The Senator and the Priest

by Andrew M. Greeley

  We walked around the rotunda under the dome and looked at the statues of the famous people from each of the states on the House of Representatives side of the Capitol. Most of them I had never heard of.

  Then we took the subway back to the Dirksen building.

  There was hubbub in the crowded main room. The Senator was about to deliver his first address. Most of the staff would watch it on C-SPAN.

  “Do you think your daddy will give a good talk?” a woman staff member asked, like she was talking to five-year-olds.

  “Daddy has a lot of practice telling us what to do around the house,” Mary Rose answered.

  Then an entourage formed and my Tommy emerged from his inner office, face freshly scrubbed, hair neatly combed, suit buttoned, smile in place. My heart skipped a beat. I remembered him in sixth grade when I had my first crush on him.

  “Shall we go?” he asked.

  Chris, who had been pacing up and down, a bundle of high powered nerves, offered him a folder, presumably his talk.

  “I don’t think I’ll need that … Ted, you already have the text. Note any ad libs I may have to defend.”

  “Yes, sir, Senator.”

  He handed the folder to me.

  “Your cell phone, Senator,” Chris said with a perfectly straight face.

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he handed it to her with a guilty grin.

  Everyone in our family touched Guadalupe and made the sign of the cross on the way out. Some of his staff looked at us like we were savages from the Amazon jungle who might be carrying blow guns with deadly darts.

  “Why the entourage?” I asked.

  “So no one will accost me. Security. Superstition, I suppose.”

  We went up to the gallery and he went into the chamber. Manny hummed one of her calypso melodies which reminded me of a very old Harry Belafonte record. I hummed it along with her.

  “He looks cute, Mommy,” Marytre informed me.

  “Daddy always looks cute.”

  There were perhaps twenty-five senators on the floor. When the presiding officer recognized Tommy, they all quieted down. They wanted to listen closely to their new young star.

  Chris sat behind me in the visitors gallery, my kids sat on either side, serenely complacent.

  “He’s one stubborn Irishman,” Chris whispered, the mountain smoke in her voice, just as Tommy had described it. “He’s supposed to read from the manuscript, he’s supposed to have an aide in there. He just smiles and waves me off. They’re putting a podium on his desk which he won’t use. He could make a fool out of himself.”

  “Bet?”

  “You’re as bad as he is!” she laughed anxiously.

  We were in the first row of the visitor’s gallery. We could barely see Tommy on the floor, in the last row of the chamber. A senate staff member hooked a lavalier mike around his neck. Tommy smiled graciously. My stomach became very tight.

  “I recognize by unanimous consent the Senator from Illinois for a period of thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I think I can promise that I will speak well within that limit.”

  The President Pro Tem, a junior Republican, sighed in evident boredom, opened a book and began to read.

  “I rise to speak, Mr. President, about the immigration reform bill that we are discussing these days. I do so with some embarrassment on the festival day of the patron saint of my ethnic group. I am not embarrassed to be Irish, heaven knows, but I am embarrassed to be speaking on this holy day in favor of an administration bill. My family has been Democratic for four generations. I hope the spirits of the past do not complain about my lapse from virtue, not till this body adjourns for the day. I also hope that St. Patrick does not object, though as we all know, St. Patrick was a Democrat.”

  The laughter on the floor was genuine. Who the hell was this punk kid to joke so calmly at his first speech—and where was his typescript?

  Chris opened her copy and I opened mine. Mary Rose peered over my shoulder.

  “I support the administration bill and I congratulate the White House on it. It is not a very good bill. In fact it is a very bad bill, but it is the only one that has a chance of getting through Congress in the present immigrant-hating mood in our nation of immigrants. It may well diminish the slaughter of innocents in the upper Sonoran desert next year. Any legislation that accomplishes that deserves our strong support.

  “Let me be honest about the matter, Mr. President. It will not diminish the flow of labor across our southern border. It will regularize it somewhat, nothing more. But such regularity will save some lives. Any legislation that accomplishes that deserves our strong support.

  “Let us be even more candid. If the goal is to choke off the flow of immigrants, we ought not to waste our time with punishments like denial of driver’s licenses, education, and health care or breaking up families. The payoff of immigration to the United States is twelve dollars an hour compared to ten cents an hour if you don’t migrate. If we really want to protect our borders, to seal them off, then we should define all illegal immigrants as invaders and shoot them on sight, and I fear some Americans would like to do just that.

  “As it is, hundreds and now thousands die of hunger, thirst, heat exhaustion and sunstroke in the Sonoran and the Chihuahuan deserts every year. Many Americans feel that’s their problem not ours. They break our laws, they take responsibility for the consequences. However, the truth, Mr. President, is that American business seduces them to cross the border by the promise of better wages and a better life and the American government winks at this seduction. Their blood is on our hands. Mr. Jefferson wrote that all men are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights such as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Mr. Jefferson did not say that these rights were limited only to American citizens. The right to life of a ten-year-old child who dies on the desert not far from Tucson, Arizona, has been alienated by American society. Our corporations need them. Some segments of the American economy would grind to a halt without them. So we say to these indispensable workers, we will pay you more money than you had dreamed possible if you break our laws and cross our border. In return you must put your life in jeopardy. It is a bargain Dr. Faust would have understood.”

  I was following the manuscript. He was speaking it word, for word, a phenomenon not surprising to me. He did that all the time. He was also his usual relaxed self, confident and charming, even when passion pervaded his voice. My cute little Irish superhero. Around me the staff were quiet and attentive. Down on the floor, the other Senators had turned to listen and watch. They too were very quiet. Even the President Pro Tem closed his book. A new senatorial orator was a borning. Danny Webster look to your laurels.

  “We should realize, speaking of Dr. Faust, Mr. President, that the arguments that they are taking away American jobs are the devil’s work. They are dishonest justification for the flagrant violation of human rights in this new slave trade. Employment rates not only in this whole country but even in the border states have not declined. Moreover these migrant workers make a major contribution to our economic health, not only by their work but by the money they spend in this country. They also contribute money to our Social Security system, money they will never see again because their cards are fraudulent, another violation of rights. The answer, Mr. President, to any problems the Social Security system may have is to permit all the undocumented immigrants to pay into it. They are young and they will be contributors for a long time.

  “With this fact in mind I have proposed one amendment to the bill under discussion. I oppose the requirement that those who come over as guest workers pay a two thousand dollar fine to acquire a green card. If we gave them the green card a year earlier, they would pay more than two thousand dollars at the end of that year in taxes.

  “Finally, Mr. President, we must reject the absurd myth that those who wish to stay in America are engaged in an invasion which will restore to Mexico the territories taken from t
hem in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo or at the Battle of San Jacinto or in the Gadsen Purchase. All the research evidence indicates that those who stay have exactly the same goals as did the children of the saint we celebrate this day. They want to become good Americans. They want themselves and their children to enjoy the American life. They have a rich and joyous culture to share with us. We will be fortunate to have them, Mr. President. We should not be as wrong-headed as those a century and a half ago who thought there were too many Irish pouring into this country.

  “Finally, speaking of that good saint, I want to remind you, Mr. President, once again of Mr. Jefferson. He wrote that all were created equal. These undernourished, furtive, frightened, hungry, and thirsty little men and women who risk death in the deserts are God’s people just as we are. It is not a stretch of the imagination to hear the Lord saying to us today what Moses said to the Egyptians. LET MY PEOPLE GO!

  “Thank you, Mr. President, I believe I have honored the time limits you requested.”

  There was silence, dead silence, for a moment. Then our gallery, led by the four redheads, erupted in a standing ovation. We were crying and so were many of the women staff members who were with us, including Chris and Manny.

  The President Pro Tem looked up in dismay. We were interrupting the peace of the Senate.

  “If the disturbance in the galleries does not cease immediately, I will order the Sergeant at Arms to clear the galleries.”

  We shut up. I felt like S’ter had caught me whispering in a grammar school class. My face grew very warm. I had given a bad example again.

  “That glorious son of a bitch,” Chris whispered as we hugged one another, “letter perfect.”

  “Do we get our ice cream now, Mommy?” Marytre demanded.

  There were cheers down on the floor. The Democratic senators who were present were embracing him. They knew a star had been born. I thanked God and Guadalupe that we had finally found a place for which my cute little Tommy was destined.

  “I’m Eileen,” a handsome gray-haired woman said to me as we walked down the stairs. There were tears on her face too. “You must be so proud of him, Mary Margaret. We have needed someone like him for years.”

  Minority Leader’s wife. I said, “Thank you very much. Now you’ve started me crying again.”

  Contrary to the decorum expected of a senator’s wife and the whirling of the TV cameras I pushed my way through the surrounding Senators in the corridor outside the Senate and embraced my husband. His heart was beating rapidly and his face was damp with sweat.

  “Top of the morning, Senator,” I said to him as I kissed him.

  “And the broth of the day to you, Mary Margaret. I need a splash of Bushmill’s.”

  “So do I!”

  He introduced me to the Minority Leader and the other Senators. I memorized their names carefully.

  “Danny Webster better look to his laurels,” the Leader said.

  “My very thought, Senator.”

  Hat McCoy introduced himself.

  “I’m a Republican, Ma’am, but there’s some Irish in me too. So I’m wearing this hyar green tie legitimate enough. Your husband shunuff is a powerful preacher man. He gonna be a real trial to us on our side of the aisle.”

  “When do we get the ice cream?” Marytre demanded.

  “I think Daddy will have to go back to his office to thank his staff. It’s a big day for them.”

  “OK. They’re real nice people.”

  We were greeted with cheers on the second floor of the Dirksen building. Three bottles of champagne were produced, paper tumblers were filled and Chris proposed a toast.

  “Happy St. Paddy’s day to the Senator.”

  My daughters, who love Champagne—in limited doses, mind you—turned up their noses but sipped the Coke anyway. We were not about to contribute to the delinquency of minors in the Everett McKinley Dirksen Senate Office Building.

  The staff were ecstatic. They now knew for sure what they had begun to suspect—they had a winner.

  I hummed a note softly. The kids picked it up.

  “When Irish eyes are smiling they’ll steal your heart away!”

  While we were singing several other senators, attracted by the noise joined us. They wore green too. On St. Paddy’s day everyone is Irish.

  “Double celebration, huh, Ms. O’Malley?” one of them said tome.

  “Sure,” I replied in my best phony brogue, “blarney is alive and well!”

  “And living in the United States Senate, thanks be to God,” the Senator replied.

  Then we went for lunch. The kids all ordered hamburgers and French fries, Diet Coke, and two kinds of ice cream. In the evening Tommy and I drank our toast to the day in Bushmill’s before we collapsed into bed and celebrated again.

  CHAPTER 20

  MY STAFF had downloaded the speech from C-SPAN. It was available on my Web page that evening along with the text for those who wanted to follow along. DVDs went out the next morning to our core mailing list and a note was printed in our newsletter telling the readers that DVDs were available of the talk. We had more than five hundred requests.

  I came down to earth very quickly the next morning. We had a meeting of the full Armed Forces Committee the next morning to examine the newly appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a spit-and-polish Navy admiral with thick brown hair, a tense red face, a jacket laden with ribbons, and a brusque tone of voice as though he were barking out responses on the bridge. He glared at the junior Democrat on the committee as though he were a seaman third class or whatever their lowest rating is.

  “Admiral, I’m sure you have heard of the Powell Doctrine, even though it was enunciated by a soldier.”

  “Yes sir, Senator.”

  “And didn’t General Powell argue that the United States should engage only in wars in which it would bring to bear massive force?”

  “Yes sir, Senator.”

  “Was not his argument based on the long and drawn-out war in Vietnam? Was not his idea that wars should be concluded promptly and successfully.”

  “I believe it was, yes sir, Senator.”

  The poor idiot didn’t see it coming. Neither did his handsome and polished aides who were seated on either side and behind him.

  “Do you subscribe to the Powell Doctrine?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What would you estimate to be the proper size of an overwhelming force?”

  “It would depend, Senator, sir, on the war being contemplated.”

  “What would have been the proper size for the war in Iraq?” Got him.

  “I wasn’t involved in that decision,” he stumbled.

  “But surely you have given some thought to it?’

  He glared at me.

  “I’m sure that those responsible for the decision about force levels were satisfied with the size of the force.”

  “Are you aware that General Sheneski, one of your predecessors, should you be confirmed, estimated before this very committee that a force twice the size of the one actually used would be needed to secure Iraq?”

  “I believe I heard that, yes, sir.”

  “And that the Secretary of Defense ridiculed and humiliated him in public for that suggestion and subsequently dismissed him?”

  “I can’t recall that.”

  “Did the force actually used in Iraq promptly and successfully end the resistance there?”

  “Of the Iraqi army.”

  “Our troops are still there, Admiral.”

  “One more question,” the committee chairman said irritably.

  “One’s all I need, Senator. Tell me, Admiral, if the Defense Secretary contemplates another war without massive and overwhelming force, will you resist such a plan?”

  “It will be my duty to obey the Secretary.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “That’s enough, Senator.”

  “You should not have embarrassed the Admiral, Senator,” the chairman said when the meeting
ended. “We’re hoping for a unanimous approval.”

  “Forget about it,” I replied.

  “We have to support our troops.”

  “The best support would be a leader who can protect them from harm’s way.”

  The senior Democrat on the committee was not pleased with me either.

  “You don’t know much about the armed services.”

  “Enough to know about the Powell Doctrine.”

  “Now we will have to vote against him in committee and on the floor of the Senate. A freshman Senator should not embarrass us this way.”

  “You didn’t tell me that I shouldn’t ask him a tough question.”

  “You ought to have known that.”

  I shrugged and walked away.

  Then Manny told me that I had been invited to appear on the Jim Russell program on Sunday morning.

  “We will have to take you over to the Senate TV studio for prep. He’s the best and the most difficult.”

  I had watched Russell and found him intelligent and articulate, hardly difficult. I thought it would be fun. However, I wasn’t about to challenge my staff. Manny, Chris, a couple of Legislative Assistants and some friendly media people gathered around the table and fired mean, nasty, tricky and difficult questions at me, some of them very personal (How much do you drink? Is marital fidelity a problem? How did you wheedle your way into such high-profile committees? Was the chairman of the Armed Forces committee upset with you for your question? Don’t you think your maiden speech was inappropriately strong?) They were, I assumed, hostile questions from friendly people who wanted to prepare me.

  I put on my urbane persona and fended them off.

  “You did well, Senator,” Manny assured me.

  “Cool under fire,” Dermot Kane, my senior LA, agreed. “I hope you understand that we didn’t enjoy it.”

  “Not too much,” I laughed. “But he won’t ask about those things, except at the end. He’ll ask about the campaign.”

  Russell was exactly what I thought he would be and he asked the questions I had expected.

  RUSSELL: Are you on a one man crusade, Senator, to reform American electoral politics? This fine book of yours makes a powerful case for such reform.