Mario Cuomo

by O'Shaughnessy, William;

  He came to the podium, waved, and then excused himself from “the poetry and temptation to deal in nice but vague rhetoric, the usual preliminaries.”

  Instead, he offered a polite but passionate assault on Ronald Reagan’s America, his shining city on a hill: “A shining city is perhaps all the president sees from the portico of the White House and the veranda of his ranch, where everyone seems to be doing well,” Cuomo said. “But there’s another part to the shining city, where some people can’t pay their mortgages, and most young people can’t afford one; where students can’t afford the education they need, and middle-class parents watch the dreams they hold for their children evaporate. . . . There is despair, Mr. President, in the faces you don’t see, in the places you don’t visit in your shining city. In fact, Mr. President, this nation is more a ‘Tale of Two Cities’ than a ‘Shining City on a Hill.’ ”

  Cuomo continued with phrase upon devastating phrase, pleading with the American people to see the poor and disenfranchised not as failures and losers, but fellow citizens.

  Mario Cuomo’s hold on the imagination of his fellow Democrats was all about soaring rhetoric and political poetry. But it was the governor himself who noted that politicians campaign in poetry but govern in prose. His principled stand against capital punishment—which he shared with his predecessor, Hugh Carey—won him accolades as did his nuanced defense of abortion rights, brilliantly argued in a speech at the University of Notre Dame in 1985.

  Combined with his wonderful speeches, those two positions earned Cuomo a reputation as the Democratic Party’s leading liberal spokesman at a time when liberalism was banished to the political wilderness.

  Cuomo published a collection of his speeches, reminding so many of his supporters why they adored him. The volume was called More Than Words. It is a suitable epitaph for a politician who used words to inspire, to probe, to critique, and to provoke. Yes, he will be remembered best as an orator, but there was something more about him, something more than the pretty pictures he painted with the English language.

  He was unafraid to challenge a comforting narrative with impertinent questions at a time when others preferred to simply go along and get along. That required more than words. That required ideas, courage, and intelligence.

  Mario Cuomo had all three.

  The reader can see and savor Golway’s entire original piece at Politico.com, where his graceful essays now often appear.

  I’ve hesitated until now because I could not summon the strength or find the desire to sit over a legal pad with a pen and then speak words into a microphone in a radio studio that place Mario Cuomo in the past tense. Everything that he was lingers. And will for years.

  Even now I’m afraid it was a friendship I taxed too much with impatience, distractions about marital issues, tales of chaos around my hearth and home, much of it of my very own making, irreverence, and even, occasionally, impertinence. I mention impertinence because although we would occasionally “edit” each other’s pronouncements and writing, I was constantly aware that I was not worthy to loose the strap of his sandal when use of the English language was at issue, and on many occasions I told him so. Yet undaunted by the prospect of adding anything of value or perspective to a pronouncement of the great man, I would usually attach a handwritten note to a working draft: “You hold the bat like this, Mr. DiMaggio . . .” Very few of my “suggestions” made it into the final transcript. Apply the impertinence to me anyway for even presuming to dare tweak a pronouncement of one of the greatest minds of our time. But now . . . now I sit alone.

  Or am I alone . . . ?

  Often late at night or early in the morning when he would be embarked on a lovely riff about one of the great issues of the day that was too good, too wise, too exquisite for my meager brain, I would plead with him to stop, please stop wasting the magnificent product of that bright, fine, beautiful mind on such an unworthy and untutored Irish dunderhead.

  As the governor recognized very early on, almost at our first encounter, I’m not exactly a belletrist or writer of fine literary works known for their aesthetic qualities and originality of style and tone as he was. He was more alive to the world of ideas and to the study and lessons of history than most of us could ever hope to be.

  At any rate, I cannot add to the official canon of his work or improve on the recitation of his many accomplishments as a mediator, a college professor, an author of eight books including The Blue Spruce for children, a Lincoln scholar, a diarist, an attorney in the service of what he called Our Lady of the Law, and then as secretary of state, lieutenant governor, and governor of New York state, and even later as the most esteemed partner of the big, white-shoe Manhattan law firm founded by Wendell Willkie. It is part of the popular lexicon, his public and legal career, and it resides now in the history books of a nation and in those voluminous archives in the state capital in Albany, while his mortal remains rest in St. John’s Cemetery in Middle Village, Queens.

  As a public orator, he was a man of his words. And in every season, for all his rhetorical gifts and power at the lectern, Mario was always searching for meaning and purpose, always looking toward the light, and never quite sure he had done enough to fulfill the moral obligations inherited from his father, Andrea, or his mother, Immaculata Giordano, or later from the Vincentians of St. John’s. As Mario was fond of saying, “Every time I’ve done something that doesn’t feel right, it’s ended up not being right. I talk and talk and talk, and I haven’t taught people in fifty years what my father taught me by example in one week.”

  You can see—and feel—the yearning and struggling of a beautiful soul in The Diaries of Mario M. Cuomo, published by Random House in 1984:

  I’ve fought a thousand fights but not enough the good fight. I’ve not—truly enough—kept the faith. I’ve hurt people by bad example, even my own family.

  For whatever combination of genetic, environmental, and educational reasons, I have always found it easier to discern a challenge than to acknowledge success.

  I’ve always preferred privacy. Loneliness has never been the threat to me that the world has been. The more deeply I have become involved in opening myself, revealing myself, discussing myself, the more vulnerable I have felt.

  Why, then, am I in politics at all? I take power too seriously to be totally comfortable with it.

  Every day, a thousand lost opportunities: every day closer to the end. If only everything we did, we did in light of that, how differently we’d act. We would have so few regrets.

  But now I look back on nearly fifty years and I’m pained by the memory of so many hurts, so many mistakes, so many missed opportunities. So much weakness. It’s a hard game, but “the game is only lost when we stop trying.” So, on with the effort!

  So for my part, I can really tell you only small things about the man, for I always thought of him as a teacher, albeit a great one, possessed of that beautiful soul that far outshone all his accomplishments in the public arena.

  We spoke often of our souls, our sons, our daughters, and only occasionally did the great issues of the day, fleeting and temporal as they were over the years, intrude on his relentless searching and brilliant musings about matters eternal.

  Our friend Joe Reilly told me of an evening at the bar of an Albany pub frequented by “political types.” The affable, gregarious—and generous—Reilly was descended upon by some staffers from the Executive Chamber (the governor’s office). One of them, after a cocktail or two, said, “Joe, we know you’re a friend of O’Shaughnessy, the Westchester radio guy who’s a big fan of the Gov. They seem to talk a lot on the phone early in the morning and late at night. What the hell do they talk about?”

  Reilly said: “Don’t go there; just don’t go there. They talk about their sons and daughters and their souls. They’re ‘out there.’ ” Reilly then changed the subject. I mention this little vignette as relayed to me by my Irish friend because I want to make sure the reader understands that the governor, if you haven’
t already figured it out, mercifully spared me any of those complex and difficult issues that came under the heading of “prose”—those very complicated issues a governor has to deal with 24/7.

  As I approach the ambiguities, confusion, and uncertainties of old age, I hope I’ve not succumbed to what Pete Hamill calls “the glib seductions of nostalgia.” As I move into those ambiguities, my mind drifts back across many seasons of a unique friendship with a marvelous man who just happened to be a liberal icon of our American nation. It’s been noticed, by more than a few of my friends, that I’ve always looked at the Cuomos, especially Mario, through rose-colored glasses. To which I have to plead, “Guilty.” But that admission also puts me squarely in the same boat as the very first woman Chief Judge of the New York State Court of Appeals, Judith Kaye, who, when asked if she had any “objectivity” about one Mario Cuomo, answered, simply and honestly, “No.”

  The late Bob Grant, fiery and provocative dean of radio talk show hosts, who was lethal on the subject of Mario, accused me more than once of being a “stooge for Mario Cuomo” (which appellation never prevented the cranky old WOR and WABC star from generously plugging all four of my previous books). Incidentally, importuned by my friend Rick Buckley, who owned WOR, I tried mightily to persuade the governor to appear on Grant’s final WOR show, to no avail. “I saved his job once at WMCA,” said Mario about the fellow who practically made a career out of bashing him almost daily on the air. But I was never able to get them together. Still I liked Grant, cranky and acerbic though he was.

  My feelings and great affection for Mario Cuomo, you should thus be advised, also place me in the very same pew with the late Jack Newfield and the crime writer Nick Pileggi. My mind drifts back to a late-night conversation at the Executive Mansion in Albany. William Kennedy, the novelist and Albany historian, was there too. And when the subject of Mario Matthew Cuomo came up, Pileggi (or it may have been Newfield) said, “Hell . . . we’ve all gone over the edge on this guy . . . from objectivity to admiration and awe a long time ago.” So I figure if tough, no-nonsense, unsentimental journalists like Newfield and Pileggi were not immune to Mario’s charms . . . well, the hell with it. I’m sorry . . . I loved the man. And I’m not alone. A few months ago, in a public conversation with Vanity Fair’s Michael Shnayerson up on the stage at the New York Public Library, the writer Ken Auletta of New Yorker fame almost teared up at the mention of Mario’s name. MMC has that effect. Still. The great Chris Matthews, without whom MSNBC would surely resemble a bowling alley, once urged caution upon young people who would idolize politicians. “Imperfection grows.” But also, I’m persuaded, do decency and goodness and thoughtfulness.

  As I write this, we have just marked the first anniversary of the great man’s passing. I hope I’ve done justice to the memory of a great man. I’ll let scholars and perhaps other journalists, commentators, and broadcasters aim for impartiality. I’ll take a pass because I loved the man. I realize full well that subjectivity has a field day in all my recollections of Mario Cuomo. And I’m quite aware that objectivity is akin to the coin of the realm in the Republic of Letters. And as I don’t aspire to standing or high estate in that rarified realm, I’ll not tolerate any criticism of my friend in these pages.

  With these reminiscences, I’m not trying to make him an icon or, God forbid, a martyr of a long-ago age, or even a hero of a distant myth. It was especially clear to me that Mario tried to observe and adhere to in his personal life those lofty lessons about which he spoke so often. He often shared with friends the torment he encountered almost every morning when he would stride into the state capitol charged up to begin his day’s work. “Should I stop and chat with the elderly man who sells newspapers or the blind shoeshine man and listen to their problems and complaints . . . or should I breeze by and hurry upstairs to the governor’s office where I can try to save thousands with a few phone calls and the sweep of my pen . . . ?” But in the next breath he would recall Mother Teresa’s counsel as relayed to him by John F. Kennedy Jr.: “You save them one . . . by one . . . by one.” Thus in this book I’ve attempted to show that Mario was a man who tried to live the lessons he preached.

  He was, in every telling and by every account, a very real flesh-and-blood retail politician as well as a statesman and philosopher. And like Nelson Rockefeller, when Mario Cuomo walked into a room . . . you knew he was there.

  MARIO CUOMO

  1

  Whence He Came

  Dying is something you have to do all by yourself. There are no cohorts, no accomplices. It’s a solo act. Except . . . except perhaps in the case of one particular, very special Italian, who, when he left us, was actually accompanied by several mythical sandlot ballplayers who had achieved great notoriety in the semi-pro leagues on the worn and dusty diamonds of Queens so many years ago. It can now be told that among those who departed with Mario Matthew Cuomo on January 1, 2015, as he slid across home plate for the last time, were the near-legendary ballplayers Glendy LaDuke, Matt Dente, Connie Cutts, and the incomparable Lava “Always Hot” Libretti, all of whom, according to the old men of the neighborhood, answered to the name Mario M. Cuomo, who was constrained by “official” league bylaws that allowed him to play on exactly one team at any given time.

  And there was one more he took with him across the plate. The famed philosopher A. J. Parkinson, author of so many wise and pithy sayings and thoughtful observations, also retired from our dull, confused lives when Mario Cuomo departed on that New Year’s Day as night fell over the great city he never really wanted to leave.

  The failed baseball player, it should be known, left a desk drawer filled with A. J. Parkinson’s wisdom that he had been collecting for years. We spoke often of these things and of the colorful characters who populated his old neighborhood. One marvelous name stays: a distinguished gentleman named Mr. “Cat-Killer” Cardone, who was most assuredly not the son of Immaculata Giordano and Andrea Cuomo. But I think he really existed in the old neighborhood.

  Before the governor’s father, Andrea, became a greengrocer at that fabled grocery store in South Jamaica, Queens, he was a laborer with a strong back who dug ditches with pick and shovel for storm sewers (they called them “trenches” in those days) in New Jersey. Mario described his father in moving terms: “I watched a small man with thick calluses on both hands work fifteen and sixteen hours a day. I saw him once literally bleed from the bottom of his feet, a man who came here uneducated, alone, unable to speak the language, who taught me all I needed to know about faith and hard work by the simple eloquence of his example.” How then, one wonders, could the man from Tramonti have such a graceful son, so nimble of mind and gifted of tongue, who became an impresario, in fact, of the English language?

  As I think of Mario’s father, Andrea, my mind drifts back to a spring day in 1995. It was the first of May, and Mario had come to the Immaculate Conception Church in Jamaica, Queens, to speak for his ninety-three-year-old mother, Immaculata Giordano, who had come to this country from Tramonti, just outside Naples in the Provincia di Salerno, and who had just gone to another and, we are sure, a better world earlier in the week.

  For a woman who had arrived in this country with just an address of a husband who had come before her, there were ten priests of the holy Roman Church. One of the priests was president of St. John’s University. But the main celebrant was an old Irish priest who talked of the promise of Saint Paul: “Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, and neither has it entered into the mind of man what God has prepared for those who love Him.”

  And then the youngest son of Immaculata Cuomo went up on the altar to explain his mother. He had spoken with power and grace and eloquence on many subjects all over the world. But this was for the one he called “Momma,” and you leaned forward to hear him say:

  I tried to write a speech. I wasn’t able to. I mean, what do you say? Momma was so strong, so dignified, so intuitive. She used to regret her lack of education. Maybe it’s better she didn’t know cybernetics
from a salami slicing machine—or megabytes instead of the struggle for survival. She was better with her intuition than you were with your education and intelligence. She knew only this—that no one could have assembled all this magnificence and all this complication if it wasn’t going to come out all right in the end. She knew this, and you could not have a mother like this without being awestruck by her strength. She was not of a world where Porsches are parked next to BMWs. I have written and spoken about Momma and Poppa. Many of the stories are in the public domain. I think of Poppa, who wrote sermons in the sand at the beach with his hands. We remember the charity of their souls and the largeness of their hearts. I only want to quote from the Book of Proverbs: “Her value is far beyond pearls. Her husband, entrusting his heart to her, has an unfailing prize. She brings him good all the days of her life. She rises while it is still night and distributes food to her household. She has strength and sturdy are her arms. She reaches out her hands to the poor and extends her arms to the needy. She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs at the days to come. She opens her mouth in wisdom and on her tongue is kindly counsel. Her children rise up and praise her at the city gates.”

  The governor finished his simple tribute with, “So, laugh for us, Momma. The years are behind you—and try to make a little room for us.”

  Mario Cuomo then sat down. And when they blessed the body of his mother and finally bid her to rest, he went straight back to work at his office at the Willkie Farr & Gallagher law firm.

  Outside the church, the talk was of her dignity and sense of humor. I had discovered something of this when I encountered Immaculata Cuomo in a Bob’s Big Boy restaurant on the New Jersey Turnpike several years before. She was on her way to Washington for the wedding of her grandson Andrew to a daughter of Robert Kennedy. As I came upon Mrs. Cuomo, I inquired, “Excuse me, but are you Rose Kennedy?” Without missing a beat, this marvelous old woman said, “Now stop that, Bill O’Shaughnessy. You know very well who I am. And I know who I am.”