A FEW YEARS ago during a routine physical exam, Clifford Kelley's doctor told him that he was a very fortunate man. Under extreme emotional pressure, Kelley's blood pressure tends to go down, not up — a rare phenomenon and a decidedly useful asset for someone who is frequently in a state of tension. When tempers flare, accusations fly, and the walls are closing in, he is someone who tends to remain calm and self-possessed — more calm and self-possessed, in fact, than he would be in relaxed surroundings.

There is no way to tell whether this is a true biological mutation, a permanent characteristic the man would pass on to his children, or only a quirk in his physiological makeup. But it is something which helps explain why Clifford Kelley, alderman of Chicago's 20th Ward, is one of the better debaters in the City Council and an articulate presence before microphones and television cameras. He is heard, seen and quoted often these days as Chicago bounces along from crisis to crisis, and he is, more often than not, openly critical of chuckleheaded officials and harebrained decisions. His style is nonhysterical. In addition, he seems to possess unlimited confidence in his judgments, as if he were the anointed spokesman for a vast and powerful organization. Yet Kelley is neither an official representative of the Chicago Democratic organization nor the standard-bearer of the independent movement in the city. He is somewhere in between. And during his nine years in office, he has managed to carve out so wide and deep a niche that the old pros fear he may represent a political mutation. Old style Democratic politicians are not prepared to deal with a whole generation of Clifford Kelleys.

He walks through the corridors of City Hall like he owned the place, smiling broadly when he is greeted, extending a hand to an acquaintance, pausing a moment to exchange a private jest with a clerk or secretary. Wherever he goes, he is noticed. The round face with the neatly trimmed Fu Manchu moustache, the high forehead, the jet black hair, all set off by the immaculate, fashionably tailored three-piece suit mark him as a leader, an achiever, a member of the mandarin class. In that respect he does not differ significantly from other black politicians who have preceded him in these halls, men like William Dawson, Claude Holman and Kenneth Campbell. They too projected self-confidence and favored elegant attire -outward guises which contrasted markedly with the poverty-stricken wards they represented and their own unwillingness to challenge the discriminatory social or political structure of the city.

Like them, Kelley also represents a hard-pressed slice of black southside Chicago which includes Washington

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Park and part of Englewood. But the similarity ends there. When it comes to mounting challenges, Kelley is different.

Kelley's aldermanic office is near the end of a narrow hall in the recesses of the fifth floor in City Hall, and it is some distance from the mayor's suite. It is small and the desk is crowded with reports, memos and correspondence. He glances at a letter, loosens his tie and starts talking about the latest series of skirmishes.

"Some we win and some we lose," he says. "And even when I win, there's not a lot to show. Take the Chicago Commission on Human Relations. She was determined to bury it, so I brought a whole battery of witnesses to the budget hearings, and the commission was finally saved. But its funds were still cut by about 75 percent, and the staff went from 48 to 11. Besides that, she appointed her own director, an elderly woman who's out of it. It's a crazy situation."

The "she" who is a regular pronoun in his vocabulary is for Mayor Jane Byrne with whom Kelley has been feuding almost from the day of her election. He has criticized her for failing to carry through on campaign promises about opening up the neighborhoods and appointing blacks to top positions. The human relations commission, which once did admirable work in relieving neighborhood racial tensions and was considered a national model for such organizations, was slated by Byrne for the junk heap until Kelley raised a sufficient ruckus in the council.

When pressed to talk about Byrne, Kelley can rise to rhetorical heights. "I would like to see politics separated from government," he says, "but she has done more to politicize city departments than any other mayor, and she's done it more abhorrently than it was ever done before. She's incredible, unbelievable."

Then he pauses. "But you know, in the long run, she may be one of the best things ever to happen to Chicago. She's making people realize we've got to find better candidates, qualified candidates for a change."

Byrne, for her part, has managed to hit Kelley where it hurts on several occasions. She recently claimed in an "exclusive" story to the Chicago Sun-Times that former acting police Supt. Joseph DiLeonardi begged her last summer to allow him to investigate personally the murder of a 21-year-old cocktail waitress who was an acquaintance of Kelley's. According to Byrne, DiLeonardi said, "I can get that guy [Kelley] on Murder One," but she refused to become involved. Kelley, who is seeking a grand jury investigation, charged that Byrne has it the wrong way around: that it was she who pressed the matter with DiLeonardi in the hopes of nailing Kelley once and for all.

The phone rings, and he engages in a lively conversation with one of his aides. "No, no," he says finally, "don't tell them I'm an independent. I'm not an independent. I'm a regular Democrat. Make that very clear!"

Clifford Kelley was born 39 years ago on Chicago's south side and still lives with his parents in the same building near 57th and Indiana — where he was raised. He has never married, although rumors of his marital intentions circulate regularly through the black community, and then vanish just as regularly. His father, a retired career post office worker, and his mother, once a probation officer, provided Clifford and his only brother with a strong incentive to get ahead in this world.

'Don't tell them I'm an independent. I'm not an independent. I'm a regular Democrat. make that very clear'

After Englewood High School, Kelley was graduated from Roosevelt University with a degree in political science and then earned a law degree from John Marshall Law School in Chicago. While working as a hearing officer for the Illinois Secretary of State's Office in Chicago, he approached veteran 20th Ward Ald. Kenneth Campbell and discussed his concerns about deterioration in Washington Park, including sloppy city services and a growing gang problem. Campbell was so impressed with Kelley's interest that he appointed the fledgling lawyer as president of his 20th Ward Young Democrats Organization before Kelley had ever attended a single meeting.

Kelley soon became involved with the Young Democrats of Illinois. He was secretary in 1966, first vice president in 1968, and was elected the organizations's first and only black president in 1970. Meanwhile, Campbell slated Kelley as a delegate to the Illinois Constitutional Convention from his southside district, and Kelley was elected.

His experience with the Young Democrats and Con-Con made a profound impression on Kelley. He felt both groups showed democracy working at its best. They were structured to provide beginners with opportunities to learn the ropes; they encouraged a degree of innovation and independent judgment in the membership; they stimulated healthy debate; and both demonstrated what could be done through the creation and management of effective power blocs. At Con-Con there were only 13 blacks among the 116 delegates, but they were able to function on occasion as a successful black caucus. Although certain matters were sacrosanct "party issues" for the Chicago Democrats at Con-Con, Kelley found that delegates were free to vote their conscience on almost everything else.

Kelley emerged as an eager and somewhat idealistic regular Democrat; but, more significantly, he was convinced that the orthodox democratic political system could work, not just for the few at the top, but for the common people. He was ready for the real world.

In 1971 he got the chance. Campbell, running for reelection, was seriously ill. With doubts that he would live until election day, Campbell asked his protege, Kelley, to run too so that the Campbell organization might be preserved whatever happened. The veteran politician died before the election, and the party faithful were instructed to vote for the 30-year-old, largely unknown heir apparent, Clifford Kelley.

Moving from the rarefied atmosphere of Con-Con to the Chicago City Council was a shock and a bitter disillusionment. The stimulating give-and-take was missing. Freshmen aldermen,

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'More than any other machine alderman, Kelley has been willing to risk his party position by organizing votes for the public interest and against machine doctrine . . .'

Kelley discovered, were not instructed in the workings of the council and its committees; they were expected to sit down, shut up and do what everyone else was doing. Kelley, who had learned from junior politics about following party leaders on selected critical matters, found that in the big leagues everything was a "party issue." Council members were supposed to follow the cue of the first member polled on each and every ordinance or resolution. No explanations were given, and deviations were regarded as inexcusable, especially in a young alderman with party ambition.

Kelley went to Claude Holman, the dapper and frequently sarcastic president pro tem of the council, and asked about the feasibility of forming a black caucus. Holman told him in no uncertain terms that it was a bad idea, that Mayor Daley would not abide it, and that he [Holman] would personally see to it that no such caucus would ever see the light of day. The only black council member who gave Kelley any advice on procedures was Fred Hubbard, the 1st Ward alderman who was soon after to disappear along with $95,000 in federal poverty funds.

Yet Kelley's disillusionment was not total. Despite its peculiar limitations, things got done in the council, benefits were distributed, and the public got a measure of genuine service. He wondered if it were possible to represent both the best interests of the party and the real needs of the people and still survive. He has been doing a juggling act ever since.

"I'm not anti-machine," he says. "In fact, the word machine is usually used by outsiders to describe an organization that's working efficiently. The solution isn't to destroy the machine, the solution is to make it work for us. You know, it's funny because it has worked for every other ethnic group in the city. Now that blacks are trying to get somewhere, everybody wants to break up the machine."

He looks through a folder which contains the texts of some City Council resolutions he has been working on, as he tries to dispel his lingering image as a maverick. "It's true I'm for change," he says, "because right now, the thing is run like a closed corporation, because minorities aren't getting their share, because policy is always dictated from on high. But changes can come from within. You don't have to be an independent, screaming and hollering all the time. I'm convinced of that even after all these years."

Daley, he says, was an excellent administrator whose skills prevented the public from seeing the evils of his top-heavy philosophy. Byrne, as Kelley views her, is trying to follow the same policy, but with disastrous results because she lacks the late mayor's special skills. Kelley chuckles somewhat maliciously at Mayor Byrne's unending series of crises, many of which he sees as self-inflicted and well-deserved.

"I'm never reluctant to speak my mind," he says. I honestly feel better when I'm in a controversy, and I enjoy good debate. Maybe that's why I'm staying in politics."

Kelley's record as an elected city official is not easily categorized. During his nine years, he has maintained fairly peaceable relations with the Democratic organization downtown and the local 20th Ward Democratic outpost headed by Committeeman Cecil Partee. Kelley was slated for reelection in 1975 and again in 1979, and won by overwhelming majorities. His early record on the council shows that he usually voted with the regulars and was not given to squabbling on the council floor, but there were exceptions -even during his first term. Kelley started deviating a bit from strict fidelity, and the deviation has increased dramatically in the past year.

In 1972 he led the other black aldermen in opposing a routine request by the Lake Shore Athletic Club for permission to put up an outdoor canopy. The real issue was the club's history of discrimination against blacks and Jews. The unexpected protest was widely reported in the media, mainly because the club's membership included Mayor Daley and Fire Commissioner Robert Quinn. Later that same year, Kelley was prominently involved in U.S. Rep, Ralph Metcalfe's campaign against police brutality. In a vigorous but shortlived fracas, Metcalfe charged that Daley was himself a racist and broke with Daley. When Partee took Kelley aside in the midst of the storm and ordered him to disassociate himself from the renegade congressman, Kelley flatly refused and became a member of Metcalfe's coordinating committee.

The next year, Kelley got into a hotter issue when he introduced a resolution barring discrimination against homosexuals. Daley was horrified at the mention of the word, and the proposal was sent to a committee where it still remains although Kelley seizes every opportunity to keep it alive. It came close to going to the full council for a vote last June, but Kelley withdrew the resolution at the last minute when anti-gay demonstrators flooded the council chambers. He laughs off as irrelevant and stupid the occasional accusations that he is a closet homosexual.

By 1974 the public began to notice the suave young black alderman. He was even cited by Leon Despres, the dean of the independents, as one of "five City Council good guys." In a

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Chicago magazine article, Despres said, "More than any other machine alderman, Kelley has been willing to risk his party position by organizing votes for the public interest and against machine doctrine . . . ."

The list of items introduced to the council by Kelley has been growing ever since. They include proposed ordinances for an elected school board, a city residency requirement for all public school personnel, a mandate to the school board to develop an effective integration plan, a plan for the consolidation of the Chicago Park District with the rest of city government, and an investigation of racial bias by the organizers of Chicagofest. Many of his original proposals have been passed into law by the council, although machine lackeys now tend to be suspicious of anything with his name on it.

Approved recently was his call for a probe of the company which charged the city $270,000 for maintaining parking meters during the great snow of 1979 (when maintenance was impossible). Also passed was his resolution making it a criminal offense to play loud radios and cassette apparatuses on public conveyances. This last proposal, of course, is just the sort of thing that contradicts the man's image as a civil libertarian and do-gooder. It confuses the pros who are trying to figure him out.

Kelley's current prominence, however, is related to his stinging attacks on the Chicago Board of Education and his fierce opposition to school Supt. Joseph Hannon. From the time Hannon took charge in 1975, Kelley established himself as his major critic and goad. While the Chicago media, city officials and business leaders were gushing about Hannon's commitment and flare, Kelley was blasting his overrated, essentially cosmetic student integration plan called Access to Excellence. When the federal and state governments began issuing warnings about Chicago's integration short-comings, Kelley, a member of the City Council's education committee, stepped up the pressure and demanded that Hannon appear before the committee to render an accounting. Hannon refused at first and finally submitted only after he was subpoenaed.

The controversy came to an unexpected climax when Hannon stepped down in November. The reason wasn't integration, however, but economics. Because of an accumulated debt of some $500 million along with a number of other fiscal irregularities, the board of education was unable to sell short-term notes, and the school system teetered on the edge of instant bankruptcy. Hannon's departure at that moment from the badly listing ship angered the public and seemed to justify Kelley's record of opposition. Kelley introduced a resolution in the City Council praising the former superintendent for "the first intelligent decision" of his career (it was tabled), and Kelley has since assumed a kind of unofficial leadership position in the council on school matters. His views on the subject reflect his deviation from orthodoxy.

'I don't want to end up as a frustrated, burned-out liberal .... Right now, my options are open for whatever comes along'

"I've given this a lot of thought," he says, "and I think I know why the quality of our public education is so poor and why the board doesn't worry about that or even discuss it. The system really exists for reasons which have nothing to do with education — to provide low cost property for fat cats like First Federal Savings and Inland Steel [which rent board-owned downtown land], to support all the contractors and labor unions which are living off the schools, to prop up the incompetent principals and other useless administrators with meaningless desk jobs. It shouldn't be any surprise that only 42 percent of the system's 48,000 employees actually teach and that money and contracts are all they ever argue about at board meetings. Education of children is not a priority with this school system. And when the system gets in financial trouble, they call in business experts from First Federal and Inland to provide advice, which is a little like asking the foxes to redesign the chicken coop!"

As he talks, Kelley laughs often at the incongruities, and he pauses occasionally to interject a joke or consider the possibilities of some awful pun. But it is clear he doesn't find the overall condition of Chicago education — or the Chicago political organization — particularly funny.

Some southside organizations have suggested him as a possible mayoral candidate for 1983, and the Chicago Defender recently praised him editorially as the kind of leader the black community and the city need today. And somehow he still maintains a working relationship with Partee and other party leaders. Kelley takes all that in and smiles. "I don't want to end up as a frustrated, burned-out liberal," he says. "But when you make an impact and you're recognized for it, there's a tremendous lift. Right now, my options are open for whatever comes along."

When he's not engrossed in City Hall affairs, Kelley is usually participating in one of the community or cultural associations with which he is connected, ranging from the Lyric Opera Association to the Woodlawn Boys' Club. Or he might be pursuing his first love: international relations. He serves on the executive committee of the American Council of Young Political Leaders, an organization seeking to find and develop talent and bring youthful American leaders into contact with their counterparts in foreign countries. In this connection, he travels frequently, and he subscribes to a fascinating menagerie of diverse publications including the New Republic, Soldier of Fortune, Soviet Life and Gay Life.

"I believe a new style of political leader is emerging, not just in the U.S., but all over the globe," he says, "people whose commitments go beyond party labels and self-interest, but who can still work within established political systems. I'd like to have a hand in developing that sort of thing."

He doesn't profess to know all the characteristics of this new breed. But it would certainly help if their blood pressure went down in times of tension and stress.

Robert J. McClory is on the staff of the National Catholic Reporter and has written extensively for other publications. He is the author of The Man Who Beat Clout City.

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