OUR FIRST step in assembling a staff was to meet with another Loyola classmate, Dick Sanchez, or Ricardo Sanchez as he called himself when he was being seriously Latino. Ricardo was of medium height, taller than Tommy of course, with a pencil-thin mustache, and a smile which revealed perfect, if reconstructed, teeth. A River Forest dweller with kids about the ages of our own who also attended St. Luke’s school, he was movie-star handsome with bedroom brown eyes. He reminded me of the various characters that played the Cisco Kid. Indeed I called him Cisco that night when we were sitting in Doc Ryan’s bar on Madison Street in Forest Park.
“OK,” he said, “everyone knows that Rodge Crispjin is a phony. He’s tall and handsome with his snow white hair. He looks like a Senator, but he’s as lazy as sin and he’s in the tank with Bobby Bill Roads and his crowd of hypocrites from Oklahoma and sleeps with every luscious woman he can get his hands on. He hasn’t introduced any major legislation during his term in Congress and doesn’t have much influence. His down-state accent is phony. He’s a public relations bubble that is waiting for someone to burst.”
“Ric,” Tommy said, going into Spanish, “here’s a map of Illinois counties with the greatest proportion of Hispanics. Those are census figures, so we figure they represent mostly legals.”
“We believe,” I continued also in Spanish, “that this is the time to mobilize the Mexican voters in the state. They belong in the Democratic party.”
“You guys are really good,” Ric said in English. “Tommy, a
person can tell that you’re a gringo, but one that knows the language well. Mary Margaret, when you go into Spanish, you become Mexican—the eyes, the gestures, the facial expressions, the body movements. Sonoran accent of course, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Hermosillo, Cisco,” I said. “The kids are really good at it.”
“That should be a big asset in the campaign.”
“We want you to take charge of our Hispanic campaign,” Tommy continued. “Help us to mobilize the Mexican-American votes.”
“The HDO has that sewed up.”
“Only in Chicago, not even Suburban Cook, where your folks are all over the place,” I argued. “To say nothing of Dupage. We think we can carry Dupage for the first time in any election if all our amigos turn out.”
“Lake too,” Ric agreed. “We don’t owe Rodgers Crispjin anything … What’s in it for us?”
“Major political power in Illinois,” Tommy continued the argument, “It’s time, you know, long past time.”
“And an ally in the United States Senate?”
“We Irish never forget a favor. I’d advocate immigration reform anyway, but with more sense of backing back home, if the Mexican-American voters put me there.”
Ric shook his head.
“You two guys have always been magic. You’ll bring excitement back to politics. I’ll have to talk to Tina, but I know what she’ll say. What do you want me to do?”
“Co-campaign manager with Joe McDermott.”
“You have the whole Loyola Law School class. I bet you signed up Dolly McCormick too, smart, pretty Black woman.”
“Chief of Staff and Press person.”
“Wow! You guys move quickly.”
“We don’t have much money yet,” I said. “The party says more will be coming in, but you know our ground rules. We’ll pay you something even during the primary.”
“The Ambassador is the chairman of the finance committee,” Tommy added.
“Hell,” Ric continued in English, “I’ll do it pro bono. It will be fun.”
“You’ll need something for secretarial …”
“Tina would be furious if she were left out … this is going to be fun!”
“Chucky,” I said, meaning my dad, “says that volunteers will swarm in.”
“I’m sure he’s right.”
“Tommy has some money coming in from book royalties, we’ve put a second mortgage on the house. Lake County wants to settle our suit.”
“You guys are incredible! We’re going to win! … What will you be doing, Maria Margarita?”
“Scheduler, Cisco, adviser, morale.”
“And person in charge, I bet! Tina’s going to love this!”
“That was easy,” I said as we drove back to our house.
“You know this Tina? What is she like?”
“Well-organized, smart, dangerous! Tiny, very pretty, fire in her brown eyes.”
We were silent for a few moments.
“We’re getting in deep, Mary Margaret,” he said, sounding a little dubious.
“There has to be one rule for us Tommy: We’re having fun! A magical mystery tour!”
“Speaking of fun, I note, counselor, that you are wearing a dress with a zipper.”
“I thought you might notice that.”
That was only four years ago. We were so young.
We announced officially two weeks after we had agreed to run, in a small room at the Marriott on Michigan Avenue, already bright with Christmas decorations. The kids all wore red dresses and green ribbons. The room was packed with media people and supporters, the room overflowing as we had hoped it would be.
Again my delicious husband had no notes and needed no podium.
This looks like it’s getting to be a habit. I may have set a record for the number of times a man has announced his candidacy—twice in five weeks. I can guarantee I won’t go for three.
I’m making the same three promises today that I will keep throughout the campaign.
I will never permit a negative ad against my opponent. Attack ads which harm the candidates and their families are an evil which will disappear from American society only when enough candidates solemnly pledge never to use them, even if that pledge means losing an election. No matter how many attack ads my opponent may level at me, I will, with the help of God, honor this pledge.
I will never ask anyone for a financial contribution. My father-in-law, Charles O’Malley, will preside over our campaign fund. He will never ask for money either. Nor will he tell me who has contributed and who has not. Only when enough candidates adopt these rules will the pernicious effect of money on elections be eliminated.
Finally, I promise to make no campaign promises. Politics in our system of government is necessarily a matter of forming coalitions and winning votes. Just now it is hard to win votes for the issues with which I am concerned—fair treatment for immigrants, restraining the power of Big Oil, Big Pharmacy, and Big Insurance, protection for the pensions of ordinary people, protection of private property from condemnation by greedy local authorities, an increase in the wages of ordinary Americans, a more equal distribution of tax burdens.
That’s a big order. I can’t guarantee how much progress
I’ll make on any of them, but I’ll try.
Now let me introduce my staff. My friends Joe McDermott and Ricardo Sanchez will be co-campaign managers … Dolly McCormick will be Chief of Staff and Press spokesperson. My wife Mary Margaret will be scheduler and morale officer and tell me what to do. My daughters Mary Therese, Mary Ann, and Mary Rose will laugh at my jokes. We hope to add others as the campaign proceeds.
We can answer a few questions …
MEDIA: The Chicago Examiner says you are nothing but a househusband.
MORAN: I enjoyed the role and am proud of it. I did manage
to win a few cases from my home office—the Lake County false-arrest case for example.
MEDIA: Did you clear your candidacy with the Cardinal?
MORAN: No. That would have been presumptuous. I believe Mary Margaret’s Uncle, Monsignor Ed O’Malley, informed him unofficially.
MEDIA: It is true, is it not that you support abortion?
MORAN: I believe that abortion is wrong. However, the law of the land guarantees a woman’s right to an abortion. I am not going to try to take that away, not that a Senator has much chance to be involved with the issue.
MEDIA: Do you think the Church will bar you from the Sacrament?
MORAN: Not in Chicago. I would add that my concern with poverty, racial justice, the rights of immigrants is motivated by a long study of the Catholic Church’s social teachings.
MEDIA: Is it true that you support the rights of illegal immigrants? ’
MORAN: As I read the declaration of independence, all men, not just citizens, have certain inalienable rights. Illegal immigrants do not lose those rights. I would rather see a policy that enables them to migrate legally. Two things should be obvious—our society needs them and they do not take jobs away from other Americans as some people try to tell you. It is criminal how many of them die down in the deserts. We must stop them or we lose all right to be considered a humane people.
MORAN: Repeats the response in Spanish.
DOLLY: Last question
MEDIA: How much money do you have in your campaign fund now?
MORAN: Not much—as I said, we put a second mortgage on our house, I added the advance royalties from my book which comes out next year.
MEDIA: Senator Crispjin has ten million dollars in his fund.
MORAN: I don’t think I’ll catch up with him! … Now we have some entertainment for the season.
We assembled our little ad hoc mariachi group. Tina Sanchez and her daughter Consuela, it turned out could play the violin.
My daughter and I had some guitar experience. We did a few hand-clapping Mexican Christmas carols. We were not yet very good—we’d improve with time, but we were never very good. It didn’t matter. The kids stole the show.
“Senora,” Tina Sanchez embraced me, “I am more a gringa than you are. Feliz Navidad!”
I don’t think our debut worried the forces of Senator Crispjin much.
HOUSE HUBBY AND CLASSMATES PANDER TO ILLEGALS
One-time househusband, Senatorial Candidate Tommy Moran and a group of his classmates from Loyola Law School pandered shamelessly to illegal immigrants yesterday. At the announcement of his candidacy yesterday, Tommy repeated the same themes that had marked his announcement a couple of weeks go for the General Assembly with an added boilerplate in defense of illegal immigrants, which he then translated into very poor Spanish. To top the day off a couple of musicians and some children (including the candidate’s daughters) with very little talent sang Mexican Christmas carols.
Partisans of the veteran Senator H. Rodgers Crispjin ridiculed this pathetic performance.
“We’ll bury that little fool,” one of them said.
“Will the Senator debate him?”
“Don’t be silly!”
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Father Tony showed up to reprimand Tommy. He stormed into our library room in the basement which had become our campaign headquarters. He ignored me and started right in.
“What’s this nonsense about the Senate? I go to Australia for a few weeks and you make a fool out of yourself! How many times do I have to tell you that you shouldn’t try to play with the big guys!”
“I was asked by leaders of the Democratic party …”
I had not before noted Tommy’s reaction to his brother when Tony is in full fight—talking and not listening. My charming, articulate husband lowered his head, bowed his shoulders and
acted like a puppy dog being reprimanded by this master for soiling the parlor carpet.
“You’re a sacrificial victim. Do you think you have a chance against Senator Crispjin! He’s a big man in Washington! And a good man too! He stands four-square against abortion!”
“We think we can beat him.”
“Who’s this ‘we?’ You and your wife and kids? Isn’t it enough that you humiliate them by forcing them to sing in bad Spanish on television?”
“It’s good Spanish …”
I wanted to fight then and there. But for once in my life I kept my big Irish mouth shut.
“Did you get the Cardinal’s permission to run?”
“No …”
“He will have to deny you the sacraments!”
“He doesn’t do that to people.”
“All the other Illinois bishops will!”
He was pacing up and down, his eyes wild, his face flushed—more like a Pentecostal preacher than a member of a religious order which emphasizes the intellectual life.
“We hear they won’t, maybe only one of them.”
“Your problem, Tommy, is that you’ve never accepted your place in life. You’ve always wanted to play with the big guys. You should go back to defending dope peddlers. That’s where you really belong.”
“I’m testing my article in the Atlantic Monthly, can someone run a credible campaign without using attack ads …”
“Atlantic Monthly! Who reads that! … Where are you getting the money?”
He turned and pointed at my poor battered husband like he was a prosecuting attorney.
“Money is coming in … We put a second mortgage on the house. My publisher increased the advance on my book which is coming out in the spring …”
“BOOK! You never told me you were writing a book! How much money did they give you for it?”
“Sixty thousand advance …”
“Do you realize how many children that kind of money would feed in Africa!”
“It’s about the history of attack ads …”
“I don’t care what it’s about! You have no qualifications to write a book! … Maybe you should write about the humiliation of being a housewife while your wife supported the family …”
I wanted to break his neck, but I was still containing my temper.
“Maybe I could.”
Finally he sagged in the couch, a man exhausted after a hard day’s work.
“Do you have any idea what this does to my reputation? Do you know what priests are saying to me? My little brother trying to beat a veteran and distinguished United States Senator? I’ve given up trying to defend you!”
Tommy was silent.
“Please tell me that you will change your mind and renounce this folly.”
“No.”
Tony buried his head in his hands.
“Is there nothing I can do to persuade you that this is a great sin of pride, Satan’s sin? You will lose. You will destroy your reputation. Your family life will collapse. You will have nothing left. In the name of God I beg you to give it up!”
“No.”
“Then God have mercy on you … I will pray to our parents in heaven that you will change your mind.”
A worn and defeated man, his roman collar detached from his shirt, his long blond hair in disarray, he rose from the couch and staggered out of the room and up the narrow stairs to our first floor.
“Don’t expect me to support you!” he shouted at us.
Tommy and I sat silently at our big worktable, arrayed with our tentative schedule for January. Tommy’s head was still bowed, his shoulders still slumped. I went to the cabinet, removed the bottle of Bushmill’s Green and poured us both a drink.
“Early Christmas drink,” I said as I handed the bigger one to him.
“’Tis yourself that has the heavy hand, woman,” he said ruefully. “Thanks for being quiet.”
“I don’t quite understand …”
“Oh, I do,” he sighed as he sipped the whiskey very carefully.
“Tell me about it, Tommy.”
“I was the tagalong little brother. My mother ordered Tony to take care of me when we went out to play. I was an embarrassment to him when I pestered him to let me play with his friends. They made fun of him, called him a nursemaid. Remember I was five years younger and short for my age.”
“And, as I remember, even in first grade, with a dangerously clever tongue.”
He grinned at me over the Waterford tumbler, my sweet, funny lover coming back to me.
“So he had to protect me from the kids who tried to beat me up, egged on by girls like you …”
“Tommy, I never …”
“And, of course, I adored him. My big brother. He knew everything about school and about sports and about how to act. I tried to model myself after him … You should be more like Tony my mother used to say … And I wanted to be like him.”
“What happened?”
“I never got over my hero worship, Mary Margaret. Even today, when I know that everything he says is bullshit … All right, not in this house … but that’s the only appropriate word … I still want his approval. I know I’ll never get it, but, God help me, I’d like to have it.”
“But you stopped following him around?”
“When he went to high school. I realized that I could have a lot more fun when he was not around. I was funny, class clown, and also very smart. So the same little girls who thought I was a creep now thought I was cute. The boys thought I was funny. I had it made.”
I took his hand and led him over to the couch. I put my arm around him.
“He was at Loras when I started at Fenwick, so I couldn’t get in his way and he couldn’t get in mine. Mom would complain to him every vacation about the fast company I was keeping …”
“Our crowd!”
He laughed.
“I thought it was pretty funny too. Mary Margaret O’Malley,
the Censor Morum, ‘fast.’ However, I kept getting excellent grades, so that was proof that I was taking proper advantage of my opportunities. And all I wanted to do was to stare at the afore mentioned matriarch and picture her with her clothes off …”
“You did not,” I giggled.
“We didn’t like the O’Malleys very much. Your grandmother, after all, was from the South Side and that was bad enough. They had fun and that was even worse—dissolute, noisemaking, heavy-drinking bunch, not at all respectable like we were. On the other hand, they were above us and we shouldn’t push ourselves into their world—which of course I wanted to do so I could push the wondrous Margaret Mary into bed with me.”
“You did not,” I giggled again and kissed him.
“I don’t blame my parents. They were good people. They never had a chance. Respectability was so important to them …”
“And respectable we were not.”
“Heavens, no! … As you remember, when Tony found out we were ‘keeping company’—mom’s very words—he was furious. Ever since then you’ve been the scarlet woman who has ruined my life.”
“Fair enough description!” I kissed him again, a lingering one this time.
“So we just have to live with him. He hasn’t changed my mind since he tried to break us up … It still hurts that he doesn’t understand me or support me.”
“How can he get along with the other priests in his order?”
“From what I hear, he tones down his manic side with them and is sensitive and collegial, even if he gets uptight occasionally. I guess I’m the weak link in his personality.”
I didn’t say that there was something deeply sick about his brother. He knew that without my telling him.
Suddenly the cavalry thundered down the steps. Our eighth grader, Mary Rose, home from buying presents for us at Alioto’s over on Chicago Avenue. We had put some distance between ourselves before she had reached the bottom of the staircase.
“Father Uncle wasn’t very happy, was he?”
Ah, she had not just returned.
“You should not eavesdrop, young woman!” I warned her.
“Mo-THER! He was shouting so loud that I couldn’t help hearing him! He doesn’t think we’ll win the election, does he? Well, he’s wrong!”
Every time I see her, arms folded, determined face, flashing eyes, I think I’m looking into a mirror twenty years ago.
“He doesn’t think we ought to run,” her father said lightly.
“What’s his problem anyway?” she demanded.
“His problem, hon, is that your father is his little brother and he sees him catching up and passing him.”
Tommy didn’t disagree.
“WELL, if that little brat Marytre ever passes me up, I’ll just take credit for her!”
“I’m sure you will.”
“He doesn’t like you very much, does he, Mom? Why not?”
A fast, hardball pitch, for which I was not prepared.
“I mean, that’s the best thing you ever did, Dad, wasn’t it?”
“That’s what your mom tells me every day.”
“WELL, she’s right! … I just got the most bitchin’ presents for both of you. You won’t believe it!”
And off she went, ready to take on the world.
I tolerate that word in the house because it is merely a teenage adjective.
“She answered the question for you,” I pointed out to my husband.
“I assume that the whiskey is a prelude for something …”
“Not now with Ms. Big Ears around.”
“Later.”
We hugged each other, a pledge and a promise.