Passing The Torch

PASSING THE TORCH

The ethnic and familial roots that weave the tapestry of life, on the South side of Buffalo, New York are both durable and far reaching. Favors and alliances won in one generation, are often negotiable in the second and third.

It came about that an Irish- Catholic, N.Y. State Democratic Chairman helped install the Door Keeper of the U.S. House of Representatives, who was another Irish Catholic pol from South Buffalo. The door keeper, whose roots were deep in the community, never forgot where he came from. He always made room on his staff for several Irish Catholic lads from the neighborhood, who were "in the game." House members, no stranger to the process, smiled and made rueful references to the "Murphia. Tamany Hall was our spiritual progenitor and the concept of "helping one's own" was a practice we all honored.

The blue collar, working class ethic bred a resentful contempt for authority deep within us. Perhaps the legacy of staring up from the ditch at a fat bellied foreman, who hollered "dig faster and harder, made us that way. In any case, automatic respect was granted to no one. It was said in the neighborhood, that "you call no man sir, except your father, the drill instructor and the arresting officer."

This skepticism carried on in all facets of our life. It was the rare neighborhood politician that escaped the seething review of the lads at the local saloon. The Germans have a term for the concept,"Schadenfreud." It is " taking pleasure in some one else's misfortune. It is a universal concept, I guess. People naturally compare themselves to one another. If a neighbor is doing well, it represents a rebuke to those who aren't as ambitious or successful. Perhaps this is the underpinning for the concept of "A Prophet is without honor in his own land. It bred a thick skin in those who aspired to "The Game. Anyone who could survive the heat usually fared well in the boiling cauldron of ward politics.

There were often colorful events, even in the heat of political combat. Once, during a particularly difficult Mayoral campaign, we had a volunteer arrested in one of our headquarters. It seemed one of the older men had passed a few mash notes to a younger female worker. When she showed the notes to her parents, they complained to the Police. The officers, veterans of the Tong wars of Buffalo Politics, made the arrest in the headquarters, but had the decency to log the arrest at a street corner two blocks away.

We had a few anxious days waiting to see if the press would pick up on the matter, but it apparently escaped their attention. I have always thought well of those anonymous policemen who did their job and avoided taking sides in a hot campaign. It was diplomacy in the streets, by veteran officers who had too much real work to do in keeping the streets safe. To add insult to injury, the miscreant who had been arrested called the campaign office looking for someone to bail him out on the morals charge.We respectfully declined.

The business of getting someone elected is a complex and esoteric array of disciplines that involves changing attitudes. Much of it however, comes down to the grinding tedium of street work. It includes phone banks, passing out slingers, covering election booths, stuffing envelopes and putting up signs. Women, by far, make the best volunteers. They do the work without complaint. Men, usually liked to talk about the process, pointing to a map, rather than working at it.

Thus on election day, when there was an enormous amount of work to be done, many of the crafty would want to be "floaters. These are people who would, in theory, be roving trouble shooters. They would help "where ever needed. Of course they helped no one and disappeared when ever the candidate left. Somehow they magically reappeared, by a process unfathomable to me, whenever the candidate returned to the scene.

They didn't always succeed however. During one gubernatorial campaign, we had a score or so of phone banks in many locations. These fine people were diligently getting out the faithful. You couldn't always monitor everyone's activities however and you couldn't out right question a person's integrity. So it came to pass, as I managed the day's operations, the Governor's representative, for the area, rode around checking on the various locations. It was good for morale and it let the workers know that someone realized that they were contributing to the election.

In his travels, he came across one whole Town with several phone banks that were not in operation. The Town Democratic Chairman and the local Democratic County Legislator had gambled that no one would notice their duplicity, in the general uproar of Election Day.They got caught at it and lost any future chits with the Governor. Sometimes, what goes around, comes around. That incident sure brightened up my day.

Most volunteers in political campaigns are a pleasure. They perform many, many hours of tedious work because they believe in the candidate. It is a reaffirmation to me that people do care about their government and are willing to work to effect change.

Most of the business of campaigns is discussed in guarded tones, as if the world were listening. It was a necessary precaution, because many of those on the fringes of campaign are the most voluble. A sly wink and a lowered voice of "someone in the know" often gave stature to the unimportant. The Maxim that "if two people know, it is not a secret" proved to be true time and time again.

It could be humorous though. One time, I was having lunch at a prominent restaurant in the suburbs, owned by a former Judge. My companion was a delightful Octogenarian, who had helped get me started in the business. As a child, he had suffered a throat injury and spoke with a raspy and pronounced "Irish Whisper. He was also very hard of hearing.

There we sat, two secretive pols, one whispering at a level audible across the room and the other talking even louder, to be heard by his aging colleague. Heads turned, impish smiles taking in the incongruous scene. We had lunch there often, so the regulars must have had lots to tell their families around the dinner table. I still chuckle when I relay the story to the man's grandchildren. We all loved him and it brought a smile to their faces as they nodded in recognition of "grandpa's infirmity.

Among our crowd, everyone had an aging relative involved in the "game. Mine was my Father's brother, Uncle Edward. He was a storied and legendary ward politician, who carried the Republican banner in a Democratic bastion for decades. He and the aforementioned delightful Octogenarian took an interest in me as a youngster. They tried to help me along in what had become for us, a family trade. Manuch's uncle Willie had been a saloon keeper and a N.Y State Senator, who had helped him get started. He was carrying on the tradition with me .

He told me up front, that the business was a "whore's game, and most of it's players earned the title daily. I soon came to understand and appreciate his thinking. Of his own merits, he was self deprecating, often saying that he had "got hit in the ass with a third grade speller, for an education. It wasn't true, but it made good copy. Never a man had a sharper mind or a quicker wit. Sparring with him verbally was an exercise in self abuse.

Once, when I told him that I would be volunteering to stuff envelopes for a local candidate, he pulled me aside and gave me an uncle's advice. "Lad, if you are goin' to be marchin' in the parade, make sure you carry a piece of the banner. I didn't really understand the wisdom of the advice for many years, but have come to appreciate the sagacity of the observation from a man who had discovered what it was all about, the hard way.

He had other colorful stories as well. Once, Uncle Edward was in a political shoot-out with a rival. Edwin Jaeckle, who was Tom Dewey's national campaign manager and a local Republican fixture, pulled him aside. "You Irish bastards are all alike" he said, you telegraph your punches. "The opposition can see them coming, avoid the attack and take precautions before hitting back. What you should do is "stand back in the crowd and throw a brick at your target. "The intended victim doesn't see the missile coming and doesn't know who threw it afterwards. You get the job done and don't risk retribution." It was good advice then and it is good advice now in the brass knuckles game of ward politics. It isn't for the faint of heart, but it is, to some of us, the only game in town.

There were humorous facets of the tradition as well. Many is the nephew who got "taken care of" in spite of his skills. On one occasion, the then mayor was trying to find a "good spot" for the nephew of a friend. "What skills does he have?" queried his honor. "None that you would notice, said the embarrassed uncle. "Hmmmm" said his nibs. "What does he like to drink?" "Scotch and water" was the reply. "That's it, said the Mayor, with a grand smile. "We will make him Director of The Water Department. And so he became, and did a good job in the bargain. It is a true story and the man, God rest him, went on to a fine career.

We were players in the grand game of politics and we ran as if the Devil were fast upon our heels, for often he was.
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Joseph Xavier Martin