Reports show that, in the months that followed, people were inspired by September 11 to take a new look at their lives. Some people ended relationships. Others started them. It just so happened that my first date with Kim was the start of the most important relationship in my life.
Three days after the attack, I was out with my father delivering dust masks to senior centers in Chelsea when Emily called to suggest dinner that night with her girlfriend and Kim. I got to the restaurant, and the three of them were sitting at a table by the front window. Kim remembers that I came in like a typical politician and gave her a firm handshake and introduced myself as if I were running for office. Really I was just nervous and was having trouble looking at Kim because I found her so attractive. Her pretty brown eyes drew me in, and she had beautiful, shoulder-length dark hair. Later, Emily said she couldn’t believe that either of us even showed up, because we’re both so shy in this kind of context.
In the middle of dinner, we all went outside to participate in a candlelight vigil and sang “God Bless America.” The president had declared September 14 a National Day of Prayer and Remembrance, and there were all kinds of events across the country and around the world. So there were people standing on the sidewalk up and down Eighth Avenue, and we all held candles and sang. Then the next night a whole group of us went out to dinner and then to Bowlmor Lanes for some bowling. Our first date alone happened the following Wednesday, at the Red Cat in Chelsea.
We had a cozy table against the wall with a candle off to the side that made Kim’s eyes sparkle. The conversation was so natural and easy that by the time dessert arrived, I felt comfortable asking Kim to tell me the story about what happened to her mother. “I know you lost your mother,” I said, “and I would like to know the story.” Kim said she didn’t think that was appropriate for a first official date and that it had been really sad, but I looked at her across the table and said very softly, “No, I’ve been through it, too, and it would really mean a lot to me to know.”
Kim was one of five children, but because she was by far the youngest, she grew up like an only child—something like my sister and me. Her twin brothers are seventeen years older, her sister is thirteen years older, and her other brother is nine years older. Kim was fifteen when her mother was diagnosed with uterine cancer, but she had surgery and chemotherapy, which put her into full remission. Then two years later, just three days before Christmas, she developed a cough, and they thought she had a flu or pneumonia, so they put her in the hospital. She died a very short time later.
At this point in the story, the waitress came over and asked us if everything was okay because our dessert had melted into a puddle in the middle of the plate—we hadn’t touched it. I told her everything was fine, and as soon as she walked away, Kim told me her mother died on Christmas Day. She had been looking down at the table until then, and when she looked up, she could see that my eyes were filled with tears. “See, I told you we shouldn’t have talked about it,” she said. “It’s not really a great date subject.”
And I said to her, “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I thought I had the saddest story ever, because my mother died on December 21 and was buried on Christmas Eve— Until I heard your story . . .”
The loss of our mothers hit both of us really hard but also gave us a powerful bond with each other. So few people really know what it’s like to lose your mother as a teenager, and here it had happened to both of us basically at the same age. And because we were by far the youngest in our families, we were left alone with our fathers, who had to step into shoes that were impossible to fill. We both understood, without having to explain, all about Christmas. It had been huge for both our families, and both our mothers drove that with the preparations, the gifts, the decorations, and the parties. It’s a time of year when everybody is supposed to be happy, but it had been tainted forever by something that was so sad and painful.
Once our mothers were gone, Christmas was never the same; it became a sad anniversary. Now Kim and I celebrate it together. Of course we remember our mothers, and we have our moments, but Christmas is something we’ve been able to give back to each other because we understand and don’t have to pretend to be happy every second of the season. We are happy because we have each other, because we can celebrate together, and because we know what a struggle it was to get here.
Our next date was set for September 21, but I had to push back the time because I had agreed to attend a rally in Madison Square Park in support of Muslim New Yorkers. This rally was important to me. After 9/11, anticipating a terrible backlash against Muslims, I had visited a number of mosques to see the imams and members of their congregations. I wanted to make sure they knew that people in the city government embraced them as members of our New York family and in no way associated them with the attacks. I offered my reassurance that we were there to support them and left my card in case they needed anything or thought I could be of help.
But hate crimes targeting the Muslim community were already occurring in New York City and around the country. So when the Muslim community organized a small rally in Madison Square Park decrying them, I was asked to speak. I felt it was very important to make a statement that the worst response to the attack on the World Trade Center would be for us to turn against one another. That was exactly what the terrorists had wanted, and we weren’t going to let it happen.
After the rally, I joined Kim and Emily and her girlfriend at a local restaurant. Kim had met them for a drink, and when I got there, we left. Our original plan had been to go to the movies, but I decided to invite Kim to my place to watch the huge benefit concert for the World Trade Center first responders on TV. Millions of people all over the world participated in that event. All kinds of stars and musicians and famous people came, from Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen to Alicia Keys and Jon Bon Jovi.
Before we watched the concert, we walked my dog, Andy, and I was relieved to discover that Kim is a dog person. And afterward we talked some more. Before things went any further, I thought Kim should know some things about me. I wasn’t proud of them, and I wasn’t sure she’d want to be with me once she knew about them. “There’s something I want to tell you,” I said. “I have issues.” She said, “Okay, everyone has issues.” I told her that I had a problem with alcohol and bulimia and had spent a month in rehab years before. Much to my relief, she was supportive and nice—not shocked at all. I’d shared these secrets that I thought were potential deal-breakers, but instead she was lovely about them.
Then it was Kim’s turn to share something she thought I should know about. She said she wasn’t out to anybody, that nobody at work or in her family knew she was gay. Without thinking, I threw up my hands and said in a too-loud voice, “That’s a problem!”
She was shocked. “You just told me all these things about yourself, about your issues, and I tell you this one thing, and that’s a problem? You’re kidding, right?”
You’d think I’d have backed down at that point, but I didn’t. “No, I’m serious!” I said.
Then I started laughing, and Kim started laughing, because we both realized how ridiculous I sounded.
It’s absurd how insensitive I was. I had struggled for years just to accept myself as a lesbian, let alone share that information. When we spoke that night in 2001, it had been only ten years since I’d come out to my colleagues and my father. And only thirteen since my first crush had left me determined to keep tight control over totally unwelcome feelings. I felt different now, but it was important for me to remember the long and difficult road I had traveled to get to the point in my life where I felt reasonably comfortable having people know I was gay. What could I have been thinking?
There was one point of difference that didn’t take me long to resolve. I used to be a Mets fan, because I grew up on Long Island. On our third date Kim asked, “Are you a Yankees or a Mets fan?” because she’s a crazed Yankees fan. And I said, “I’m a Mets fan. It’ll be so funny, a two-family home.” And i
n all seriousness she said, “Look, I want to be perfectly clear, I am not willing to go any further with a Mets fan.” I dumped the Mets in a hot second.
Things with Kim moved crazy fast. It was like the old joke: What do lesbians bring on a second date? A U-Haul. It wasn’t that fast, but after the fourth date, I think we both knew we were a couple. And just a month or so later we bought each other commitment rings of silver. We were both thirty-five and knew we wanted to build a life and a family and a home together. The rings symbolized our love and our lifetime commitment to each other. Not marriage, because at the time legal marriage was so beyond the realm of possibility for a lesbian couple that we didn’t even think about it.
Around this time, Kim invited me out to New Jersey to one of her family events, of which there are many throughout the year. The Catullos get together for just about every occasion, rotating from house to house. For my introduction to the Catullo family, we went to Kim’s brother’s house for her sister-in-law’s birthday. Everyone was there—siblings, grandchildren, in-laws, nieces and nephews, and Kim’s father—maybe twenty people in all. The only one missing was Kim’s brother Anthony, one of the twins, who was away at a football game. Kim told her family she was bringing a friend, which she’d done in the past, so there was absolutely no pressure on her or me.
Kim’s family embraced me immediately, and I fit right in. They’re loud, fun, boisterous, and physically demonstrative. They kiss and hug everybody hello and good-bye. I’d always wanted a big family, and now I had one, and I loved it. From the first they included me in conversations, the ribbing, the cooking—not my strong suit, but I was good for appetizers and dessert when they asked me to bring something. Kim says her family loves me more than they love her, which of course is not true, but I couldn’t have hoped for a more embracing and loving in-law family, and that included Kim’s father. Early on he told Kim, “I’m glad you have Chris.”
Our fathers have a lot in common. They both served in the Pacific during World War II. They’re the same age. They talk about the war, their old neighborhoods, and how life has changed, and about what’s in the newspaper. Down at our shore house, they spend a lot of time sitting on the porch together chatting. It’s the kind of domestic scene I never could have imagined for myself.
Three or four months after buying commitment rings, Kim and I adopted a dog. Looking back, I can see that it further cemented our relationship.
When I met her, I already had Andy, who I’d adopted with my friend and neighbor Wayne. He and I live across the street from each other and had decided to share a dog. We went to the ASPCA. When you walked by the cages, all the dogs came to the front and barked as if they were saying, Adopt me! Adopt me! But we decided to sit on the floor near a cage with an open door and wait for a dog named Andy to come out to meet us.
He was much more timid than the other dogs. He was full grown, about eleven months, maybe fifty pounds. He was a shepherd mix with Rottweiler-Doberman coloring and a big shepherd tail that was too big for the rest of his body. He was goofy and cute and irresistible. We asked the ASPCA, “Can we take him out and see if he likes us?” And they said, “Sure,” and opened the cage door. But Andy stayed in the back of his cage looking terrified.
We sat there a long time, while he put a paw out and then pulled it back, put the other one out and pulled it back, over and over. He had a horrible background story: he and his siblings had been thrown out the window of a moving car on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. So it made sense that he was afraid. After what felt like an hour, he worked up the nerve and stepped out to meet us. It just seemed like he needed somebody to wait for him to come out of the cage. But once he was out, we knew that we wanted to take care of him. The fact that Wayne and I lived across the street from each other made a coparenting arrangement possible; and sharing him made it easier for us to own a dog, because it’s a lot of work for just one person.
Kim loved Andy from the first, but Andy was scared of everything. He was okay going outside when we were at the beach, but he didn’t like city noise, so we had to drag him outside when we were in Manhattan, which was most of the time. We bought CDs of street noise and played them in the house so he could get used to life in the city.
So Kim and I decided to get another dog. As with Andy, our plan was to share parenting with Wayne.
Kim and I went to North Shore Animal League, intending to get a grown dog because we thought that would be easier. But then we saw Sadie, a puppy. She was in the big-dog section because she was a bit sick and needed to be kept away from the other puppies. She was the one. She’s part Shar-Pei and part Lab, so she has excess skin (and had even more as a puppy). She looked so sad and pathetic, curled up in the corner of this huge cage, and so cute with her skin all scrunched up, that we couldn’t resist.
Early on, before Kim and I started living together full time, coordinating the dogs was a little complicated, but within a few months I moved into her apartment on Fifth Avenue in the Village (which was still in my City Council district). Then we moved to my place in London Terrace, a comfortable one-bedroom apartment that was perfect for the two of us and for Andy and Sadie. The big challenge, at least at first, was that Kim is much more organized than I am. When Kim lived alone, she had everything in its place, and that’s where it stayed. And that’s just not at all what I’m like. There’s sense to my order, but it’s not the classic sense of order. Over time I think I’ve helped Kim get less organized, and she’d probably say she’s made me less unorganized.
We fell into an easy routine. It helped that we both had demanding jobs, so the fact that I often had commitments outside regular work hours wasn’t a problem. But we worried about each other, and we still do. Kim worries about things that go wrong with my work and how they’re covered in the press. In politics there’s a lot you can’t control, and things can easily go wrong, and then you have to read about them in the newspaper. That’s one place where we both worry, but despite how upset Kim might feel on my behalf, she works hard at helping me keep things in perspective. That’s good because being Irish, I have a tendency to see everything that goes wrong as the end of the world.
It seems that I have not totally gotten over the sense that when things are going bad, it’s my fault and mine alone. I’m working on it, but even as an adult, I sometimes feel that everything hinges on me doing everything right. Beyond right—perfectly. So when something doesn’t go right, even something simple and insignificant, I can wind up beating myself up. I think it’s a residual effect of my mom being sick when I was a kid. If I had a choice, I’d rather not have these feelings. But since I don’t have a choice, I have come to believe that it makes me a more focused and thoughtful person. At least I hope so.
Kim helps me understand that not everything is my fault or responsibility. Over the dozen years we’ve been together, I’ve come to trust that she often has a better sense than I do of what matters and what doesn’t. She’s not the kind of person who would ever say, “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” because she definitely doesn’t feel that way. She’s very serious about her own work, and when things go wrong, it matters to both of us, but she’s really good at keeping things in perspective and taking the long view and saying, “If it doesn’t work out, we’ll do whatever we want to do.”
By that she means that no matter what happens in our work life, we’ll still have our life together. Sometimes she jokes about wanting to buy a goat farm in Vermont and make cheese, or at least I take it to be a joke. It had better be a joke. Because as difficult as politics can be, and as hard as I can be on myself, there’s no way I’m working on a farm.
CHAPTER 11
Madam Speaker
In 2004 I decided to run for Speaker of the City Council, which is the second-most-powerful elected position in New York City, after mayor. When I look back at my career up to that point, even I’d have to admit that it looks like I’d thoughtfully planned out every step I took, from going to work for Tom Duane, to winning his City Council
seat, to getting myself appointed chair of the health committee, to deciding to run for Speaker. But that would give me too much credit. My colleagues know that I’m an insane short-term planner when it comes to plotting out my daily schedule and making sure I’m overprepared. But in a weird way I’m actually not a long-term planner, maybe because I’ve learned that you never know what might happen around the next corner. I often say that my five-year plan is to be thinner, and that’s about it.
Gifford Miller, who was then the Speaker, was running for mayor and couldn’t run for City Council again. So the field for Speaker was wide open. I knew I’d be a very long shot. I didn’t know if I could win, but there was no value in not trying, because not trying doesn’t move you anywhere. Even if I tried and lost, I’d likely be in a better position moving forward. I might get to chair a more influential committee or at least remain health committee chair.
As Speaker you get to work on behalf of the whole city, not just your district and not just whatever’s within the purview of a committee. You also get a great deal of input into the citywide legislative agenda. I’d watched Speaker Miller and Mayor Bloomberg deadlock over any number of issues. If either one had compromised, our city would have been better off, I thought. So my goal as Speaker was not to be in a constant battle with the mayor—it was to accomplish things. But first I’d have to get elected.
It was not a simple matter, of course. People were not shy about telling me that I had no chance of winning. They pointed out the obvious: I am from the West Side of Manhattan—a liberal, a woman, and a lesbian. I was fully aware of all these characteristics when I woke up every morning. At some point in the process, I made an important decision: I decided not to listen to them—“the movers and the drainers,” as my friend Christine calls them. These self-appointed experts don’t help you; in fact, their goal is to hold you back because they don’t have the guts to do what you’re trying to do. I decided to take another tack, taking a cue from a woman on my staff, who puts it perfectly. It doesn’t really matter what the size of the obstacle is, she says; what matters is the angle and speed with which you run to get over it. So I decided to ignore the external and internal naysayers, because sometimes you can be your own worst enemy. I decided to let the people who have a vote in the process speak for themselves.
With Patience and Fortitude: A Memoir Page 11