Growing Up Then and Now

Ended up lucky again.   As a legislator I’d written a ton of laws to make my poor-side-of-the-tracks neighborhood safer and better.  By now the guy who beat me out for Mayor had changed stripes and been elected (after the Wellstone plane crash tragedy) the Republican United States Senator from Minnesota (see why not dropping that placard was such a major regret?) and the incoming Mayor was a political ally of mine from legislative days – the Senate author for many of my neighborhood improvement bills – so he gave me a cabinet level job being in charge of a new City Department named “Housing and Neighborhood Improvement,” gave me a just-completed study on what’s wrong in the neighborhoods, and told me “Dust-off those laws we wrote; make it happen.”

Not only was it fortunate to land a new job so fast (and better paying even), but how many in the world can say they were lucky enough to be in charge of enforcing the very laws they wrote?!  And I needed the chance to prove their worth because, as Clarence Darrow often said, “Laws don’t execute themselves in this world.”  Which was really true in this case:  three previous Mayors and two previous Police Chiefs had come and gone and still the laws were only in the statute books and not being utilized.

Clarence Darrow had it right: “Laws don’t execute themselves”

In fact, how many people in the world can say they were lucky enough to serve in all three branches of government in a continuum from being a lawyer seeing what’s unjust, making greater justice possible being a legislator, then making justice happen in the Executive Branch, and finally back to the courtroom to explain how the law is constitutional.   Tomorrow’s that story.

Tomorrow:  1,131 Police Calls in One Year

“What a great Fire Department!”  I yell back, and proceed to tell everybody, including the Chief, not particularly noticing a nearby reporter, that the best thing of all was that they got the fire out before it reached the trunk because also in the trunk was an “Abstract of Title” needed this very afternoon for a real estate closing.  (Abstracts are the history of that property’s every owner and every easement down thru the ages.)   What this reporter on the scene didn’t report is my post-fire proclaiming what a tremendous rescue job it truly was, is because of the Abstract.  My earlier request to save my baseball bat was just a short, to the point, way to get fast action.  Better than a long winded:

1.  “Say Mister Chief, there’s an abstract of title in the trunk made out of parchment paper.  It’s 50 pages thick, 100 years old and has every owner for all of time for this property handwritten in it.  It’s irreplaceable and I need it for a real estate closing this afternoon or I can’t go on my honeymoon.  If you can get the fire out before it reaches the trunk; that would be great.”

   

   Amsterdam Sex Museum – “We could hardly wait to get back to our honeyroom.” (film to follow)

Sure ‘nuff, the next day in the paper, my most mortal media maledictorian ever since the Mayor’s Race, is editorializing “ . . . and any guy who thinks his baseball bat is the most important thing in the world should be banished for life from the Legislature, and his District should be punished for electing such a fool by being forever forbidden from electing a replacement.”  Nice huh?  Thanks Joe, you’ve always been such a friend, You Jerk!

Meanwhile, when I got home the night of the fire, Ellen tells me that she was just arriving at the Capitol as the building was being evacuated and when she asked “What’s going on?” was told, “Don’t you know?  Your boyfriend set the building on fire!”

But other than that we pulled it all off without a hitch getting hitched.  Even the campaign lit, tho soggy, was mailable.   Wrote our own vows for a backyard wedding in El’s flowergarden with the Chief Justice saying “Lucky in Life means Lucky in Love and Having Meaningful Jobs.”  Had our reception at the Saints minor league ballpark, fresh walleye, plenty of sweet corn, a Frisbee golf course, and dancing to Willie Murphy singing the blues.  Honeymooned in Europe – talk about bliss!

Tomorrow:  First Comes Love . . . then Comes Marriage . . . then Comes . . .

By 1993 we had built a political dynasty, and it was time to get me elected Mayor.   No, I’m just kidding, you don’t build a political dynasty just being girlfriend & boyfriend serving one year together in the Legislature.  The reason I threw my hat in the ring was to break my glass ceiling.  A glass ceiling is usually associated with being a woman and having an artificial limit on how high you can rise, despite your ability, based upon your gender.  My glass ceiling was being thought of as too left-wing, too much talk and not enough action [not true], and although maybe a good fit for his liberal district, not a mentionable for higher office.  I wanted to smash that glass ceiling, have all the world get to know who I am and all my accomplishments. . . . but in the end all I did was reinforce my glass ceiling, which turned out to be a lucky thing.

1993 Mayoral Debate: Andy Dawkins, John Manillo, Ray Faricy, Norm Coleman, Jerry Isaacs, Marlene Johnson

It was a spirited Mayoral Race almost all the way to the wire.  I was leading all the way up until two days before the September primary election.  On that fateful Sunday a famous radio personality, known for interviewing guests in her hot tub, was the emcee of a prime time mayoral debate on TV before a live audience.  All 7 of us were given a green and red placard.  The green side spelled out YES in big letters; the red side had NO.  Right away rapid fire questions.  The fifth question:  “Have you smoked marijuana in the past 2 years?”  I was the only one who held up green.  No gasps from anybody and the next questions quickly followed.

But by that night it had become a big deal.  At my next campaign event (getting endorsed by the Black Police Officers Assn.) I was met by reporters from every major media outlet:  When did you smoke marijuana?  How often?  Where?  Any regrets?  Other drugs? Etc.  I answered honestly:  “only a couple times at some party where people were passing around a joint.”  It was THE story all the way to the polls 36 hours later.  On every radio station.  On the front page.  A political cartoon with my volunteer shirts saying “Dawkins Delivers.”  I always suspected it was a planted question.  To this day I have only two major regrets in my life (both deal with smoking):  smoking cigarets and not dropping that frigging sign and saying “Dumb question.  Move on.”   How I started smoking and my Mark Twain method of quitting are a different story; also a full-length version of The Race for Mayor is in the appendix to the hard copy of this book because it was such a pivotal point in my life with so much more dynamics and investment of effort by me and others that the (two times) smoking pot should have been dwarfed.  For now suffice to say I came in Second.

Second turned out to be terrific all in itself.  During the campaign I had fallen in love.  Two weeks later I proposed to El, my best campaign volunteer, kneeling in the waters off Madiera Beach.  I woke-up that day having been thinking for two straight weeks:  “Yes, I’d hoped to be the Mayor for all the kids in the City, being single and working every moment, but you know what, it’s time to get married and start a family.”  I got out of bed, went across the street to buy a ring; YES! she said.

Tomorrow:  How my BB bat was saved