had a scheduling conflict. A colleague mentioned Cismowski, a 2004 Contra Costa County teacher of the year. The two had worked together as mentors, and he admired her plain-spoken sincerity.

Jackson reached Cismowski in her classroom. After a brief talk, Cismowski overcame her qualms and agreed to fly to Los Angeles to appear on camera. “I’m always telling my students that each of them matters,” she remembers thinking. “That everyone can make a difference.”

Saying no would have made her feel like a hypocrite.

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Cismowski was born in Tacoma, Wash., and raised on Air Force bases around the country. She became a teacher 16 years ago in Merced after a stint as an investment banker. One reason was the hours, which gave her time with her two children. The family moved in 1998, when Cismowski’s husband, a minister, took over the congregation at Concord’s First Presbyterian Church.

By the spring of 2004, she had won all sorts of honors. Still, Cismowski wasn’t satisfied. She figured the worst students are the ones who need the best teachers. She thought of the parable about the final judgment in Matthew 25: “Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.” So she transferred to Olympic High School. “I’m just trying to walk the walk,” she says. Friends called her crazy.

The campus is located in a scruffy neighborhood across the tracks from Concord’s gentrifying downtown. The student body consists of castoffs: foster children and students with drug, alcohol and disciplinary problems. Some wear ankle monitors to class. Cismowski thrived, loving the challenge, loving her kids.

She was never particularly political. She registered as a Republican years ago, but votes for whomever seems best for education. She was aware of the union’s spat with Schwarzenegger, but figured she and the other teachers would just dig deeper into their wallets to pay for supplies.

Boarding a 6 a.m. flight to L.A. on Feb. 16 may have been the most political act of her life.

At the age of 47, it was the first time she had ever visited the city. She remembers marveling at the palm trees and gawking at the Hollywood sign. On the set, at the United Teachers Los Angeles building on Wilshire Boulevard, she asked a lot of questions about the lights, the cameras and the TelePrompTer.

She read through the script -- “Keeping your word. It’s a cherished principle we teach our students. So how can Gov. Schwarzenegger break his promise?” -- nailing her lines right away. A cameraman asked: Are you an actress?

Over 6 1/2 hours, Davis and his crew shot several versions of the ad. One featured Cismowski. Another featured an elementary school teacher from Compton. A third featured several teachers, including Cismowski. She returned home thinking it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

All three spots aired, starting in mid-March. But Davis and his fellow strategists saw something special in Cismowski, an instinct confirmed by focus groups. “Viewers size up the people they see on television much the same way they size up a person standing in front of them,” Davis said. “Do I like this person? Do I trust what they have to say? Do I see in them a reflection of my personality and beliefs? For Liane, the answer to each was a resounding ‘yes.’ ”

But Cismowski was having doubts. She wrestled with them when, to her surprise, she got a call asking her to return to film another spot in late March. A person of strong religious faith, Cismowski worried about aggrandizing herself and whether she was enjoying the whirlwind a bit too much. Finally, she decided, it was OK. She wasn’t hawking cleaning products, or something she didn’t believe in.

She was doing it for her kids.

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The Cismowski campaign was just a part of what hurt Schwarzenegger. The governor made several blunders. He raised money on a scale that rivaled his ousted predecessor, Gray Davis. Worse, he took on some of the most sympathetic figures in the state: teachers, nurses and firefighters. They organized mass protests and poured tens of millions of dollars into other, more caustic ads.

Their message, straight from focus groups: Schwarzenegger was not the governor people expected him to be.

“It was a chorus of disappointment from very trusted and respected message carriers,” said Ray McNally, a GOP ad man working for the anti-Schwarzenegger coalition. “What we were trying to tell people was, ‘It’s OK to be disappointed, because you’re not alone.’ ”

In that cacophony, the Cismowski advertisements stood out for the quiet and level way in which she addressed the governor. Although the tone grew tougher as Schwarzenegger sunk in the polls, the spots remained respectful, if insistent, on the governor’s “broken promise.”

What started as a fiscal fight became something else. In the end, said union strategist Rich Davis, it was a question of character. And the teacher from Olympic High seemed more credible.

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Last month, Cismowski arrived home to find a letter from the Screen Actors Guild, inviting her to join. She passed on the offer, in part, because of the $100 initiation fee. But by the time she flew to Los Angeles in late October to film the election’s closing spot, she sounded like a pro. “OK,” she said, positioning herself on a straight-back chair. “My body is angled to the left. I’m looking back toward the camera. Are we ready?”

Cismowski is small, not much more than 5 feet, and appears more delicate than on television.

A week before the special election, she was seated at a student desk in her immaculate classroom. The school day had just ended. The bookshelves were regimentally straightened and the shiny wood floor clean enough for a picnic.

All the adulation from Schwarzenegger critics has left her feeling somewhat ambivalent. “I don’t want to be the cause of anyone’s downfall,” she says. “It’s sometimes spooky when people say, ‘You’re the reason the governor’s approval ratings have tanked.’ ”

Schwarzenegger seems like a good man, she said, and a devoted father. She doesn’t envy him the responsibilities of being governor. She hopes to meet him one day.

And what, she was asked, would she say if she finally addressed Schwarzenegger face-to-face? She paused at length.

“Nothing personal,” she replied, meekly.