Curious about the political process in America, Brigid asked me if she could become involved in my campaign. In the past couple of weeks, she’s gone from feeling aimless and confused to focused and forthright, having assumed the responsibility of coordinating my volunteers, a task she accomplishes with the zeal of a missionary. By now she knows each of their personal histories, and her natural warmth and compassion, imbued with a spirit that comprehends the meaning of true devotion, makes her an inspiring and inspired leader: my very own Joan of Arc.
“I, for one, want to know what qualifies you to discuss what’s good for the children when you haven’t had any yourself,” Maureen challenges me.
“Ah. Good point. In the weeks you’ve been living here on the Upper West Side, how many women pushing strollers do you see when you go out for a walk?”
“When?”
“Anytime. Weekdays, weekends, mornings, afternoons.”
“Sometimes I see even more prams than cell phones out there, to tell you the truth.”
“Right. This district is chock-full of our country’s future, Maureen. And every one of those little kids being rolled up and down the neighborhood deserves an equal chance at the American dream, wouldn’t you agree?” Maureen nods her head. “While I don’t have kids of my own, as a candidate I’ve earned the nickname ‘The Nanny’ because I’m looking out for everybody’s kids with every ounce of diligence and concern for their welfare and well-being. And our public school systems often fall short, being guilty of neglect when it comes to educating all of our kids with our tax dollars. Kids look up to adults, expecting that grown-ups won’t squander their trust in them. And for too many generations, our governments at every level have betrayed that fragile trust. And we tsk-tsk and shake our heads, and lament that it’s a pity and a shame. Our public education system is very, very broken.”
“So how’re you gonna fix it?” Gus prompts. “Give me specifics. I want a reason to vote for you, not just vote against the other guy.”
“For one thing, when I get to Washington I’m going to hold this administration’s feet to the fire, getting them to put our money where their mouth is, making sure that the No Child Left Behind Act is properly and adequately funded so that it can make good on its initial promise. Public education tries to give the broadest coverage to the largest market, and when it fails, as it too often does, it’s because it doesn’t try to meet the individual needs of the students. By painting with the widest brush, half our kids are falling through the cracks of the system.”
“Watch those mixed metaphors, sugar,” Gus warns jovially.
“You know a good speechwriter?” I shoot back.
Imogen raises her hand. “Tessa, are you talking about public or private schoolkids?”
“I’m talking about public schoolchildren right now. And there’s no reason why they should get shafted. If they start out on an unequal footing in terms of the quality of their education, that’s more than likely where many of them will end up. An inadequate education dooms our kids—the future of America—to a permanent economic purgatory, keeping them in poverty in perpetuity unless we make some huge changes to the system.”
“All right, then. I’m a cop. Do you have any concrete changes to propose, and how are you going to pay for them without, say, taking money away from the NYPD?”
“New York doesn’t have to rob Peter to pay Paul, Captain O’Reilly. There’s millions of dollars of pork in the Department of Education bud get and I’m not talking about the mystery meat in school lunches. I’m going to demand that the DOE ruthlessly cut waste. Insist on oversight so that corrupt custodians can’t embezzle the money that’s earmarked for our kids’ pencils, crayons, and textbooks. Do you know that New York City school custodians get over forty million dollars every year—placed into bank accounts under their own names—to purchase goods and services—they don’t buy just mops and sponges—and still our kids don’t have enough textbooks and school supplies?”
Venus shakes her head in disgust. “Why don’t they just shop at Staples?”
“Good point. I think I’ll include that in my speech.” I make a margin note. “These guys have such a cushy contract that they’re not obligated by their union to vacuum a rug, or to paint any section of wall over ten feet high; and they can put a few extra bucks in their pockets by hiring subcontractors to wash the windows. They’re in charge of jobs like replacing door hinges, but aren’t allowed to order the parts themselves, because—get this craziness—purchasing hinges falls within the purview of the Department of Education itself! It’s Orwellian.”
“Did any of yiz know that over the past couple of years at least two criminal rings of janitors on the take have been brought to trial here in New York City?” Brigid asks the group. “Now, what could be worse than stealing from innocent schoolchildren? And they’re all good Cat-lick names, too. For shame! You can be sure that’s not how they were raised in the Church.”
Venus raises her hand. “I have to say that what pisses me off no end is that our public schools claim that in order to teach the basics, they’ve got to cut what they like to call the ‘extras.’ Music. Art. Shop classes. The very subjects so necessary for a well-rounded education, that help our kids grow into healthy and well-balanced adults, are the first to be removed from the curriculum because a bunch of bureaucrats think they’re a waste of money.”
“Another good point, V. And the fact is that there already is enough money in the bud get to pay for all those so-called ‘extras.’ The problem doesn’t need more money thrown at it; it can be solved by reallocating what’s already in the mammoth bud get.” I then call on Brigid’s new friend, who looks like he has something more to add.
“The shortbread are delicious, Maureen,” he says.
“I’m an old-fashioned sort and I’d prefer it if you’d call me Mrs. Doyle. But thank you, Anto.”
“That would be Captain O’Reilly, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Do you have any idea what the annual bud get is for the New York City Department of Education? Any inkling?” I ask.
Jamie raises his hand like an eager schoolboy. “A billion dollars?”
“Guess again. Fourteen billion dollars. Fourteen. Billion. Dollars. To educate 1.1 million kids in 1200 schools.”
“I’m not even sure I know how much a billion is,” Brigid confesses.
“If you placed a dollar bill on a table every second—one Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi—twenty-four hours a day, at the end of about eleven and a half days, you’d reach a million dollars. If you applied the same formula to count to a billion, it would take you thirty-two years to reach one billion dollars.”
“Give me a minute. I’m still wrappin’ my brain around that,” says Brigid. “Wait—448 years of nonstop counting to reach fourteen billion.”
“So, Shakespeare could have started during his lifetime and you’d still be counting the same fourteen billion,” Venus muses.
“Except that they didn’t have dollars then,” Imogen adds.
“Look,” I say, “we can still pay the teachers more; we can still make sure the kids have textbooks. We can still construct new schools so there aren’t thirty-five kids shoehorned into a classroom where the teacher is forced to adjudicate instead of educate. There’s gobs of money in the school bud get, but we’re permitting the new tenants of Tammany Hall, the vastly bloated Department of Education, to mis-distribute it like mad. Instead of cutting staff and trimming the fat, the bureaucracy has grown.”
“Tessa, why do you care so much?”
Maureen’s comment casts a pall on the room.
“How can someone not care?” I reply.
“My son upped and left his family and his job in Ireland to follow you all the way here to New York and stake his life with you. Now you want to run off and become a congresswoman. Living in Washington for most of the year. And where does that leave Jamie?”
“You talk about children, Maureen. You believe that children are the gre
atest gift a woman can have, yes? Well, go to the window and look down the street in both directions. Why should there be mothers out there whose kids will end up with so much less than other mothers’ kids—when in the richest country in the world there’s no good reason for it? I’m not going to stand by quietly while each year, right here in New York City, the greatest city in the world, 550,000 of our 1.1 million public schoolchildren are failing. We’re got a fifty percent dropout rate. That’s not okay! I have the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of tens of thousands of those mothers and kids. Not only can’t I turn my back on that chance, I’m courting it. And where is it written that being a congresswoman means that I can’t start a family of my own?”
“Unlike Brigid’s candidacy, Tessa’s doesn’t mean she’s a celibate, Ma. For two years—more if America’s lucky—Tess will be only three hours away by train, less by airplane, and I’ve got some plans of me own that will keep me mightily occupied whilst she’s out of town. I may not be home much meself.”
Maureen scrutinizes her son darkly. “What are you going on about, Jamie?”
He glances at his watch. “My goodness, is that the time? Who’s comin’ with me to Tessa’s speech?”
There’s a nip in the air this morning. It’s only the first week in October, but the kids on their way to school are wearing jackets for the first time this season. They look like mini Michelin men, trudging stiffly as they struggle with the heft of their backpacks and the fullness of their coats. The press is clustered on this lackluster patch of asphalt that passes for a playground at one of the local public grammar schools. A twelve-foot-high fence surrounds the space, which is punctuated only by a rusty basketball hoop. I’ve seen prison yards that are better equipped for recreation.
We’re set to begin at 8:15. Gus scans the playground for reporters, recognizing representatives from the local TV stations and the city’s major newspapers. “All the usual suspects in place, darlin’,” he whispers in my ear. “By the way, I’m glad you didn’t wear a suit today,” he adds, giving my wardrobe the once-over. “Too tailored. The skirt and sweater work much better. Warm tones, soft fabrics, minimal jewelry, fit your image. This is working for you. You’re shivering, Tess. Want my jacket?”
“Until we start, thanks,” I say, appreciating the loan of his sportcoat. Don’t want any ENs on camera, particularly since the media possesses the uncanny ability to require very little fodder before dishing up a smorgasbord of a scandal. The last thing I need is any visible nipplage through my sweater. I can just imagine the Post’s headline: TESSA MILKS IT ON THE PLAYGROUND. Briefly I wonder what it is about the political ego that makes people forgo coats and hats, even scarves, during outdoor public appearances. Is it an “I’m so strong I can withstand an arctic blast in my shirtsleeves,” or an “Oh, God I don’t want to look fat on camera” thing?
“T-minus two,” Gus tells me, and I hand back his jacket. I usually speak from memory, with notes on index cards for flow. Since I write my own speeches, I’m so familiar with what I want to say and how I want to say it that most of the time I don’t refer to my notes. This morning, they’re tucked into my purse.
The crowd cheers and moves closer as I step up to the portable podium. A number of people carry placards saying CRAIG FOR CONGRESS and WEST SIDERS ARE TESS SIDERS in royal blue letters. Many of them are neighborhood moms with kids attending this school. Several have brought their dogs along.
“Greetings, everyone, and thanks for coming out on this chilly morning. My name is Tessa Goldsmith Craig and I am running for Congress.”
When the applause dies down I say, “Now I may be a Democrat, but when ‘business as usual’ doesn’t work for me—even if the programs are sponsored by colleagues on my side of the aisle—you can bet I’m going to have a lot to say about it. I intend to propose and support commonsense policies with tangible benefits in the real world. There are a number of issues on which I’m going to challenge the status quo. Someone’s going to have to have a really good reason if they’re going to say to me, ‘Well, we’ve always done it this way,’ and expect me to accept that and move on. I don’t want to hear rhetoric; I want to see action!”
Following some applause, I add, “This morning I want to talk about education. It actually pains me to say that in every sense of the word, our schools are failing our children. Failing to educate them—and when the school fails to educate, the children fail their classes.”
I hit the points we covered over Maureen’s shortbread earlier this morning, and make an additional point about the custodians.
“As a society, we say we place a high value on education. Our teachers are our heroes, we say. But heck, why bother to bust your butt scrimping and saving to send Junior to college—in the hope that perhaps he will be inspired to return to the classroom as a teacher—when he can cut class, drop out or flunk out, and still make a damn good living as a school custodian? Because on average, the 838 school custodians—who clean 1200 schools, by the way, so you do the math and figure out just how filthy your kid’s school is…those 838 custodians make more money than most of the teachers do.”
And then I move to the subject of the teachers themselves. “We need to be encouraging passionate individuals, eager and hungry to share their knowledge and wisdom, to enter and remain in the teaching profession, not be giving a free pass to lousy, out-of-touch, uninspiring teachers just because they’re tenured. We don’t tolerate social promotion for the students; we shouldn’t tolerate it for their teachers and principals. And yes, we need to be paying teachers a fair and competitive wage, commensurate with that of teachers in other large cities. Yet that doesn’t mean we have to throw more money at the problem in order to fix it. Let’s say you’re at the local Laundromat: would you keep feeding quarters into a clothes dryer that doesn’t seem to be doing the job, on the foolish expectation that more money will mean that the machine will suddenly get hot enough to dry your stuff?”
After I get into my how-much-is-a-billion perspective, I say, “It’s time for a shake-up across the board when—not just in New York City but all over America—so many of our schoolchildren are denied the opportunity to compete fairly in the world market because they leave school ill-prepared to become viable, flourishing members of the workforce. While Singapore is exporting its remarkably successful HeyMath system that makes an often arcane subject more intellectually accessible, we continue to deny tens of millions of our own public schoolkids the ability to really participate in any meaningful way in the American Dream, condemning them to an American nightmare. An inadequate education fosters a permanent underclass and the institutional poverty that prevents most of these children from ever being able to climb out of the mire.
“In my view, when policies don’t work, it’s time to rethink them, not just throw more money at them. It’s your money, folks. Our money. When a school system fails to educate, what are we paying for? Elected representatives serve the public on your hard-earned quarters. When I come before you and let you know where I stand on a given issue, it’s a job interview. I’m ready to work overtime to be sure that New York City gets as much back as it contributes. For too many years we’ve been depositing more tax dollars into the giant ‘one-armed bandit’ of our federal government than many other Americans, and receiving far less than our fair share in return.
“All of us want a more secure America and a better future for our children. It’s time to demand effective government where ethics, accountability, and mutual responsibility are not scoffed at, a government which is authoritative, not authoritarian. We can be a place where broad prosperity is a reality and not a pipe dream.
“If you hire me this November to be your advocate on Capitol Hill, you can bet that every day I’ll be there with my giant metaphorical plastic bucket, demanding that we get our quarters back—to put toward our city’s safety and security in a truly meaningful way, fighting for all the resources we need to make sure that every New Yorker, regardless of their socioecono
mic bracket, has equal odds when it comes to achieving the American dream.”
“Go Tess!” shouts Jamie, as I step away from the podium. A number of women gather to shake my hand.
Gus grabs the mic and announces my web address. “Tessa personally answers every e-mail she receives,” he tells the crowd. “So let her know how you feel about something and she’ll open up a dialogue with you.”
As the last of the group disperses, Jamie slips his arm about my waist. “I’m proud of you, ya know,” he says, giving me a squeeze. “Seein’ you standing up there with your passion and your fire and your determination. I didn’t know yiz when you were behind the scenes, but this is your element, gorl. You’ll be a grand parliamentarian: a fist of oak in a velvet glove.”
“Tell me,” I tease, sliding my hands underneath his corduroy jacket. “will you be wearing this tee shirt to my swearing-in?”
“Oh aye, I’ve been planning on it,” he winks. The brown shirt, which looks like it’s seen many washings, bears a logo for the Dublin Hooligans rugby team, and beneath it the slogan “no brain, no pain.”
“That’s not a real team, is it?” I ask with furrowed brow.
“You can’t be serious, gorl.” The playground is now empty, except for Gus Trumbo and Jamie’s relations, who are well out of earshot. “The house is sold now, ya know. My flat in Dublin. There was a shite-crazy bidding war, and I ended up with 925,000 euro for it. A feckin fortune.” I realize that’s over 1.1 million in U.S. dollars. “Venture capital,” he adds, with a mile-wide grin. He kisses me full on the mouth. “Tessa Goldsmith Craig, I’m goin’ to be realizing my American dream.”
Twenty-six
October 24
Herself Page 23