My father, in debating whether I should work for the Archer Administration at that time, felt strongly about the position I’d put myself in by replacing Freman. “They’ll isolate you.” He then spoke to the bigger opportunity. “You could be Mayor!”
“Dad, why do you keep saying that?” I asked. I just didn’t see it, but it was the second major mayoral hint to occur, behind the discussions launched at the AMMO meeting.
The third hint occurred when Christine came to my office days later. She simply walked in, brought up the subject, and said, “I think you should run.”
My response remained the same. “You must’ve lost your mind.” I’d actually begun thinking about how we could angle to get me on the ticket for lieutenant governor. I felt that state political positions would bring a national focus that would allow me to move around the country. The thought of running for mayor hadn’t taken, not with me.
But Christine wouldn’t relent. “These Democrats are never going to pick you to be on their ticket,” she said. “That’ll never happen. You’re too strong for them.” And she was right. The Michigan Democratic Party likes and supports people they can control, particularly African-Americans. If you have the audacity to have your own ideas, and the courage to speak up about them, you will surely have to fight the party. The unions, and the people who control the Democratic process, who influence the placement of candidates on tickets, would not have supported it. She was absolutely right.
Christine never pulled punches with me, and her blunt honesty always helped my direction. She spoke the truth regarding my relationship with Michigan unions. They never really liked me. They’d opposed me for state rep, and for Leader. I always had to beat them, as opposed to gaining their support.
The mayoral conversations had now piled up like a stack of books. Christine’s candor sat atop that pile. I began to explore the idea, and met with my parents to discuss it. My mother did not want me to run. She never liked the idea of me running for state rep. She’d never fully articulated her reasons for this, only stating that she didn’t think it was my time. My mother is an old-school politician and, for some reason, she didn’t think I was ready.
My father, who was assistant executive to the late, legendary Wayne County Executive Ed McNamara, was really for it. He told McNamara, who called and invited me to his office to discuss the possibility of my running. McNamara was an old warhorse in Michigan politics, and highly respected. I still remember my conversation with him.
“There are three things in politics that you always have to remember,” McNamara told me. “Number one is timing. Number two is timing. And number three is timing. This is the right time. I think if you run now, you’ll win.”
I balked, saying that the people wouldn’t vote for another Kilpatrick, not with my mother already being in Congress. I was thinking of all the reasons not to do it. He said my argument was nonsense, that there were several Hathaways, McNamaras and other people whose entire families seemed to be involved in the political process. Mine was a crazy argument, he said.
Finally, while in Detroit preparing to head for Lansing, I listened to a WJR Newsradio broadcast, as I often did while driving. A breaking story came on just as I arrived at the Capital building. Dennis Archer had announced that he would not seek another term as mayor of the City of Detroit.
“This guy’s not even running,” I thought. The news broadcast immediately delved into a barrage of questions about who would run for office. They mentioned different people, candidates who, at the time, were obvious considerations, such as Freman Hendrix and Gil Hill, then president of the Detroit City Council, who’d built his reputation by co-starring as Eddie Murphy’s sergeant in the movie 48 Hrs. Nicholas Hood, a popular minister in the city whose family was also involved in the Detroit political process, was also mentioned. I thought no one could beat those guys. After a break in the newscast, they aired an interview with Ed McNamara. I sat in my car, in front of the Capital. Moments later, McNamara came on and said he thought that Kwame Kilpatrick was the guy who’d be the stalking horse in the race for Detroit’s next mayor.
The reporter seemed surprised, and noted me as a name no one had considered. He mentioned my Lansing credentials, my standing as Democratic Leader in the House, and my youth. McNamara went on to say that listeners heard from him, first, that I’d be the man. And he didn’t stop with WJR. He reiterated his feelings during an interview for WXYZ-TV. His verbal acknowledgments triggered widespread belief that I was his guy.
By the time I walked into the Capital building reporters from The Detroit News and The Detroit Free Press were looking for me. The question of the day quickly became whether I’d be running for mayor, to which I initially responded by saying that I hadn’t thought about it. When asked whether I’d ruled it out, I said I hadn’t ruled it in or out. These were obviously diversionary comments. Hell, I hadn’t even secured my wife’s blessing! But McNamara had effectively put me in the conversation. The idea of running for mayor then became a serious consideration. It was all so new, so sudden, but so seemingly inevitable.
I went home after answering the news questions, and later that evening I received what I believe to be one of the clearest messages from God that I’ve ever experienced. Carlita and I had moved to a house on Leslie Street, and after a restless night, I picked up my Bible and went to the basement. I was losing sleep due to my own thoughts, which were consumed with this mayoral discussion.
“God, you gotta help me with this one,” I recall praying. “If you want me to do this, give me a word.” I then opened the Bible. The page I opened was a chapter in the second Book of Samuel, which described King David’s rule over Hebron, which had lasted for seven years and six months. The passage mentioned that David was then thirty years old. The Scripture said that David had sought and received the blessing of the elders to reign, and there was more than one mention of David’s age. He was thirty years old, and so was I.
“Oh my God,” I thought. I closed the Bible, ran upstairs and awakened Carlita. “Carlita! I just read this verse! You ain’t gonna believe it!” I was all excited and screaming. She was fast asleep.
“Hu-what, what?” she said, startled.
“I just read this verse,” I said. “This…this is…I gotta run for mayor! I gotta run! It just hit me. This thing was clear. I gotta run.”
“Okay,” she said. “Run.” And she went back to sleep. There I was, astounded by my own revolutionary, spiritual experience. And there was my wife, succinct in her approval, and justifiably dismissive in her resolve. Hilarious.
chapter 7
Okay, Run!
I CALLED MY father, mother, Ayanna and Christine, the next morning. “Let’s roll,” I told them. “I’m running.” We met to start putting the campaign together, and scheduled a kickoff press conference on the front porch of my mother’s house.
All sorts of people gathered on Mom’s porch that day. Dave Bing was there, as was Reverend Marvin Winans of the Winans gospel family, Reverend Wendell Anthony, president of the Detroit NAACP; and Willie Hampton, head of the SEIU, one of the unions that supported me. We also bused in groups of senior citizens. My entire family and extended family were there, as well as hundreds of people from my Detroit family. It was an amazing scene. We blocked the street, and news crews from all of Detroit’s major news stations covered the event. Helicopters flew overhead, and cameras and reporters were everywhere.
I distinctly remember two things from that day. At one point, Carlita and I went to the back room of my mom’s house. At least thirty people were inside the house, but we were alone. We sat down on an old couch and had a few moments of calm amid the frenzy. She looked at me, visibly nervous yet peaceful, and whispered how much she loved and supported me. She also said that she didn’t want us to change. I told her that I loved her very much as well, kissed her softly, and told her that we wouldn’t change.
That is a moment I will never forget because I would not only fail to keep my promise, but I also
had no idea what I was getting into. Carlita and I hugged one another and looked into each other’s eyes one last time. Many nights when I lay in bed in the cold, damp, quiet solitude of my prison cell, my thoughts went back to that exact moment.
We were quickly brought back into the frenzy when a photographer snapped a shot of the two of us, and then Bob Berg, whom I had appointed my public relations and communications director for the campaign, told me that it was time to start. That moment was truly the beginning of a new life, and the end of the old one.
The second thing I remember is the end of my speech. I don’t recall all the details of what I said to the people that day. Even though the speech was carried live on all of the local stations, everyone seems to remember the last part, because it became a legendary Detroit rallying theme.
“We can’t wait four or eight more years for things to happen in Detroit,” I said. “We can’t just sit around and hope the future brings us great things. We need for our future to start RIGHT HERE and RIGHT NOW!” I repeated the question, “When do we want our future to start?” and the crowd responded almost as if we had planned the whole thing.
“RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!” There it was, our campaign theme and rallying cry. Before anyone knew it, we’d planted that phrase throughout the city. You couldn’t go anywhere in the Detroit in the summer and fall of 2001 without hearing the phrase “Right Here, Right Now!”
The election was grueling, but it was also the most fun I’ve ever had. I’d spent my entire life on the West Side of Detroit, and had represented about 90,000 people in my State House district, also on the West Side. When you run for mayor, though, you quickly learn that Detroit is a very large city. It’s about 144 square miles, with a population at that time of about 950,000. I don’t believe there is any part of that expanse that I didn’t stomp through during that campaign. I also strongly believe that I engaged the overwhelming majority of all 950,000 Detroiters.
I was on a mission. I had experienced “campaign mode” before, but never like this. The convergence of focus and commitment that led me through FAMU Football, teaching at Marcus Garvey, law school, and Leadership in the Michigan House of Representatives propelled me to new heights. It stretched me mentally, physically, spiritually and emotionally in ways that I didn’t know were possible. We worked daily from 6:30 a.m. until well after midnight. Speaking engagements, debates, I was there. If individuals wanted to contribute to the campaign, I was there for the meeting. I refused to be outworked. The news did a poll on mayoral race after the May announcement at my mother’s house. I polled at nine percent. By the time the primary election was held that September, I’d garnered fifty percent of the total vote among a field of twelve candidates.
We had an incredible campaign team. Christine ran the day-to-day campaign strategy and oversaw all implementation. She truly managed a great campaign. Alongside Christine was Conrad Mallett, former chief justice of the Michigan Supreme Court, who served as my campaign director. He gave us the sage wisdom and seasoned presence we needed. Bob Berg, my public relations and communications director, had also worked with Mayor Young for more than fifteen years. He is well known in Detroit media and communications circles, and he really helped me get on the radar in a strong and positive way. Derrick Miller was always there. He didn’t have a title, but he worked diligently every day. He brought new people to the campaign, raised money and came up with new concepts and ideas. So many people helped, worked and supported that first campaign that I’d do a disservice to so many by naming some and inadvertently omitting others. I’ll simply say that we had the best coalition of citizens, elected officials, business leaders and pastors that I have ever seen. Not only were these individuals well known, they worked hard for the victory.
On Election Day, we campaigned for twenty-four hours. In truth, it was really a forty eight-hour campaign, because we started on Monday afternoon, boarding an RV owned by my good friend, Bobby Ferguson, and making stops at various places throughout the city. I remember visiting work sites, auto plants and post offices. You name it, we hit it. We must have visited 100 places. And we didn’t stop when the day shift ended. We fully embraced the youth movement that my campaign had energized, hitting clubs and social venues that night. It was football season, and a lot of clubs promoted Monday Night Football, so we went to those places. Zeke was with us, as were Bobby, my cousin Ajene Evans, my father, my uncle Raymond, and police officers Greg Jones, Mike Martin and Ron Fleming. The Black Slate also held a rally at the Shrine of the Black Madonna that evening. After that, we went to the casinos. The visits continued until Tuesday morning, which was shower time. We headed home, freshened up, and then I headed right back out to the polls to shake hands with the voters.
I was in the zone, barely thinking about anything beyond getting to as many people as possible. Churches. Senior citizen residences. Letting people see my bus. Checking in at headquarters.
The primary election was held on September 11, 2001. After campaigning for a couple of hours at polling sites, we heard the tragic news over the radio about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. While heading to another poll to press the flesh, we heard more breaking news. Another plane had just slammed into another tower of the complex. We immediately went back to the headquarters, walked through the HQ doors, and stopped in our tracks as dozens of campaign workers huddled in front of several televisions scattered across the large room. People were crying, hugging one another, sitting on the floor and screaming for answers. The central hub that had produced so much energy and excitement for our campaign was suddenly gravely quiet and still. I gathered everyone in the large, open room. We hugged, held hands, and then we prayed.
I commend Dennis Archer for announcing soon after that the voting would continue and the election would continue on as planned. I believe then, and still do today, that there is no greater right that can be bestowed on a people by its own government than the right to your choice for your community’s leadership, exercised by your right to vote. In the midst of one of our country’s greatest tragedies, Equality Day, Election Day, marched on.
The atmosphere was festive, and victory was in the air. Everyone went to the Renaissance Center, where we had planned to wrap the campaign and wait for the results. In our hotel suite, family and friends buzzed with excitement. Ultimately, it didn’t take long before we learned that we’d not only won, but we’d spent the day steadily inching away from my opponent. I took fifty-four percent of the vote to Gil Hill’s forty-six percent. I was Mayor-Elect for the City of Detroit!
I had a lot of time to myself on election night, and several instances come to mind. One was shock and amazement over the fact that we had just won. Although it was expected, hearing the words, “You won” was a bit much. I had a huge suite at the Marriott Hotel in the Renaissance Center, in downtown Detroit. I sat on the bed with no one around, and took inventory of the moment.
“I’m actually the Mayor of Detroit?” I remember thinking. “This is crazy.” Christine and Derrick came in the room soon after, and we had a group hug. They looked just as shocked as I felt.
“We did some crazy stuff, didn’t we?” I said. At thirty-one, all of us, we truly had.
I was nervous and overwhelmed with the responsibility, even though it would be nearly two more months before I’d actually start the job. When I review the footage of that night, my nervousness is visible, at least to me. Christine and Derrick? Same thing. I had no idea what I was really getting into, or how bright the spotlight would be. At that point, the inner workings of City government were foreign to me. And yet, the job was mine. The people had spoken, and it became apparent that I would soon have to bust my butt in order to be an effective leader. The stress was immediate.
The second instance I remember occurred just as we prepared to head downstairs and join the victory celebration. My mother came into the suite and said, “Can I talk to you, Son?” She took me into the bedroom to talk privately. She closed the door and said something to me t
hat I’ll never forget.
“Leadership is a very lonely position,” she said. “The higher you go, Son, the fewer friends you’re going to have. Remember this. It might sound harsh, but I want you to understand. Right now, while you have this position, you have all the friends you’re ever going to have. And you’re going to lose some of them.”
I said, “Ma, nah, it’ll be okay. We’re going to be cool.”
“Listen to me,” she said. “You’ve got all the friends you’re going to have—not all the acquaintances, but all the friends—right now.” It would be one of the most profound things anyone would ever say to me. In those few words, she emphasized the loneliness, the realization that the buck stopped with me, and even the sense of alienation that the position creates.
chapter 8
No “I”
FOLLOWING THE election, we began putting together a transition committee, in which one side deals with the nuts and bolts of working City government while an inaugural committee deals with the actual swearing in of the new official.
Surrendered: The Rise, Fall & Revolution of Kwame Kilpatrick Page 8