I asserted that sexual orientation doesn’t define someone, and should be accepted simply as part of who we are. “Being gay has had no bearing on my job performance in business, in the military, or in my current role as mayor,” I wrote. “It makes me no better or worse at handling a spreadsheet, a rifle, a committee meeting, or a hiring decision. I hope that residents will continue to judge me based on my effectiveness in serving our city—things like the condition of our neighborhoods, our economy, and our city services.”
The question I couldn’t answer for sure was: Would they?
THE ARTICLE WAS TO GO LIVE at six in the morning on June 16, and for once, I slept poorly. At dawn I was lifting barbells at the weight rack in my basement when text messages started lighting up my phone, coming in from friends, not so much in order of how close we were, as in order of how early they got up. I headed downtown as usual, where my first public event happened to be an outdoor pancake breakfast kicking off Bike to Work Week. South Bend’s full complement of TV reporters appeared, asking all kinds of questions about why I had come out when I did.
Was there someone I had met?
Was something damaging about to be revealed by political opponents?
Was I trying to make some kind of statement?
So much for the pancakes. I knew these reporters well, and the aggressive questions threw me off at first. One looked hungry for a scoop as he pressed me; another seemed half-hearted, almost embarrassed that his editors had instructed him to get this personal, while his cameraman looked at me with eyes that said, “Hey, man, just doing my job.” I told them that what I had to say was in the article, and returned to the importance of biking to work.
A couple hours later I was at a grand opening for a soup kitchen. More reporters, more questions—and not about the soup kitchen. I referred them to the article and repeatedly steered back to the issues of poverty and hunger that were impacting our city. Eventually they got the idea.
Around the community, people reacted in different ways. Inevitably, some of it was ugly—local TV stations covered a press conference by a newly invented group calling itself the South Bend Leadership Coalition, led by a fringe-right-wing activist who happened to live on my block. “The mayor’s announcement has created a crisis that goes to the heart of our political system,” their statement said. They went on to insist that this was a matter of grave political importance:
Is homosexuality now a consideration in hiring or in the granting of government contracts? Is support for the homosexual agenda now a requirement for employment or for the receiving of government contacts [sic]? Do homosexuals get favorable treatment when they apply for jobs or government contracts? Are other members of the Buttigieg administration homosexuals? If so, would they be willing to share this information with the public and explain whether this affects their ability to function as civil servants?
There was little point in responding; either I was good at my job as mayor, or I was not. And if someone thought I was sitting around handpicking recipients of routine government contracts at all—let alone doing so based on sexual orientation—then it was unlikely that they understood our administration enough to judge it on its merits anyway.
But things like this were the exception; the vast majority of the reaction fell into two categories: those who wanted me to know they were supportive, and those who wanted me to know they didn’t care. Both sets of responses were welcome. The comments from people who were impacted were certainly touching. I had not done this out of any desire to make a statement or bring about a public result, but the hundreds, maybe thousands, of emails coming into the city inbox made clear that my coming out had made it easier for at least some others. One young man from conservative Marshall County wrote of his family, “Their Christian beliefs tell them I’m living in sin and need rescued of my ‘wayward lifestyle.’ But having men and women like you serving the public makes it much easier for families like mine to accept their own sons and daughters.” People I had served with overseas got in touch—one who had volunteered with me on a risky convoy wrote to share that he was gay as well—many to express support, and others just to say hello, to ask how I was doing, with no mention of the article at all.
A couple weeks after coming out, I returned from a few days away for a conference and went to see my neighbor, Kathy, who had been picking up my newspapers and mail. She and Irv had retired from running a small business out of the home, and had lived next door for decades; I assumed they were politically conservative, but we usually talked about neighborhood stuff, not politics. I asked her how things were going, and saw tears welling in her eyes.
“Did your mother tell you what happened?”
No, I said, I hadn’t checked in with her. What was the matter?
She noticed I hadn’t been getting my paper. No irregularity in our neighborhood gets past Kathy, and by the third day she figured out that the paper carrier was skipping my house. So she confronted the delivery guy, and asked him why I wasn’t getting my Tribune. He said something about not wanting to give a newspaper to “one of those.”
Wrong answer. “Has he done anything to you?” she demanded.
“No,” he admitted.
I didn’t catch all the details of how she proceeded to let him have it. But by the time I had gotten home, the paper was arriving faithfully every day.
In my view, the biggest thing to turn the tide on LGBT issues wasn’t theological or political evolution. It was the discovery that many people whom we already know turn out to be part of this category. The biggest obstacle wasn’t religion, or hatred. It was the simple fact that so many people believed, wrongly, that they didn’t even know anyone who was gay. At my high school in the late 1990s, I didn’t know of a single gay student.
It is easier to be cruel, or unfair, to people in groups and in the abstract; harder to do so toward a specific person in your midst, especially if you know them already. Gays have the benefit of being a minority whose membership is not necessarily obvious when you meet one (or love one). Common decency can kick in before there is time for prejudice to intervene. Of course, humans can be cruel to people we know, too, but not as often—and we’re rarely as proud of it.
In the struggle for equality, we do well to remember that all people want to be known as decent, respectful, and kind. If our first response toward anyone who struggles to get onto the right side of history is to denounce him as a bigot, we will force him into a defensive crouch—or into the arms of the extreme right. When a conservative socialite of a certain age would stop me on the street with a mischievous look, pat my arm, and say conspiratorially, “I met your friend the other day, and he is fabulous,” it was not the time for a lecture on the distinction between a partner and a “friend.” She is on her way to acceptance, and she feels good about her way of getting there; it feels better to grow on your own terms than to be painted into a corner.
STILL, WE HAD NO REAL WAY of knowing in advance how coming out would affect the reelection that year. I had handily won the primary, the city was widely viewed as being on the right track, and my Republican opponent lacked a strong organization. But it was difficult to gauge whether voters would view me any differently now, as summer gave way to fall and November approached. Nor was it clear how much my popularity had been impacted by the many tough decisions of my four years in office. I still believed, as I had commented to Mike Schmuhl on election night back in 2011, that I could never be as popular as I was that night, because every difficult decision had to cost us at least a few votes.
One source of concern was an ongoing controversy over the police department, known around South Bend as the “tapes case.” It became an issue in early 2012, just a few months after I took office, when I relieved our police chief of his command in response to a federal investigation, though its roots went back to before I had even taken office.
Police issues had not been a major theme of the campaign in 2011, but it was clear by the time I first took office that the depar
tment needed attention. Rumors swirled of favoritism, opportunism, and cliquishness within the police force. There was little evidence of a real promotion system or documented officer evaluations, which meant that career advancement hadn’t fully outgrown the sixties-era norm in which your standing depended on popularity and political relationships. The place would need an overhaul, sooner or later.
But reforming the police department would be a major task, requiring new leadership, sustained attention, and political capital. In addition, while there were clearly management issues at the department, the current chief was well liked in the community. As the first African-American chief in our city’s history, he had been uniquely able to build confidence between communities of color and the department as a whole, and his track record of youth mentorship programs and other community work had paid dividends for the department’s vital neighborhood relationships. So, after interviewing him and two competitors for the job, I decided during the transition phase that I would reappoint him, and save major police department reforms for a future year.
It turned out to be my first serious mistake as mayor.
Somewhere during that transition phase, in the months before I took office, the internal politics of the department had boiled over. The chief, believing that some other officers were gunning for his job, allegedly confronted them with tape recordings that could embarrass them if disclosed. He had access to these tapes because some phone lines in the department were connected to recording equipment used for interviews and investigations, and the officers had been recorded on that equipment without their knowledge. As court filings would later document, the chief threatened to take action against at least one officer he had come to consider disloyal. Perhaps the chief didn’t realize that I was already leaning toward reappointing him; or perhaps it just seemed like an insurance policy.
Enter the Federal Wiretap Act—a set of very strict federal laws about recording other people without their knowledge. In fact, making such recordings or disclosing their content can be a felony, punishable by prison time as well as fines. There are state laws, too, against recording a conversation without the knowledge of either party, absent a warrant or other legal clearance. The recorded officers knew it, and complained to federal authorities, who took the issue seriously. So that’s how it came to be that, a few weeks into the job of mayor, I learned that my newly reappointed police chief was being investigated by the FBI. Eventually a message came through, thinly veiled but quite clear, from federal prosecutors: the people responsible for the covert recordings needed to go, or charges might be filed.
Why did they send me that signal, instead of just acting on their own? Was the intent to do me a favor, giving me a shot at resolving this quietly and helping my young administration without getting bogged down in the scandal of indictments just a few weeks after we got started? Maybe. Or perhaps they just understood the politics of all this before I did. Why should a U.S. attorney shoulder the responsibility of taking down a beloved African-American police chief, if he can get the mayor to do it for him by removing him from his position? Justice would be served and compliance would be established, while charges and a messy trial could be avoided.
In any case, whatever had led to this point, the choice now lay at my feet. I sat at the end of the conference table in my office, and contemplated which scenario was more likely to tear the community apart—a well-liked African-American police chief potentially being indicted over compliance with a very technical federal law, or me removing him for allowing things to reach this point? There was no good option: the community would erupt either way.
Maybe the chief would step down on his own, I thought. I called him. (Another mistake; things like this should be done in person. Since that day, I’ve never removed a direct report without sitting down with him or her for a face-to-face discussion, however painful and awkward.) After I explained the situation and my view of it, he did offer his resignation, and I accepted it.
The reaction was instant and fierce. Community activists demanded to know more details about what had happened, but I was worried that going into too much detail would get us sued. (Eventually I did go into more detail publicly, and a lawsuit quickly followed, teaching me another important lesson.) By the next day, he had changed his mind and withdrew his resignation. Allies in the community, including many African-American leaders whose support and respect I had counted on before, had convinced him to change his mind—and now wanted me to change mine.
But the status quo was not an option. Even leaving aside that I believed removing him was the best way to avoid him facing potential legal action, I had lost confidence in the leadership of a chief who had not come to me the moment he realized he was the target of an FBI investigation. The hiring and firing of officers in our city is ultimately up to a civilian Board of Public Safety, but the mayor decides who ascends to senior rank. Acting on that authority, I demoted him from the position of chief to that of captain.
Then something happened that I did not see coming. Local press began reporting on rumors that the tapes contained evidence of officers using racist language to describe the former chief. (All of the five officers known to have been recorded were white.) The content of the tapes had not come up when I was talking with staff or with the chief about the issue. If true, this was explosive, and serious. The credibility and legitimacy of our police department depended heavily on the expectation that officers did their job with no racial animus. And since so many of the worst race-based abuses in modern American history happened at the hands of law enforcement, policing was the most sensitive part of the entire administration when it came to demonstrating that we acted without bias.
Infuriatingly, I had no way of finding out if this was actually true. The entire crisis was the result of the fact that the recordings were allegedly made in violation of the law. Under the Federal Wiretap Act, this meant that it could be a felony not just to make the recordings, but to reproduce and disclose them. Like everyone else in the community, I wanted to know what was on these recordings. But it was potentially illegal for me to find out, and it was not clear I could even ask, without fear of legal repercussions. As of this writing, I have not heard the recordings, and I still don’t know if I, and the public, ever will.
Overwhelming pressure mounted for me to disclose the recordings, especially from the African-American community. Protesters picketed my first State of the City address. A group calling itself Citizens United for Better Government formed and appeared in public meetings with custom-made T-shirts reading RELEASE THE TAPES.
I invited a number of the most prominent community and faith leaders to meet in my living room, so that I could explain the legal constraints I was under. They viewed my protestations skeptically, as did the Tribune, but legally I was stuck unless a court gave me room for maneuver.
The story dominated media coverage of my administration for most of our first year, and affected my relationship with the African-American community in particular for years to come. A legal drama ensued, with the council suing the administration to release the tapes, while the officers sued the city over the fact that the tapes had been made in the first place. The technicalities became dizzying, with one branch of the city government suing another; some parts of the case are still in litigation years later as we look to the courts to answer the basic question of whether I can lawfully authorize the recordings to be released.
The most important lessons of this painful episode were not about the finer points of federal wiretapping laws, but about the deeply fraught relationship between law enforcement and communities of color. This issue, previously an abstraction for me, was now hitting home. Ferguson and everything that followed in the Black Lives Matter movement came after the tapes controversy exploded locally, but their urgency grew from the same root: the fact that many of the worst historical injustices visited upon black citizens of our country came at the hands of local law enforcement. Like an original sin, this basic fact burdens every police
officer, no matter how good, and every neighborhood of color, no matter how safe, to this day. To the many people in the community who rose up to demand that the tapes be released, this wasn’t a question of whether I was right or wrong in fearing that doing so would violate state and federal wiretap laws. It was about their belief that not everyone in the community could trust the men and women sworn to protect them. Like so many police officers and Americans of color dealing with the long reach of such past wrongs—and the present-day wrongs that flow from their legacy—I found myself answering not only for myself but for history.
ANOTHER CHALLENGE IN the reelection campaign would be the mixed popularity of my approach to our streets downtown. While this entailed far less moral anguish than the police tapes situation, it was in the headlines just as often, and led to even more critical letters to the editor and challenging conversations. Even many of my supporters weren’t so sure of my approach, stopping me at the Farmer’s Market or the sidelines of an event to say, “I love what you’re doing with the city . . . except for your ‘Smart Streets.’ ”
Unlike our famous smart sewers, the program I had decided to call “Smart Streets” had little to do with sensor technology. It was about the hope of a better downtown, and the role of street design in making it happen.
I had gotten a crash course in urban planning after becoming mayor—both literally, in the form of a seminar organized by the National Architecture Foundation and the Conference of Mayors, and figuratively, in meetings and meals with members of my administration trained in architecture and New Urbanism. All of them seemed to agree that our city’s downtown was nothing less than a tragedy of misguided “urban renewal.”
Old photos corroborated the memories of people like Bob Urbanski, showing people crisscrossing busy downtown streets full of shops, theaters, and hotels. But by the time I took office, downtown streets were about one thing: cars. The two main north-south roads in town had been converted, decades earlier, into a pair of four-lane, one-way streets that shunted traffic as quickly as possible through—and out of—downtown. The result was a quick commute through the heart of the city, but also a central business district that felt hostile to pedestrians. Going between my office and a restaurant a couple blocks away felt like walking alongside a highway, which is technically exactly what it was. The roads functioned to evacuate the very area I was trying to fill in.
Shortest Way Home Page 27