Mario Cuomo

by O'Shaughnessy, William;

  I loved winning the governorship more for him than for myself. It was redemption for my father. Cuomo was elected governor—the first name was not all that relevant. It was a gift to have him with us this past election night. The doctors didn’t want him to go, but I insisted, bringing him on the stage for one more fist pump. Holding up his hand, I felt his energy surge; his face brightened and his eyes shined as he gave us that great, satisfied smile one more time. He walked off the stage and said, “Wow, what a crowd that was!” It was the best medicine I could provide for Mario Cuomo that night.

  He loved being governor and thought he could do four terms, and he valued that over anything else—even the Supreme Court. Why didn’t he run for president? people ask. Because he didn’t want to—he was where he thought God wanted him to be.

  He was a man of principle—of honor, of duty, of service—and that defined his life. He had simple tastes: no expensive cars, no planes, no fancy homes. A weekend meal with family. Watching a baseball or basketball game with my father’s running commentary, reading a good book, and just talking—but really talking—there was no small talk or superficiality with Mario Cuomo.

  My father never lost his interest in public affairs. We would talk at 5 A.M., and he would have read all the papers and was ready to tell me everything I did wrong the day before. We would talk about the problems and how to find a way through the maze.

  He was recently very troubled by the Washington “mess,” as he would call it. He was concerned about the city. My father’s 1984 convention speech was called “The Tale of Two Cities,” and he was adamant about pointing out inequities and divisions in our society. But the goal was always to unify, never to divide. And the current factions in New York City were very disconcerting to him. He governed during [the] Howard Beach and Bensonhurst [racial incidents] and knew racial and class divisions are the New York City fault lines.

  They say your father never leaves you. If you listen carefully, you will hear his voice. I believe that’s true. But one doesn’t need to listen that carefully or be his son to know what Mario Cuomo would say today: that it’s time for this city to come together; it’s time to stop the negative energy and keep moving forward. The positive course is to learn the lessons from past tragedies, to identify the necessary reforms, to improve our justice system, better safety for police officers, and to move this city forward.

  And that’s just what we will do, Dad. I promise you.

  For Mario Cuomo, the purpose of life was clear: to help those in need and leave the world a better place (Mathew 25); Tikkun Olam, to heal the divide; Tzedakah, to do justice. It’s that simple and yet that profound. It’s that easy, and yet that hard. By any measure, Mario Cuomo’s voice inspired generations; his government initiatives helped millions live better lives. He left the world better than he found it. He was a leading opponent of the death penalty and proud of appointing the first African American to the Court of Appeals, of his Liberty Scholarship Programs, his pioneering child health insurance program, his leadership in AIDS treatment research.

  New York is a better state thanks to Mario Cuomo.

  The last few days as he was slipping I said to him, to give him something to look forward to, that he needed to stay strong for the inaugural because I wanted him to hold the Bible. And he asked, in a semiconscious state, “Which Bible?” Which only Mario Cuomo would ask. And I said the St. James Bible. He said the St. James Bible would be good for this purpose. I didn’t follow up. A few weeks later he said he was too weak to hold the Bible, but he would be there. I stopped at his apartment, went to his bed, and said, “Dad, the inauguration is today. You want to come? You can hold the Bible, or you don’t have to hold the Bible.” There was no response. I said, “Well, let me know because there is a second event in Buffalo, and if you change your mind you can come to Buffalo.” During that afternoon, my sister played the inaugural speech for him. He knew the Buffalo event was at 4:00. My father passed away at 5:15.

  He was here. He waited. And then he quietly slipped out of the event and went home. Just as he always did. Because his job was done.

  We believe the spirit lives, and I believe my father is not gone and that his spirit is with us—in Amanda’s song, Michaela’s charisma, Tess’s dance, Christopher’s laugh, and in every good deed I do.

  I believe my father’s spirit lives in the hope of a young boy sitting in a failing school who can’t yet speak the language. His spirit lives in a young girl, pregnant and alone and in trouble. It lives in South Jamaica and the South Bronx. His spirit lives in those outsiders still living in the shadow of opportunity and striving to join the family of New York.

  And Pop, you were right once again, and I was wrong: Tell Winston Churchill I now agree, I read every line, Pop, word for word, because it’s not about what they want to hear. It’s about what I wanted to say. And I said it, Pop.

  Tell Officer Ramos and Officer Liu we miss them already, tell Fabian and Jack Newfield, Grandma and Grandpa, and Uncle Frank we love them.

  I will listen for your voice. You taught us well. You inspired us. We know what we have to do, and we will do it. We will make this state a better state, and we will do it together.

  On that, you have my word, as your son.

  I love you, Pop, and always will.

  I deeply regret that, especially in recent years, I never had quite the same relationship with Andrew I was privileged to enjoy with Mario, but as I read—and savor—these beautiful words constructed and delivered by his son and heir, one can only observe that the great Mr. Churchill would have given them his enthusiastic and hearty approval. And Mario himself would have certainly loved it. Praying over your departed father is a damn difficult assignment. You get to do it only once. And you’d better get it right. Andrew did it brilliantly and powerfully and with stunning effect. In Andrew’s best moments he resembles his magnificent father.

  Not all the citizens of New York could have heard Andrew’s magnificent eulogy that sad morning, but as a stunning reminder of Mario’s importance to the state of New York, that evening of his funeral, the Empire State Building reached into the night sky of midtown Manhattan bathed in blue and gold in his honor.

  As I set my pen aside and wind down these reminiscences of a remarkable man, my mind drifts back over the thirty-eight years I was privileged to know Mario Matthew Cuomo. It is now winter in the Litchfield hills of western Connecticut and in Westchester where I work. On the television and our own community radio stations, WVOX and WVIP, the talk is of the early presidential primaries of 2016 and a most colorful and disparate cast of characters vying for the blessing and imprimatur of the American voters.

  We are enveloped by the nasty dialogue about who will follow President Obama. The discourse is heavily laden with bombast, braggadocio, and meanness. And as I watch this sad tableau unfold, I can’t help but think once again of the extraordinary individual we’ve been discussing in this memoir. And I wonder, I really wonder, how Mario Cuomo would fare in this mean political season. Could you see Mario standing there under the lights on a stage at one of these made-for-television cattle shows as the announcer intones, “We’ll be right back . . . after this word from Cialis”?

  I’ve watched most of the presidential “debates” and listened to thousands of words spoken by the all-too-eager aspirants. And not one of the candidates—not one!—has uttered anything of meaning or beauty. And so to paraphrase Mario’s oft-used plaintive cry about the great DiMaggio, I can only ask, “Where have you gone, Mario Cuomo? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you . . . .”

  On second thought, maybe those of us who loved the man should be glad Mario never had to endure the degradation, vulgarity, and phoniness of a contemporary presidential campaign, circa 2016.

  But . . . but couldn’t you just hear him out there now . . . if only, if only for a little while?

  Come to think of it, maybe Mario is still around to make us “better, stronger—even sweeter.” That very thought occurred to me as I
heard his son and heir Andrew take to a lectern recently to speak about marriage equality, immigrant policies, and diversity in America:

  I want to talk about good American values. This country was founded on the premise of accepting people from all over the world. Different people, different cultures, different races, difference ethnicities—an amalgamation of them all. That’s the American value. It never said people who are different are bad. The founding motto of this nation is E pluribus unum—“out of many, one.” We invite them, they will come, and we will forge one community.

  We are not threatened by diversity. We are celebrating it. We are not born of exclusion; we are born of the exact opposite—we are born of inclusion. We are black, we are white, we are Asian, we are Latino, we are gay, we are straight, we are transgender, we are rich, we are poor, and we invite all in and we say we will forge one community all together. That’s what America really is all about.

  And we only had two rules when we founded this nation: acceptance of all by all; discrimination of none by none. And our experiment of diversity rested on one basic premise, and that basic premise comes down to one word: equality. That whoever you are and wherever you come from, we treat everyone the same. That’s the rule: to take the diverse population we have attracted and forge one society, one community. We’re all equal. We don’t judge, we accept, and we are all equal.

  Equality is not really about a specific goal or destination. It is about a constant process of improvement. Martin Luther King used to talk about “the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice.” He didn’t mean that it bends naturally. He meant you can bend it toward justice, but it takes an effort. I am not so sure that society, left to its own devices, bends the arc toward justice; it takes effort, it takes strength, it takes advocates.

  I believe the inherent role of government is to fight for equality and for justice. That’s the number one role, and that’s what we’ve brought to New York state. That’s why marriage equality was so important.

  When you said only “civil unions” for gay people, you said their love is not equal to your love. Their relationship is not equal to your relationship. Their child is different than your child. You demeaned the relationship. You invalidated the love, and you set up two different classes. And that’s why we fought so hard for marriage equality, and that’s why we got it done here in New York. And when it happens in New York, it radiates all across the country. When it happens in New York, every politician, the next day, gets the question “What would you do about marriage equality?” And “What would you do, Mr. President, about marriage equality?”

  The fight will go on, and it will only end when we reach a more perfect union. And a wholly equal society, which is probably a goal that is unobtainable, but the struggle will always go on.

  Because—with all the arrogance of a New Yorker—New York is not just another state. New York is a special state. And New York always has been. By birth, it was born special. We are the laboratory of the American experiment in democracy. That Statue of Liberty stands in our harbor. The words of Emma Lazarus are on our doorstep. We are the place that said to the world, “Come here, we welcome you. Poor, huddled masses, come here, we welcome you.” And we have done that since we were founded. And we have made it a great success. You want a model of diversity? You want a model of acceptance? You want a model that has rejected bigotry and taken people from all over the world, with one simple promise of opportunity and dignity and equality for all? That’s New York! Eighteen million people from everywhere. But we are one at the end of the day. We are one community, and we are there, one for another!

  So don’t tell us diversity doesn’t work. Don’t try to pit us against each other. Don’t try to threaten us with differences. We know it because we live it. And we live it in close proximity, altogether, and it has been a joyous celebration. That’s why so many of the great fighters for equality have come from New York: Eleanor Roosevelt, FDR, Stonewall, and . . . Mario Cuomo: people who knew in their DNA that we are all different and we are all immigrants, except for the Native Americans. And we all came to the same place for the same promise and the same rights. That banner New York will carry for the rest of our lives.

  So I’ll give Mario Cuomo’s son the last sweet word.

  Or is it Mario himself who speaks as this mean, nasty winter fades and yields yet again to springtime . . . ?

  March 2016

  Westchester, New York

  APPENDIX: COLLECTED NOTES FROM “PROFESSOR” A. J. PARKINSON

  Mario spoke often of a mysterious desk drawer that was a repository for the wise and pithy sayings of the legendary “A. J. Parkinson,” his favorite philosopher. “Doctor” Parkinson, of course, was, in reality, a nom de plume for a “failed baseball player with too many vowels in his name,” which is the affectionate appellation I conjured up for him many years ago.

  A few years ago, his daughter Maria Cuomo Cole put together a little booklet with some of A.J.’s musings. Here are a couple of highlights: I can see and hear the governor in every phrase and word. Mario used these same words in the Christmas cards he and Matilda sent out over the years.

  “LOVE”

  No word is more discussed, written about, thought about or misunderstood.

  Everyone seeks it, and when it’s found, it makes everything else seem no longer worth seeking.

  It costs nothing to give and it can’t be bought.

  It’s best when graciously received and then passed on.

  It brings with it warm smiles, deep contentment—sometimes tears of joy—and even a sense of justification.

  Wise men analyze it; poets romanticize it, but no one improves upon it.

  Our word for it is “love.”

  Some of us believe it was personified nearly two thousand years ago in a manger, in a stable, far from here.

  Others see it embodied in other symbols and other events.

  Almost all of us celebrate festivals to it at this time of year. In doing so we are reminded how good a whole year could be—if only we were wiser.

  [Untitled]

  There are those who pass like ships in the night

  Who met for a moment then sail out of sight

  With never a backward glance of regret:

  Those we know briefly then quietly forget

  Then there are those who sail together

  through quiet waters and stormy weather

  Helping each other through joy and through strife

  and they are the kind who give meaning to life.

  During most of those thirty-seven years we exchanged gifts at Christmas—some humorous and others of great significance. One year he surprised me with a radio designed to resemble a jukebox. It still works. Over the years I have been the recipient of many lovely Waterford crystal bowls from Ireland and a carved wooden Sinatra-style fedora. And then there was a very rare collector’s volume on the mighty Hudson River from “Mario, Matilda, Maria and Kenneth” which I treasure among all the books in my personal library as I also do the portrait they commissioned from a photograph of Yours Truly.

  The governor also sent me a handsome set of cufflinks and an engraved belt buckle from Tiffany. But my favorite gift had to be the four “Mario Cuomo Signature” miniature baseball bats run up by the Hillerich and Bradsby company, manufacturers of the iconic Louisville Sluggers, which were signed by Mario’s noms de plume from the sandlot days: “Matt Dente” . . . “Connie Cutts” . . . “Lava ‘Always Hot’ Libretti” . . . and the immortal “Glendy LaDuke.”

  Another “gift” I treasure is my “official” Mario Cuomo Butt Board, the small, almost square, polished plank with the official state seal, a version of which went almost everywhere with the governor to relieve the almost constant pain in his aching back.

  For my part, I am afraid I wasn’t nearly as creative as, year after year, I would dispatch a rare antique or contemporary real ink signature pen that I hoped he might use for some historic occasion. But he always seemed more co
mfortable with his trusty Sharpie or Artline 210. And from time to time I would jokingly get on the governor for his taste in ties and send him a cravat by Hermes or Charvet, none of which I ever saw on him.

  Through it all he was a most generous friend, to be sure. But I still treasure most the great gift of his friendship and presence in my life.

  And as I put--30--to this memoir I am left only with the wish that I could have given him . . . just one more podium.

  And one more . . . spring.

  AFTERWORD

  One of Mario Cuomo’s favorite venues was the venerable Dutch Treat Club, a prestigious New York institution whose membership includes illustrators, actors, authors, Broadway producers, editors, cabaret singers, broadcasters, journalists, and even a former U.S. president (Gerald Ford). For several years, Mario opened the Dutch Treat’s fall season as featured speaker at the 108-year-old club’s kickoff luncheon usually held at the National Arts Club in Gramercy Park. Over the years he and the luminous nonagenarian Liz Smith vied for the all-time attendance record. (Both drew standing-room-only crowds.)

  In May 2014 the Dutch Treat Club honored one of its favorite speakers with a prestigious Gold Medal for Lifetime Achievement in the Arts. After Mario accepted the honor, the governor’s family decided he wasn’t up to receiving the award in person. In the toughest “booking” of my life, I went in his stead. Here are my own poor remarks given that May night at the Harvard Club:

  Fellow Dutch Treaters, I have never felt less worthy in my life. We all make our living with words. That’s certainly true for the brilliant Mark Russell and for a legendary lyricist like Sheldon Harnick. And words are equally essential to the brilliance of Mark Nadler and Anita Gillette and Alan Schmuckler. As for me, I’m afraid they usually emerge inartfully, awkwardly, and imprecisely.