Living History, Unknown [books to read in your 20s female TXT] 📗

frustrated that they were being misunderstood while trying to do their jobs effectively because of a city leadership at war with the communities they were trying to protect. When Giuliani released Dorismond’s sealed juvenile records, casting aspersions on a man who was dead, he merely drove the wedge deeper and intensified the distrust.

The more Giuliani continued with his divisive rhetoric, the more determined I was to offer a different approach. In a speech at Riverside Church in Manhattan, I laid out a plan for improving relations between the police and minorities, including better recruitment, training and compensation for the NYPD. Then I went to Harlem to speak at the Bethel A.M.E. Church.

Giuliani’s handling of the Dorismond case was wrong, and I intended to call him on it. Instead of easing the tensions and uniting the city, he had poured salt in the wound.

“New York has a real problem, and we all know it,” I said. “All of us, it seems, except for the Mayor.” The packed sanctuary erupted in cheers and hallelujahs.

My appearance in Harlem was a turning point in the campaign. After trailing Giuliani for months, I had finally gained traction, and I was even doing well upstate. Sustained attention to the voters and their local issues was paying off in growing support. I felt like I was beginning to get the hang of campaigning, and I was finding my political voice.

In mid-May, I was formally nominated as the U.S. Senate candidate from New York at the state Democratic convention in Albany. It was an enthusiastic gathering that brought together over 10,000 urban, rural and suburban party activists and political leaders, including Senators Moynihan and Schumer and many others whose generous advice and support carried me to the campaign finish line. At the last minute, the President of the United States appeared―much to the delight of the crowd―and of the Democratic nominee.

Shortly after my nomination, a seismic shift rattled the New York political landscape.

On May 19, Mayor Giuliani announced his withdrawal from the Senate race after being diagnosed with prostate cancer and following news reports about his long-running extramarital affair. Suddenly, he was the one thrashing out his personal life in public. In spite of our political differences, I took no pleasure in this ironic twist, knowing all too well the private pain for everyone involved, especially the Giuliani children.

Mayor Giuliani ended his term with strength and compassion, reassuring and comforting the nation after the attacks on September 11, 2001. Because of our work together on behalf of the city and the victims of terrorism, we developed a productive and friendly relationship, which, I think, came as a surprise to both of us.

The Mayor’s departure from the race was not the welcome relief that some anticipated.

For months, I had planned a campaign against him. He may have been my toughest opponent, but I felt that my candidacy presented a clear choice to New York voters, and voters were responding. By the time his campaign ended, I was eight or ten points ahead, according to public opinion polls. Now I had to start over with a brand new opponent, Congressman Rick Lazio.

My campaign left little time for anything else in my life. When I did break away, it was either for official White House events I could not miss or, sadly, for what seemed to be a never-ending procession of memorial services for friends and colleagues. Casey Shearer, the twenty-one-yearold son of our dear friends Derek Shearer and Ruth Goldway suffered fatal heart failure while playing basketball one week before his graduation from Brown University. King Hassan II of Morroco died in July, and the United States lost a valued friend and ally. His son and successor, King Mohammed VI invited Bill, Chelsea and me to the funeral where Bill, in a sign of respect, joined thousands of male mourners in walking behind the coffin for three miles through the streets of Rabat, lined with over one million Morrocans.

The previous summer, John E Kennedy, Jr., his wife, Carolyn, and her sister Lauren died tragically in a private plane crash off Martha’s Vineyard. Bill and I felt great affection for John, whom we had gotten to know in private gatherings at his mother’s home on the Vineyard and at public events. We wanted John, his sister, Caroline, and her children to feel free to visit the White House at any time. After he was married, John brought his bride for a personal tour. When he saw that Bill was using his father’s desk in the Oval Office, it stirred a faint memory in him of playing beneath it and peeking through its small inset door while President Kennedy made phone calls. I remember John standing silently in front of the official portrait of his father, painted by Aaron Shikler, which we had hung in a prominent place of honor on the State Floor. It was heartbreaking to attend yet another funeral for someone with so much life and promise, surrounded by members of a family who had given so much to our country.

I also received terrible news about my friend Diane Blair. I frequently consulted with Diane during my campaign. She had graduated from Cornell University and knew New York well. She encouraged me to relax and enjoy myself, and she always laughed at tales of my missteps. Diane, an avid tennis player, seemed very fit at age sixty-one. In early March 2000, just a few weeks after she received a clean bill of health during a routine check-up, she noticed suspicious lumps on her leg. Within a week, she was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer. She called to give me the news, and I was beyond devastated.

The prognosis was grim. I simply could not imagine going through the ups and downs of the coming years without Diane. Over the next few months, no matter how busy I was on the campaign, I tried to call her every day. Bill and I flew to Fayetteville, Arkansas, several times to be with