Special Report
The End of the Irish Century
A death and a resignation mark the close of the long era of Catholic political
dominance in Boston
Philip F. Lawler
On Tuesday morning, November 28, Cardinal Bernard Law celebrated a funeral Mass
at Boston's Holy Cross Cathedral for the former city's former mayor, John F. Collins.
That very afternoon, the president of the state senate, William Bulger, announced that
he would leave his legislative post to become the president of the University of
Massachusetts. Thus, two giants departed from Boston's political scene.
Collins and Bulger, two highly skillful and successful political campaigners, were
radically different in their personal styles. But in one respect the two men were
virtually identical: throughout their long political careers, each was fiercely loyal to his
Irish heritage, his neighbors and friends, and above all to his Catholic faith.
For more than one hundred years, Boston's political life was dominated by such men:
sturdy Irish-American Catholics with a strong commitment to family and faith. From
the 1870s, when a potato famine in Ireland drove thousands of families across the
Atlantic, the life of Irish immigrants in Boston revolved around two focal points: the
Catholic Church and the Democratic Party. In 1884, Patrick Collins become the first
Catholic Mayor of Boston. By the turn of the century, the Irish immigrants and their
children had formed a powerful political machine, and wrested control of the city away
from the old Yankee establishment.
Unfortunately, political control did not inevitably lead to economic prosperity. The
old, moneyed class of "Boston Brahmins" still owned the factories where these Irish
newcomers worked, and the Irish were not welcome in the city's exclusive clubs. The
anti-immigrant "Know Nothing" Party had a strong following in Massachusetts, and
promoted a virulent anti-Catholic bias. When crusty employers had openings for new
workers, they would post advertisements that explicitly stated, "No Irish need apply."
The culmination of this ethnic conflict came with the political rise of James Michael
Curley, who served several terms as mayor, governor, and congressman during a
colorful political career that spanned forty years, from the 1910s to the 1950s. Curley
was more than a politician; he was a sort of tribal chieftain--the standard-bearer for
downtrodden Irish Catholics in their never-ending battles with the Yankee elite.
Curley--who inspired Edwin O'Connor's memorable novel, <The Last Hurrah>--was an
implacable warrior, who unabashedly used his political authority to reward his (Irish
Catholic) friends and punish his (Yankee) enemies. Frustrated Republicans denounced
him as a rascal; friendly Democrats mildly replied that he was <their> rascal--and
indeed Curley's last election as Mayor of Boston came <after> his conviction on charges
of vote fraud.
By the time Curley finally yielded the stage to younger men, the old Boston Brahmins
had been routed. Many of the old Yankee families fled to the suburbs, while others
retreated to enclaves on historic Beacon Hill; very few remained active in local politics.
When Curley departed, he left Boston's political future in the hands of a solid corps of
Irish Catholics, with names like Hynes and Powers, McDonough and Timilty, Craven
and Doyle and Collins.
A BRUSH WITH DEATH
John Collins, who would emerge from that group as Boston's next outstanding political
leader, was born in 1919 into a working-class family in Roxbury. Unable to afford
college tuition, he instead made the jump directly from secondary school into law
school, literally running back and forth across the city between law-school classes and
his duties as an usher in a local movie theater. Like virtually every young man in his
neighborhood, he joined the Army during World War II, and served in Europe. When
he returned in 1946--again like many neighbors--he invested his accumulated military
pay in his first political campaign.
Collins won that campaign, and became a member of the state legislature, by the
simple expedient of working harder than his rivals. He knocked on every door in the
district; when he noticed one of his rivals ringing doorbells, he knocked on the same
doors again. After a two-year term in office, he used the same simple technique to win
re-election, and two years later he moved up to run, again successfully, for a seat in the
state senate.
By September 1955, Collins had built a promising political career. He was happily
married, and the father of four bright young children. He had served two terms in each
house of the state legislature; he had been nominated as the Democrat candidate for
attorney general of Massachusetts, and lost a close race to a strong Republican
contender. Now he had set his sights on a seat on Boston's city council.
Then tragedy struck. In 1955, the polio epidemic was roaring through Boston. Early in
September, Collins carried his son John through the doors of the nearest hospital; the
child was suffering from a raging fever. Two days later his other son, Thomas,
followed suit. The elder John Collins and his wife Mary spent several sleepless nights,
hoping and praying that the fever would break before the polio virus destroyed the
children's nervous system, and that their two daughters would escape the ravages of
the disease. Their prayers were answered. John and Thomas recovered fully; the girls
were treated in the hospital and quickly released.
Two weeks later, during a routine political gathering, John Collins complained of a
headache severe enough to send him home early. By the next morning he was walking
through the hospital doors himself, with a temperature that quickly shot up to 105
degrees. Unable to control the fever, doctors gently suggested to Mary Collins that she
should arrange to spend the next day or two with her husband. The implication of their
message was clear: they did not expect him to survive.
Instead of calling an undertaker, Mary Collins called a friendly priest, who
administered the last rites, gave the delirious Collins a final blessing, and touched his
body with a relic of St. Pius X. That night the fever broke.
UPHILL BATTLES
Although he survived, Collins would spend most of the next forty years in a
wheelchair. He faced countless hours of grueling physical therapy before he regained
control of his arms. Ten years would pass before he would walk again--unsteadily,
with the help of two metal crutches.
Against all odds, Mary Collins--with her four small children still recovering from
polio--managed a successful city-council campaign for her bed-ridden husband. In
September Collins was expected to die; in November he won an election; in January
1956 he was wheeled into city-council chambers to attend his first formal meeting as a
member.
By 1959, the ambitious Collins--who had left the city council after a single term to take
a new position in country government--was looking for new opportunities. During his
long convalescence from polio, he had voraciously read textbooks about city planning;
he felt certain that he could bring new life to Boston's economy. So when Mayor John
Hynes announced his retirement, Collins joined a crowded field of candidates hoping
to succeed him.
In that crowded field, one name stood out. John Powers, president of the state senate,
had won support from labor unions, corporate leaders, newspaper editors, and a host
of local ward bosses. With an enormous campaign war chest at his disposal, Powers
was regarded as a shoo-in for election. But once again, Collins beat the odds.
Forced to campaign on a shoestring budget, Collins adopted a quiet, no-nonsense
approach. In television commercials, he patiently explained to voters his plans to revive
the city. Meanwhile his supporters asked voters to reject the politics-as-usual approach;
they festooned the city with placards that read: "Stop Power Politics." That slogan
reaped dividends when several associates of Powers were arrested for participating in
an illegal gambling operation; Boston voters began to wonder whether the front-
running mayoral candidate might have some more unsavory associates.
Still, even on election day, Powers was confidently predicting victory, and most
reporters were inclined to believe him. The political pundits were shocked when
Collins captured the election, rolling in a comfortable 54 percent of the votes in what
remains one of the most stunning upsets in Boston's political history.
REBUILDING A CITY
When he took office in January 1960, Collins faced a daunting challenge. During the
Curley era, profligate government spending had pushed the city to the brink of
bankruptcy. The city's housing stock was deteriorating; old buildings were crumbling,
while no new developments were planned. Corporations were leaving the urban area,
setting up new shops in the sprawling suburbs.
With characteristic energy, Collins plunged into his plan for Boston's revival. He
slashed property taxes, encouraging new investment in housing. He balanced the city
budget, and cut down the public debt. Working closely with corporate leaders, he
brought new industries into the downtown area, sparking new opportunities for
employment. He put more police officers on the streets to curb a growing crime rate,
and pushed the state legislature to adopt a more generous welfare program to relieve
poverty.
Above all, Collins carefully planned, financed, and carried out an ambitious building
program. During his two mayoral terms, Boston saw an unprecedented burst of new
developments. The honky-tonk bars of Scollay Square were replaced by an imposing
new Government Center. The towering Prudential building transformed the urban
skyline. New housing projects sprang up near the ghettos of Roxbury, while banks
built handsome new headquarters in the city's financial district.
In 1966, the mayor saw one more opportunity to step up the political ladder, and he
launched a campaign for an open seat in the US Senate. But this time his ambitions
were thwarted at the Democratic nominating convention, when his party's leaders
chose a former governor, Endicott Peabody. Collins saw his defeat as the revenge of an
old political rival. Playing a trope on a passage from the Book of Genesis, he told the
press: "The voice was the voice of Endicott Peabody, but the hand was the hand of John
Powers."
Collins chose to contest the Party leaders' decision, and he ran a spirited campaign
against Peabody in the Democratic primary election. But once again he was defeated. In
fact, despite his popularity, the mayor failed to carry a majority among the voters in
Boston. That loss was hard to swallow. Although most observers agree that he could
easily have won re-election as mayor, Collins chose to retire from active political life
when his term expired in 1968.
THE BEGINNING OF IDEOLOGY
Collins presided over Boston at a time when American political debates were
refreshingly free of ideological overtones. Democrats and Republicans battled gamely
over issues such as taxation, and in cities like Boston ethnic grudges were never far
from the surface of any political contest. But the centrifugal pressures of the late 1960s
and early 1970s--the sexual revolution, the campus unrest, the anti-war protests--had
not yet become manifest. Looking back on the his administration from the vantage
point of 1995, it is difficult to categorize Collins as a "liberal" or "conservative" mayor;
he was simply successful.
Soon after Collins left office, however, American cities were raked by a cyclone of
social change. Racial tensions erupted into full-scale urban riots in dozens of cities
during the "long, hot summer" of 1968. In Boston, those racial tensions continued to
simmer until 1974, when they exploded anew. That was the year when a federal judge,
W. Arthur Garrity, decreed that Boston's public schools were racially segregated, and
prescribed a broad program in which students were bused from one neighborhood to
another to achieve racial balance.
Busing programs had proven highly controversial in several other American cities, but
nowhere was the controversy more bitter than in Boston. In some of the city's tight-knit
ethnic enclaves--such as Charlestown, Dorchester, and East Boston--families had sent
their youngsters to the same familiar public schools for several generations; the schools
had woven into the fabric of the community. The notion that children would now be
forcibly transported to another, unfamiliar neighborhood--and that the children of
strangers would enter their own communities--was utterly unacceptable. (Later in life,
John Collins insisted that if he had still been mayor when Judge Garrity issued his
decree, he would have flatly refused to authorize the busing program--even if that
stance had cost him a term in prison.)
That strong sense of neighborhood identity was reinforced by racial tensions; parents
in relatively safe white neighborhoods were frightened by the prospect that their
children would be traveling into the black ghettos, where crime was rampant. Black
leaders--rightly or wrongly--saw that fear as evidence of racism. Judge Garrity fanned
the flames by insisting that in the first round of busing, children from Roxbury--the
most impoverished black neighborhood, where crime rates were highest--would
change places with youngsters from South Boston--the blue-collar Irish neighborhood,
where ethnic and neighborhood loyalties were most pronounced.
That mixture proved combustible, and the residents of South Boston took to the streets
to protest. They blocked the roads, refusing to allow schoolbuses to pass. They pulled
their children out of public schools. They organized political rallies, protest meetings,
and prayer services. Some of them spat and pelted rocks at the hated yellow buses.
They stood on the sidewalks outside South Boston High School, scowling in defiance at
the riot-equipped police who confronted them, chanting, "Southie won't go!"
In the end, of course, Southie <did> go; the people could not indefinitely resist the
police. But before the first ugly year of busing was over, the political climate of South
Boston had been profoundly changed. The people of that community felt that they had
been betrayed--by a judge (an Irish Catholic!) who had violated the parents' power over
their own children's education; by the political leaders who had done nothing to stop
the busing; by the Catholic priests who had urged them to accept the busing program.
A community that was already prone to view the world as a struggle between "us" and
"them" became confirmed in its view that outsiders would never treat South Boston
fairly. At the same time, the community developed extraordinarily strong bonds of
loyalty to the few politicians who had stood by them in their darkest hours. One of
those politicians was a rising young state senator named William Bulger.
CURLEY'S HEIR
Born in the housing projects of South Boston, Bill Bulger was educated by Jesuits at
Boston College High School, Boston College, and Boston College Law School. That
educational history left him with an identity as a "Triple Eagle" (a reference to the
mascot which the three schools share), and a keen taste for classical languages. To this
day, Bulger's favorite forms of relaxation are listening to the Boston Symphony,
walking along the shores of South Boston, and sitting at home with a volume of
Thucydides in the original Greek.
While those forms of recreation might seem best suited to a reclusive aesthete, Bulger
is actually the opposite: a born politician, with a unquenchable zest for political combat
and a keen appreciation for the needs of ordinary voters in South Boston. With his
polished oratorical skills, his political identity as head of Southie's Irish-Catholic clan,
and his impish propensity for tweaking the noses of the Yankee establishment, Bulger
is clearly the spiritual heir of James Michael Curley. Recalling Curley's exhortation that
his followers should "vote early and vote often," Bulger delights in claiming that an
election in South Boston is never over "until the returns have come in from St.
Augustine's cemetery."
In reality, Bulger has never needed extra electoral help, from the graveyards or
anywhere else. For years, his loyal South Boston electorate has handed him resounding
victories in every campaign. First as a state representative, and later as a state senator,
Bulger has easily brushed off all political opponents. In 1978, recognizing his
leadership ability, his colleagues elected him as Senate President, and in each
successive meeting of the legislature, he has readily won re-election to that post as well.
When he finally resigned, Bulger had served as Senate President for seventeen years--
longer than any other official in the history of this, the oldest legislative body in North
America.
As president of the state senate, Bulger has exercised enormous political clout for the
better part of two decades; every significant piece of legislation flows through his
office, and few of them emerge intact without blessing. Like Curley, Bulger makes no
effort to hide the fact that he rewards friends and punishes enemies, and he has
accumulated a formidable number of bitter foes. But on at least one day each year,
everyone claims to be the Senate President's friend. Each St. Patrick's Day, Bulger plays
host to a unique party at South Boston's Bayside Club, at which he spends hours
singing Irish songs, telling old political stories, and swapping barbs with a series of
celebrity guests. As the loyal sons of Southie crowd in the front doors, aspiring
politicians clamber up the rickety steps in the back of the building, hoping for a chance
to share the limelight at Billy Bulger's Bash.
As he stepped down from the legislature, Bulger could take justifiable pride in having
been an efficient public servant, who passed budgets, sponsored programs, and helped
to make the machinery of government work smoothly. Like Collins, he was not a
ideologue. But until the former mayor, he served in public office at a time when
controversial social issues often commanded the top place on the political agenda. Time
and again, the Catholic Church looked to Bulger to lead the battle against abortion, or
homosexuality, or the distribution of condoms. Almost invariably, the Senate President
was equal to the task; even when the votes were arrayed against him, he often managed
to stall an issue, or adjourn a session, or wield his gavel quickly enough to stave off
disaster. When he resigned from the legislature, his greatest regret was his failure,
despite persistent efforts, to amend the state's constitution, to abolish the notorious
"Know-Nothing Amendment"--an unholy relic of 19th-century anti-Catholicism, which
prohibits any form of public assistance for students in parochial schools.
A PERSISTENT VOICE FOR LIFE
While Bulger fought his legislative battles, John Collins was enjoying an extremely
unquiet political retirement. Eschewing the role of the quiet "senior statesman," the
former mayor plunged into the political battles anew in the 1980s. In speaking
engagements and in a regular weekly appearance as a television analyst, Collins
decried the decay of American moral principles, and berated his fellow Catholics for
their failure to stop the social decay. Rather than basking in the memory of his old
triumphs, he set out on a new uphill battle, becoming one of Boston's most outspoken
critics of abortion.
When Collins embarked on his political career, nearly every significant figure within
the Democratic Party would have shared his views on abortion--and on homosexuality,
condoms, sex education, and feminism as well. But by the time of his death he had
become a lonely voice, isolated from his old political colleagues. Although he insisted
that he had never left the Democratic Party ("The leaders of the party left <me>," he
said, "with their extreme views on abortion and social engineering."), Collins worked
for the presidential campaign of the Republican Richard Nixon in 1972; in each
subsequent presidential election he endorsed the Republican candidate.
In the early years of the 20th century, Boston was a bastion of conservative social
thought. With Catholics comprising the clear majority of voters, few politicians dared
to challenge the power of the Church. Faced with a controversial proposal, nervous
legislators would ask each other, "What will they think on Lake Street"--a reference to
the address of the archdiocesan chancery and the archbishop's residence. In one famous
episode, Cardinal William O'Connell single-handedly stopped a proposal to allow
legalized gambling, by issuing a directive that no Catholic legislator could vote for the
bill. No one dared to question his authority.
WHERE HAVE THEY GONE?
The prestige of the Catholic Church was battered--in Boston as in so many other cities--
by the confusion that followed the Second Vatican Council. Mass attendance dropped,
catechetical programs became more diffuse, and theological dissent sapped the
religious vitality of Catholic schools. Meanwhile, in Massachusetts political life, the role
of the Church was irretrievably changed by extraordinary impact of the Kennedy
family.
In 1960, when John F. Kennedy told a Houston audience of fundamentalist Protestant
ministers that he would not allow his Catholic beliefs to influence his political
decisions, that speech quickly assumed the role of dogma among many of Boston's
young Catholic politicians. The prominent role of the Kennedy family in Boston society,
the charismatic successes of the Kennedy campaigns, and the conspicuous friendship
lavished on the Kennedys by Cardinal Richard Cushing all helped to underline the
impact of that Houston speech. A rising generation of Irish-Catholic politicians
consciously modeled themselves after President Kennedy, and his devout secularism
was an integral part of the style that they cultivated.
When the social upheaval of the 1970s brought issues such as abortion to the forefront,
that commitment to secularism in politics became all the more pronounced. While the
old guard of the Democratic Party quickly enlisted in the pro-life cause, younger
politicians kept their distance.
By 1980, the political power of the Catholic Church had deteriorated so badly that
when Cardinal Humberto Medeiros cautioned his flock against voting for candidates
who would support legal abortion, the <Boston Globe> unleashed a vicious assault,
charging that the cardinal had overstepped the bounds of propriety by invoking
religious considerations in a secular political contest. (No such complaints had been
aired by Cardinal Medeiros endorsed the busing of Boston's public-school students.)
Obviously shocked by the vituperative response, the prelate retreated into silence.
Catholic political influence reached its nadir in 1996. In that year's November elections,
the voters of Massachusetts faced two referendum questions: one would have cut
public funding for abortions, while the other would have repealed the infamous
"Know-Nothing Amendment." Although Catholics form an absolute majority of voters
in the Commonwealth, both proposals were roundly defeated. Exit polls confirmed that
even among voters who identified themselves as Roman Catholics, a clear majority
voted <against> the Church position.
As 1995 came to a close, Catholic politicians retained their dominance over the state's
political system. The Lieutenant Governor, the Senate President, the Speaker of the
House, the Mayor of Boston, the State Treasurer, the two US Senators--all were raised
as Roman Catholics. But with the single exception of Bill Bulger, every one of those
politicians has expressed strong public support for legal abortion.
Now the departure of the Senate President leaves "pro-choice Catholics" with a
stranglehold on the Massachusetts political system. Bill Bulger will doubtless maintain
a strong influence in public life (he jokes: "I've left instructions that I want to be buried
in St. Augustine's cemetery, because I want to stay politically active"), but he can no
longer hold his finger in the legislative dike. John Collins will no longer appear on
television to denounce the treason of secularized Catholics. The rout of the old Catholic
loyalists is complete.
THE VIEW FROM MORRISSEY BOULEVARD
In the heyday of James Michael Curley, Irish-Catholic politicians saw themselves as
crusaders, fighting to overcome the Yankee establishment. In Boston today, Irish
Catholics <are> the establishment. Earlier in the century, Irish workers earned their
wages at mills owned by Boston's old elite. Today the heads of major local banks and
corporations are disproportionately Irish--the products of parochial schools and Jesuit
colleges rather than the Ivy League. But as they have climbed up the socio-economic
ladder, Boston's Irish Catholics have cast off a great deal of their religious heritage.
Irish Catholics have won acceptance--with the important proviso that they must not
<act> like Irish Catholics.
Theoretically, conservative Catholics could find refuge in the Republican Party, and
many have explored that route. But even today, faithful Catholics are not entirely
welcome in Republican circles. In the strange political traditions of Massachusetts,
Republicans often challenge Democrats by adopting <more> liberal views on social
issues. The current governor, William Weld, is a devoted champion of homosexual
rights and unrestricted abortion; there are no pro-life activists among the local
Republican leaders.
Years ago politicians would ask, "What will they think on Lake Street?" Today they
ask, "What will they think on Morrissey Boulevard"--the home of the region's most
powerful newspaper, the <Boston Globe>. Public officials treat Church officials with
the elaborate courtesy reserved for ceremonial officials who have no practical power.
The remnant of Irish-Americans who remain faithful to their religious beliefs find
themselves thoroughly disenfranchised. In 1884, Patrick Collins disproved the notion
that a Catholic could not win an election in Boston. Could a loyal Catholic--faithful to
the teachings of the Church, and ready to advance them in public life--win an election
today? The answer is not clear.
Philip F. Lawler is editor of <Catholic World Report>.
This article appeared in the January 1996 issue of "The Catholic World Report," P.O.
Box 6718, Syracuse, NY 13217-7912, 800-825-0061. Published monthly except bimonthly
August/September at $39.95 per year.
