“Remember who we are and where we came from and what we have been taught.” To some, it was philosophy; to him, it was a battle plan, a blueprint for a government.
“And no family that favored its strong children or failed to help its vulnerable ones would be worthy of the name. And no state or nation that chooses to ignore its troubled regions and people, while watching others thrive, can call itself justified,” Cuomo said.
As he talked like this about the poor and the weak in our society, hard-nosed political veterans sat with glistening eyes. Bill Haddad, his campaign manager, who has been with Jack and Bobby Kennedy, fought back tears. Samuel Fredman, the famous Jewish leader and matrimonial lawyer, who is a good man in a murky profession, gripped the hand of his wife, Mims. Even Andrew Cuomo, Mario Cuomo’s son and heir, who is supposed to be such a big, tough guy, clenched his teeth and bit his lip as he watched his father talk about the “Family of New York.”
And then Cuomo pulled himself again from the TelePrompTer for one last thought, which came up from his gut and out of his heart. And no one in Albany on that first day of the New Year will ever forget what he said: “I ask of all of you, whatever you think of me as an individual, to help me keep the moving and awesome oath I just swore before you and before God. Pray that I might be the state’s good servant and God’s too.”
That would have been enough for the history books and for the front page of the New York Times or the archives of the capital. But Cuomo had to add this: “And Pop, wherever you are—and I think I know—for all the ceremonia and the big house and the pomp and circumstance, please don’t let me forget.”
In the stilted beginning of this first inaugural address, Cuomo had directed himself to President Reagan and the syndicated columnists. But in the end, as he spoke from his heart, it was for Andrea Cuomo, the Italian laborer who became a greengrocer in South Jamaica and who had a son who is now our governor. At that moment Mario Cuomo became the most compelling political figure in the nation today.
When he finished, Cuomo stood with his aching back in the receiving line, next to Matilda Raffa and their children, for three hours. I left Albany to go down to Windham Mountain to have a drink with Carey and Kevin Barry McGrath. But that night, and all the way back to Westchester with my own sons, I thought of the greengrocer’s son. The way he talked about the homeless and the infirm and the destitute kept coming back to me.
There is no one in this country quite like Cuomo, and on New Year’s Day of 1983, he became the governor of New York. Implausible or not.
Mario loved to repair to his home office and sit at his desk behind boarded-up windows on the second floor of the Executive Mansion on Eagle Street, where he could write. But he wasn’t crazy about the business of publishing and promoting the product of his bright, fine mind once his brilliant genius was printed and bound.
On April 18, 1984, we covered the announcement of one of the governor’s books, The Diaries of Mario M. Cuomo, at the headquarters of Random House in New York City. Predictably, it was, at Mario’s insistence, held on a Saturday so as not to interfere with his official duties “at the people’s business.”
There was to be a press conference to introduce a new book. The author was not even there yet and already there was talk of “family” in the air—about parents and children and generations.
It was a Saturday morning with a spring rain falling on Manhattan. Robert Bernstein, the tall, elegant chairman of Random House, waited for one of his authors in the big paneled conference room high in a glass building on the East Side. Bennett Cerf used to run this place. Now he looks down from a large oil painting with that marvelous whimsical squint we remember from television.
It is Bernstein’s turf now, and the chairman of this great publishing house, the grandson of Litvak Jews, talked about his grandfather, who, it seems, was quite a brave man in Lithuania during the time of the Nazis. The talk then turned to his newest Random House author, who has written of a father named Andrea, a laborer who became a greengrocer. He had a son who became the governor of New York, just like Franklin Roosevelt and Nelson Rockefeller. That son, Mario Matthew Cuomo, has now written a book.
So, as the reporters and cameramen adjusted their minicams and microphones in the bright, hot lights, Bernstein moved among them. Croissants and muffins and clear, strong coffee were on a sideboard, all of it being so plentiful and completely free that the reporters ate a lot from the Random House larder as Bernstein talked up the new book. Because the politicians they usually cover for a living throw a box of doughnuts on the desk, the reporters were receptive. The publisher has done this little spread for the likes of Gore Vidal, E. L. Doctorow, Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, and James Michener. This time, he waited for Andrea Cuomo’s son. “Do you think this book will sell?” asked Bernstein. “He’s quite a marvelous man, isn’t he?” He was also late this busy Saturday morning, stuck in traffic at one of the East River crossings the Queens people know all too well. And then, at about 10:30, his heralds began to appear: Andrew, his son and heir; Fabian Palomino, the one he calls “Professor,” who goes way back with him; Tim Russert, the shrewd, street-smart counselor to the governor; and Harvey Cohen, a deputy commissioner. They lived part of this book with him, and it was right for them to be here. And then Mario Cuomo came into the room and sat again before the lights and the cameras as the questions began. The New York reporters probed and poked for an angle and a tidy headline to please their editors and tantalize readers and viewers.
The Diaries of Mario M. Cuomo: The Campaign for Governor—like the man who wrote it, the book is difficult to define, hard to categorize. It is, at once, a political book, a travel book, a mystery book, a religious book, a history book. I can’t label it. But this I assure you: Diaries is a haunting, powerful, disturbing, demanding, and, ultimately, joyful book.
Mayor Koch has recently produced his own book—a marvelous, glib, slick, entertaining piece of work, a quick read. Cuomo’s book is anything but. As you go through Diaries, you will find lots of famous political names strewn about. It’s heady and fascinating to read the governor’s observations about all the movers and shakers in the political world. But you won’t find any glibness or, indeed, any meanness of spirit in Cuomo’s retelling of his setbacks and his triumphs. His betrayal at the hands of former Democratic chairman Dominic Baranello is one of the most touching examples of Cuomo’s generosity of spirit, as he worries about Baranello’s health on the very day he was deserted by the political warlord. Diaries is a political book, all right. But the thought occurs that it is also a travelogue, even a mystery story. It is the journey of one man’s soul over a two-year period. And his search for Mario Cuomo is much more compelling than his pursuit of the governorship. You sit with Cuomo in the lonely hours of the night, and you greet the cold light of early dawn as he struggles to put some meaning to the implausible and tumultuous events that culminated in his upset victories over Koch and Lewis Lehrman.
The recollections about his late father are haunting and almost lyrical as, again and again, the governor returns to his familiar theme—family—and his admonition, “Don’t let us forget who we are and where we’ve come from,” echoes through the pages. Some entries are absolutely devastating, as Cuomo confronts death, or, what Teilhard de Chardin, his favorite philosopher, called the “diminishment” we all suffer as we get older. The reader will also find five of the governor’s speeches, including his brilliant and soaring inaugural address delivered in Albany on January 1, 1983.
As you read Cuomo’s book, you keep remembering something Ken Auletta of the Daily News said: “He’s awesome . . . he’s so damn bright, it’s scary . . . sometimes you have to get away from him.” There are passages in the book that are so insightful and sensitive they almost make you want to flee. But when you’ve finished, you’re glad you stayed the course. Awesome or not, everything this man is, is in this book.
Politicians are not supposed to write or even think like this. Cuomo will discourage a lo
t of writers—and even a few broadcasters—from ever going near a typewriter or a yellow legal pad once they discover what this graceful son of a greengrocer has done to the language. This book, which Cuomo says he wrote only for himself and was never meant to be published, has almost preempted the arena of the written word around here. Maybe some of the New York writers and Albany political correspondents will want to try baseball now that Cuomo is working their side of town.
I think you will enjoy this book and the penetrating insights, which flow so effortlessly and candidly from the governor’s fine, intelligent mind and generous heart. It may not sell as well as the Koch book, but this I know: The Diaries of Mario M. Cuomo will be read and treasured long after other recent books are forgotten.
After the press conferences in New York on Saturday, the chairman of Random House was trying to think of a place to take the new author to dinner, someplace where they could celebrate the publication of a new book. The publisher was gently advised not to take this author to a grand place like the 21 Club, Le Cirque, the Four Seasons, or Mortimer’s. Bernstein said: “Very well, then, I think we’ll celebrate with a fine dinner at Le Perigord. The chef will do anything for me there.”
Out on East 50th Street, in the rain, Cuomo stood and talked with his son Andrew and Palomino in order to unwind and disengage himself from this business of selling books. He took a deep breath and appeared to hyperventilate. And then Captain Joseph Anastasi, of the state police, put him in an unmarked car, which moved out through the rain in the direction of the East River, toward Queens and home. Cuomo the writer was again Mario Cuomo the governor. And still the son of Andrea Cuomo. Now all he has to do is get through a dinner at Le Perigord.
I’m going to buy his book for my family and friends. And then I think I’ll read it again—for myself—when I’m alone, late at night, before the dawn, when the Bible and the Tums don’t work.
10
Letters to a Friend
Over the years I worked both sides of the street on the question of whether Mario’s considerable talents were best utilized in Albany or on the national—and world—scene in Washington.
In this 1988 missive I was trying to nudge him into a national race.
Personal & Confidential
April 11, 1988
Mario:
I’m writing this note early in the morning as I make my way down from the country on Route 17. The seven o’clock CBS Radio Network news via WINR in Binghamton has just mentioned the Times story that you’re “edging closer” to a Shermanesque statement.
I’ve been thinking about this whole damn dilemma, and I had just about decided to do another most brilliant O’Shaughnessy Editorial of the Air when I get to the station. But I think I’ll opt instead for this note to a friend I care a great deal about. So, here goes:
As your friend, I’m torn between wanting what’s truly best for you and also trying to figure out who the hell can lead this marvelous country, which has been so good to me and mine. I’ve tried, as you know, to refrain from giving you the benefit of my meager genius and wisdom on this topic for several reasons. For one thing, I know you’re getting a hell of a lot of counsel, not only from the power brokers, but also from those friends who, although they greatly respect and admire you, would not at all mind having an acquaintance at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Another reason I’ve declined to offer my views is because you are, as always, brighter, wiser, and more sensitive than the rest of us. Indeed, I’m reminded of that rich fellow [Jack] Horenstein telling me at Maria’s wedding how your judgment was always superior to the counsel of his Park Avenue law firms. And I’ve also been thinking about [Jack] Newfield’s piece in the [Village] Voice last week in which he attributes your defeat in the New York City mayoral primary some years ago to your own instinctive feeling that you weren’t “ready” and that the timing “just wasn’t right.”
I guess this brings me to the main thought I want to share. No one could admire MMC any more than I do. But for all your smarts and capacity for hard work, I am emboldened to tell you—straight out—that you are, with all your faults, better than you think you are. Good God, I almost cringe from that observation because it sounds so much like something H. E. John J. O’Connor once uttered—about all of us.
No one can ever truly know what’s in another’s heart of hearts. But I think I know the governor well enough to be sure of the goodness and, yes, the sweetness you bring to everything you do. In other words, I’m sure of that relentless instinct that resides in you to “do the right thing.” I also admire your fidelity and commitment to the people of New York, and I can only respect your desire to stay at your post and fulfill the considerable trust you’ve been given here in our own state. I’ve said a thousand times over to everyone and all who would listen that you are “operating on a level far beyond every other contemporary politician,” and your becoming desire to “stay the course” in Albany bears testimony to just how unique and special you really are.
Now comes the “However.” I love this country and I am persuaded—nay, I’m sure—that no other Democrat—or Republican—could even begin to bring your sensitivity and intellect to the presidency. You were quite correct when, in a recent conversation, you told me that people are looking for a “moral leader,” and I can well understand your reluctance to take on that awesome responsibility. But I also want to remind you that while you are imperfect and capable of occasional human failings, the governor of New York has become, whether you like it or not, that great moral figure. In other words, Mario Cuomo may not be good enough for Mario Cuomo, but he’s more than good enough for the rest of us. So I think it’s time you got off that kick.
“People are looking for noble ideas,” you once told me at two in the morning while sitting in that suite in Anaheim as your tired eyes looked out in the distance over Disneyland, “and they’re not getting them in the pronouncements of these candidates.”
There is no question the same judgment, patience, and diplomacy that served you so well in Forest Hills, Corona, and Albany would enable you to almost instantly master international and national problems, rivalries, and disputes, but I see you bringing a lot more than negotiating and diplomatic skills to the task. I see you bringing Mario Cuomo to the job, with all that good stuff inside him, with that sensitive heart and with that sweetness. And strength.
Newfield told me last week that Jesse Jackson has to be the one to invite you to come in, and I’m sure Frucher, Andrew, Garth, Burgos, Zambelli, Fabian, Marino, Kirwan et al. are bombarding you with their own game plans. But as I once suggested in an editorial: you do some of your best work alone. So I think this goes beyond them and beyond [Michael] Dukakis and Jackson and [George H.W.] Bush and Paul Kirk and Willie Brown, and beyond delegates and superdelegates.
I don’t know where I’m going with this rambling note. I think I merely want to make the point that you are imperfect. You are flawed. And, of course, you are, at all times, “a failed baseball player with too many vowels in his name.”
I’d like to see you go for this. There! I said it! Or at least not shut the damn door. I’m convinced Dukakis can’t win—even that poor, tortured bastard Nixon says he’s a “word processor,” while you’re a “poet.” The scenario wherein we allow the Republicans to proceed to further polarize and fuck up the country for the next four years, thus causing the nation to summon you in 1992 to clean up the mess, is cynical and terrible to contemplate. But it’s on a lot of people’s lips.
This letter may be too late. And as Pete Hamill wrote in a similar plea to Bobby [Kennedy] in 1968: “I don’t want to sound like someone telling a friend he should mount the white horse; or destroy his career.”
Or his conscience.
But who the hell else could ever inspire such disparate types as Malcolm Forbes, General Al Gray of the Marine Corps, Newfield, [Richard] Ottinger, Nancy Keefe, Lou Boccardi, Bruce Babbitt, Ken Auletta, Abe Rosenthal, Bob Strauss, Tom Mullen, Andrew O’Rourke (who, despit
e the thrashing you gave him is now telling people he’ll endorse you), not to mention the Irish Counsel General O’Caillaigh! Plus those millions of people whose names you don’t even know. But they know.
Like you once said: they know. Like it or not, you have the capacity to go inside people, to a place where politicians rarely reach—and most don’t belong.
As I conclude this brilliant advice, I’m struck with the feeling that perhaps it’s unfair, if not impertinent, to try to push you out there toward all the hazards and rigors of a national race when I am so reluctant to step up to all the dilemmas in my own life.
And yet the feeling lingers that you would probably be the greatest president since Franklin Roosevelt.
All I want you to be . . . is Mario Cuomo.
Yours,
B.B.
P.S. Nancy Keefe just called to tell me I’m crazy. But you already knew that!
As I reflect on our friendship of thirty-eight years, it seems I was always bombarding him with unsolicited advice. Here’s yet another note to someone much brighter:
Personal & Confidential
March 12, 1990
Governor:
Another “what I really meant was . . .” note, after our conversation Monday morning.
Or . . . call them more scattered and impertinent thoughts on a day when Roger Stone, Fred Dicker et al. score some hits . . .
Rather than worry about these guys, I would love to see that loving, generous failed baseball player sitting this morning behind the plywood-boarded-up window on the second floor at 138 Eagle Street focus more on the hurting, confused, disillusioned folks who are, each day, the beneficiaries of the compassionate government you control—when it works right:
Mario Cuomo Page 23