"Holy crow, is there going to be a gunfight?"

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"Holy crow, is there going to be a gunfight?"

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Posted by tm on July 11, 2004 at 23:12:12:

"Holy crow, is there going to be a gunfight?"
It's weeks later, but I keep talking about that June 23 City Council meeting I went to, and my friends say that I should write about it. Honestly, I didn't even try because local genius Tris McCall covered it in an entry in his Jersey City Journal*, which I reproduce here in (almost) its entirety:

We're here to debate the merits of Tsereteli's infamous "Tear Of Grief" statue. In case you don't know about this controversy, Zurab Tsereteli is a Russian artist who has contributed a gift sculpture to stand as our tribute to those killed in the attack on the Twin Towers. Trouble is, the statue is ugly as hell, stands about ten stories high, and would dominate and probably ruin the amb-ience of the Owen Grundy waterfront pier. Jersey City's municipal government has made a big deal out of our status as an arts town, but didn't bother to consult with any of the area arts groups before committing to the Tsereteli proposal. None of this vexed the Cunningham Administration any, though: as a matter of fact, spokesman Stan Eason suggested that local artists were opposing the monument out of jealousy. New Mayor L. Harvey Smith is supposed to be against the sculpture, but nobody knows for sure.

Hey, there's Harvey Smith now. I've never seen him in action before. He's walking around the pews, shaking hands, demuring to old ladies, smiling. First impressions: slow-moving, friendly, maybe a little insecure. Well, that'd be what you'd figure -- he must be worried sick about political skullduggery all night and day. Some of his moves have been controversial for sure -- he sacked many of the Cunningham people and replaced them with his own appointments. But there's no trace of irritation or anger on his face as he moves through the house; gentle smile, man of the manor.

It's 6:23, and there's still no sign of the City Council. People are fidgeting in their seats and fanning themselves with the agenda. A few New Jersey City University art professors are passing out leaflets opposing the Tsereteli monument: there's a picture of the sculpture and a big red X over it. Subtle. The door to the chamber is wide open, but we're not getting much of a breeze. Beyond that, I'm starting to feel like New York City booking agents are running this meeting. Why are they making us wait so long? Is this standard operating procedure for the City Council? It seems like it must be: guys in suits are milling around the room, and seem in no hurry to take their seats. If the Constitutional Convention were run like this, we'd still be colonies.

With nothing better to do, I look over the agenda notes, and attempt to memorize the names of the Council members. I've never found a reliable ward map of Jersey City online; I know I'm in Ward E, but I couldn't pick my councilman, Junior Maldonado, out of a lineup. Mary Donnelly, on the other hand, I recognize from the Planning Board meeting. Hilary's sense of Protestant justice is offended by Harvey Smith's twin roles: how, she asks, can he be City Council president and Mayor at the same time? Isn't that a conflict of interest?, she asks me. Hell, no, this is Hudson County. Around here, politicians gather offices like crazy philatelists collect stamps.

Holy crow, it's 6:40. When is this meeting going to start? The woman next to me, wearing a large Cunningham pin, suggests loudly that they're trying to drive us away. She may be right, but I'm guessing it's just the opposite. I think it's more like waiting for an arena rock show. They don't want anybody to leave; they're running late because they're certain people aren't going to leave. When you're the biggest show in town, you can make people sweat before raising the curtain.

Ten minutes later, the clerk finally calls the room to order. He discourages us from chatting, and reminds us that the fans are on because it's hot in here. Uh, we got that. We're warned that we'll be thrown out of the chambers if we have side conversations, and then we're led in a flag salute. No mention of milk money or our homework, though.

The meeting begins with an award presented to a retiring policeman who has walked the beat in Jersey City for twenty-five years. He's awarded a plaque. All the councilmembers seem to know him personally. Ward F councilwoman Viola Richardson delivers the speech in his honor; she's smiling, but I can't hear a damned thing she's saying. She's nowhere near the microphone for most of it, but even when she approaches her device, it just crackles lamely. Forget about Victory Hall or Uncle Joe's, this is the local venue that needs to be wired for a superior sound system.

After the presentation, Mayor Smith rises. He's no longer the friendly supplicant that he was a half-hour ago; now, fists on the desk, he's loud, firm, direct. He disappoints a good fraction of the crowd by insisting that the Tsereteli monument will not be discussed tonight. Smith asks for a show of hands: how many people here tonight are present to discuss the "Tear Of Grief"? I look around; and a little less than half of the room has thrown their hands in the air. They're not waving them like they just don't care, though -- and that's because they do care. Some raise up the pictures of the crossed-out monument in silent protest.

Smith is unfazed. He points out that the discussion of the monument is not on the agenda. To save us all some time and suffering, he says, why don't you guys come back at another time? He doesn't specify when. I expect to see a mass exodus of disgusted artists to the door, but almost nobody leaves. Hmm, they must be here for something else as well.

I don't wonder for long. The fireworks begin when Steve Lipski, councilman from Ward C, stands and nominates Harvey Smith for mayor. At first, I don't understand what the problem is, but then it becomes clear: Lipski is an old Cunningham ally, and he's tacitly challenging Smith's right to hold both the Council Chairmanship and the mayoral office. Hey, Hilary, somebody has taken up your instinctive objection!

Smith stands and delivers his rebuttal. It's addressed to the gallery as much as it is to Lipski, and it leaves no doubt about who's in temporary but definitive charge. He makes recourse to a state succession law, but at base, his claims aren't about procedure, they're about personality. "I am handling the situation with no difficulty", Smith insists. "We have a stable situation in Jersey City". Smith seems hung up on the word "situation"; he uses it four times in three sentences. To be fair, it is something of a catch-all euphemism, and he's not really measuring his discourse at the moment. "There is no caretaking going on in the mayor's office. We had a good review from Moody's because of the stability of the person talking to you right now." Applause thunders all around me. My God, we're sitting in the middle of the L. Harvey Smith cheering section!

Viola Richardson, representative of Cunningham's old ward, rises to the challenge. She's much more direct than Lipski was -- she won't pusyfoot about giving the new mayor the honor of an official title. She speaks precisely; straight to the chase, and with great passion. She's cheered on by Cunningham supporters (including the woman to my left, who's pretty brave to be sitting in such hostile territory). She's plainly worried about Smith accumulating too much power: she asks for checks and balances. Some of the guys behind us attempt to shout her down. Gah, this is getting heated.

A few more barbs are traded, and then it's time to vote. I'm getting no clearer picture of our Junior Maldonado, since he's not here tonight, but the other eight are, and they're ready to roll. Mary Donnelly and Councilman Brennan both vote with Smith, and do so with little fanfare. Lipski reads excerpts from a letter about the Friends of the Loews, and votes for his own resolution. Smith, again, firmly rebuts Lipski to growing crowd approval.

To the mayor's left sits Councilman Gaughan, who leans back in his chair like a warlord who's just secured his kingdom. He speaks with none of the urgency or nervousness that has characterized the discourse of the rest of the councilpeople. His attitude is that of the veteran ward heeler: shrewd, poised, patient. I don't know anything about Gaughan, but he gives an impression of great power. He strenuously supports the mayor, looking at the dissenters as he does, and accuses them firmly of political hypocrisy. A furious Richardson rises to denounce him, claiming that if there was dissention in Jersey City under the Cunningham administration, it was because the late mayor was so busy taking the knives out of his back. She squares against Gaughan, eyes blazing. Holy crow, is there going to be a gunfight?

Instead, she leaves the table: she doesn't walk out, but she does retreat to the far corner of the hall. It's hard not to be sympathetic to Richardson's energetic defense of Cunningham and, by extension, Ward F -- especially because she's clearly in the minority. Commissioners Healy and Vega both vote with Smith; Vega goes so far to say he believes the current mayor is "uniquely qualified" to lead Jersey City through this time of crisis. Meanwhile, Gaughan is unflappable; he takes the opprobrium and barely moves in his seat. Rule #4080 for aspiring politicians: when you're on the winning side, you don't ever have to squirm.

The clerk counts the votes, although there's no need: Lipski's resolution is rejected by a 5-2 tally (Smith abstains). Dejected, the Cunningham forces begin to file out of the hall. We stick around for a few more votes, but it's clear that the main event is over. After the third straight unanimous acceptance of a minor municipal ordinance, we figure it's time to go. Out in the lobby, by the staircase, a few disappointed artists have gathered: the discussion is still about Tsereteli, despite the slugging match we've all just witnessed. One woman asks what the shouting was about. We explain. She seems bemused; she's got no problem with Mayor Smith holding two offices -- since he opposes the monument, perhaps he can expedite its removal if he's got more power. Spoken like a true Hudson County-ite, I think to myself. Frank Hague held court here for thirty years straight. Viola Richardson notwithstanding, we're not squeamish about caudillos.

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: "Holy crow, is there going to be a gunfight?"
: It's weeks later, but I keep talking about that June 23 City Council meeting I went to, and my friends say that I should write about it. Honestly, I didn't even try because local genius Tris McCall covered it in an entry in his Jersey City Journal*, which I reproduce here in (almost) its entirety:

: We're here to debate the merits of Tsereteli's infamous "Tear Of Grief" statue. In case you don't know about this controversy, Zurab Tsereteli is a Russian artist who has contributed a gift sculpture to stand as our tribute to those killed in the attack on the Twin Towers. Trouble is, the statue is ugly as hell, stands about ten stories high, and would dominate and probably ruin the amb-ience of the Owen Grundy waterfront pier. Jersey City's municipal government has made a big deal out of our status as an arts town, but didn't bother to consult with any of the area arts groups before committing to the Tsereteli proposal. None of this vexed the Cunningham Administration any, though: as a matter of fact, spokesman Stan Eason suggested that local artists were opposing the monument out of jealousy. New Mayor L. Harvey Smith is supposed to be against the sculpture, but nobody knows for sure.

: Hey, there's Harvey Smith now. I've never seen him in action before. He's walking around the pews, shaking hands, demuring to old ladies, smiling. First impressions: slow-moving, friendly, maybe a little insecure. Well, that'd be what you'd figure -- he must be worried sick about political skullduggery all night and day. Some of his moves have been controversial for sure -- he sacked many of the Cunningham people and replaced them with his own appointments. But there's no trace of irritation or anger on his face as he moves through the house; gentle smile, man of the manor.

: It's 6:23, and there's still no sign of the City Council. People are fidgeting in their seats and fanning themselves with the agenda. A few New Jersey City University art professors are passing out leaflets opposing the Tsereteli monument: there's a picture of the sculpture and a big red X over it. Subtle. The door to the chamber is wide open, but we're not getting much of a breeze. Beyond that, I'm starting to feel like New York City booking agents are running this meeting. Why are they making us wait so long? Is this standard operating procedure for the City Council? It seems like it must be: guys in suits are milling around the room, and seem in no hurry to take their seats. If the Constitutional Convention were run like this, we'd still be colonies.

: With nothing better to do, I look over the agenda notes, and attempt to memorize the names of the Council members. I've never found a reliable ward map of Jersey City online; I know I'm in Ward E, but I couldn't pick my councilman, Junior Maldonado, out of a lineup. Mary Donnelly, on the other hand, I recognize from the Planning Board meeting. Hilary's sense of Protestant justice is offended by Harvey Smith's twin roles: how, she asks, can he be City Council president and Mayor at the same time? Isn't that a conflict of interest?, she asks me. Hell, no, this is Hudson County. Around here, politicians gather offices like crazy philatelists collect stamps.

: Holy crow, it's 6:40. When is this meeting going to start? The woman next to me, wearing a large Cunningham pin, suggests loudly that they're trying to drive us away. She may be right, but I'm guessing it's just the opposite. I think it's more like waiting for an arena rock show. They don't want anybody to leave; they're running late because they're certain people aren't going to leave. When you're the biggest show in town, you can make people sweat before raising the curtain.

: Ten minutes later, the clerk finally calls the room to order. He discourages us from chatting, and reminds us that the fans are on because it's hot in here. Uh, we got that. We're warned that we'll be thrown out of the chambers if we have side conversations, and then we're led in a flag salute. No mention of milk money or our homework, though.

: The meeting begins with an award presented to a retiring policeman who has walked the beat in Jersey City for twenty-five years. He's awarded a plaque. All the councilmembers seem to know him personally. Ward F councilwoman Viola Richardson delivers the speech in his honor; she's smiling, but I can't hear a damned thing she's saying. She's nowhere near the microphone for most of it, but even when she approaches her device, it just crackles lamely. Forget about Victory Hall or Uncle Joe's, this is the local venue that needs to be wired for a superior sound system.

: After the presentation, Mayor Smith rises. He's no longer the friendly supplicant that he was a half-hour ago; now, fists on the desk, he's loud, firm, direct. He disappoints a good fraction of the crowd by insisting that the Tsereteli monument will not be discussed tonight. Smith asks for a show of hands: how many people here tonight are present to discuss the "Tear Of Grief"? I look around; and a little less than half of the room has thrown their hands in the air. They're not waving them like they just don't care, though -- and that's because they do care. Some raise up the pictures of the crossed-out monument in silent protest.

: Smith is unfazed. He points out that the discussion of the monument is not on the agenda. To save us all some time and suffering, he says, why don't you guys come back at another time? He doesn't specify when. I expect to see a mass exodus of disgusted artists to the door, but almost nobody leaves. Hmm, they must be here for something else as well.

: I don't wonder for long. The fireworks begin when Steve Lipski, councilman from Ward C, stands and nominates Harvey Smith for mayor. At first, I don't understand what the problem is, but then it becomes clear: Lipski is an old Cunningham ally, and he's tacitly challenging Smith's right to hold both the Council Chairmanship and the mayoral office. Hey, Hilary, somebody has taken up your instinctive objection!

: Smith stands and delivers his rebuttal. It's addressed to the gallery as much as it is to Lipski, and it leaves no doubt about who's in temporary but definitive charge. He makes recourse to a state succession law, but at base, his claims aren't about procedure, they're about personality. "I am handling the situation with no difficulty", Smith insists. "We have a stable situation in Jersey City". Smith seems hung up on the word "situation"; he uses it four times in three sentences. To be fair, it is something of a catch-all euphemism, and he's not really measuring his discourse at the moment. "There is no caretaking going on in the mayor's office. We had a good review from Moody's because of the stability of the person talking to you right now." Applause thunders all around me. My God, we're sitting in the middle of the L. Harvey Smith cheering section!

: Viola Richardson, representative of Cunningham's old ward, rises to the challenge. She's much more direct than Lipski was -- she won't pusyfoot about giving the new mayor the honor of an official title. She speaks precisely; straight to the chase, and with great passion. She's cheered on by Cunningham supporters (including the woman to my left, who's pretty brave to be sitting in such hostile territory). She's plainly worried about Smith accumulating too much power: she asks for checks and balances. Some of the guys behind us attempt to shout her down. Gah, this is getting heated.

: A few more barbs are traded, and then it's time to vote. I'm getting no clearer picture of our Junior Maldonado, since he's not here tonight, but the other eight are, and they're ready to roll. Mary Donnelly and Councilman Brennan both vote with Smith, and do so with little fanfare. Lipski reads excerpts from a letter about the Friends of the Loews, and votes for his own resolution. Smith, again, firmly rebuts Lipski to growing crowd approval.

: To the mayor's left sits Councilman Gaughan, who leans back in his chair like a warlord who's just secured his kingdom. He speaks with none of the urgency or nervousness that has characterized the discourse of the rest of the councilpeople. His attitude is that of the veteran ward heeler: shrewd, poised, patient. I don't know anything about Gaughan, but he gives an impression of great power. He strenuously supports the mayor, looking at the dissenters as he does, and accuses them firmly of political hypocrisy. A furious Richardson rises to denounce him, claiming that if there was dissention in Jersey City under the Cunningham administration, it was because the late mayor was so busy taking the knives out of his back. She squares against Gaughan, eyes blazing. Holy crow, is there going to be a gunfight?

: Instead, she leaves the table: she doesn't walk out, but she does retreat to the far corner of the hall. It's hard not to be sympathetic to Richardson's energetic defense of Cunningham and, by extension, Ward F -- especially because she's clearly in the minority. Commissioners Healy and Vega both vote with Smith; Vega goes so far to say he believes the current mayor is "uniquely qualified" to lead Jersey City through this time of crisis. Meanwhile, Gaughan is unflappable; he takes the opprobrium and barely moves in his seat. Rule #4080 for aspiring politicians: when you're on the winning side, you don't ever have to squirm.

: The clerk counts the votes, although there's no need: Lipski's resolution is rejected by a 5-2 tally (Smith abstains). Dejected, the Cunningham forces begin to file out of the hall. We stick around for a few more votes, but it's clear that the main event is over. After the third straight unanimous acceptance of a minor municipal ordinance, we figure it's time to go. Out in the lobby, by the staircase, a few disappointed artists have gathered: the discussion is still about Tsereteli, despite the slugging match we've all just witnessed. One woman asks what the shouting was about. We explain. She seems bemused; she's got no problem with Mayor Smith holding two offices -- since he opposes the monument, perhaps he can expedite its removal if he's got more power. Spoken like a true Hudson County-ite, I think to myself. Frank Hague held court here for thirty years straight. Viola Richardson notwithstanding, we're not squeamish about caudillos.

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