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The message from the 26th Ward
The 26th Ward was one of the seven city wards redistricted by the federal court in order to give blacks and Hispanics greater representation on the city council. It became the setting for the pivotal battle that gave Mayor Harold Washington control of the council and the opportunity to implement his own legislative package. The victory for the mayor meant defeat for his bitter foe and leader of the opposition bloc in the council, Ald. Edward Vrdolyak. It took two electoral battles in the heavily Hispanic 26th Ward to determine the winner. The March 18 special aldermanic election led to the April 29 run-off between two Hispanic candidates: Luis Gutierrez, who won with the mayor's backing, and Manuel Torres, who lost with Vrdolyak as his main sponsor. The story of the sheer intensity of this tug-of-war in the neighborhoods of the 26th Ward has barely been reported. The campaigning was a throwback to the good old days. Personal attacks and power politics — the twin P's of oldtime Chicago politics — were restored to their formerly prominent campaign roles. Only lip service was paid to meaningful issues: philosophical notions about reform and good government were relegated to the witty asides in campaign speeches: and each camp imported as many political gunslingers as possible to work the precincts. In short, the Gutierrez-Torres tussle was a down-and-dirty, bare-knuckle street brawl that would have gladdened the hearts of Chicago's legendary aldermen like "Hinky Dink" Kenna, "Bathhouse" John Coughlin and Paddy "Chicago Ain't Ready for Reform" Bauler. The campaign in the 26th Ward had an added attraction for political observers: A second language — Spanish — was used to win over the ward's huge number of Hispanic voters. It must have been like that all over the city a century ago when Italian, Polish, Jewish and other ethnic aldermanic candidates campaigned for votes among immigrant constituents. In fact, Torres' inability to speak fluent Spanish contributed to his defeat. On election eve he debated Gutierrez on Spanish television but unfortunately had to resort to English, and wound up appearing somewhat foolish. On election day 1, March 18, I drove through the ward. Located on Chicago's near northwest side, it is a community in need of repair. The rainy and overcast weather highlighted the ward's desperate need for basic services. A good chunk of the ward is dotted with graffiti-filled walls, apartment buildings and single-family homes with broken windows and garbage and debris lying uncollected in vacant lots. There are also well-kept neighborhoods and emerging gentrification at the fringes of the ward. Unlike most Chicago wards, sizable blocs of Hispanic, black and white voters live close to each other. The entire ward was alive with politicking, but it was in the large Puerto Rican neighborhoods that the sight, sound and smell of politics was most prevalent. Five to seven campaign workers stood outside each polling place, distributing literature and imploring voters to back their candidate. None had umbrellas; few wore raincoats. This was no "sissy" election. Neither side was missing a single trick: In late afternoon, children walked home from school — most schools are polling places — carrying posters of their favorite aldermanic candidate. Though it was also the day of the statewide primaries, only Gutierrez and Torres campaign materials covered the ward. Election day 2, April 29, dawned sunny and clear, but the interim between elections was a fog-filled time. After a legal and political battle 21 write-in votes were counted for Jim Blasinski, a third candidate. Guitierrez' lead was so narrow that the decision denied him a majority of the votes, forcing the run-off with Torres. It turned out that the first election had only been a political appetizer; the second was the main course, dessert and all the leftovers. Both sides upped the intensity. Each precinct had between 15 and 20 people in front of each polling place. Police cars were everywhere. Voters had to run a gauntlet to get inside the polls, and once inside it was thick with candidate watchers and official observers bumping into each other while looking for chicanery. Outside, there were signs on almost every tree and lamppost. Each camp had imported precinct workers from throughout the city, and the other aldermen, supporting Torres or Gutierrez, traversed the ward working for their man. Emotions were intense. I saw Torres on Leavitt and North avenues in front of a polling place, wearing a short-sleeve white shirt and tie, with an adoring entourage of several people that produced deafening cheers, then boos, from the neighborhood spectators and campaign workers. That day a visitor to the 26th Ward from another country, state or city would never have believed that this was only an aldermanic election. I thought it must have been like an election scene out of the 19th century, before adoption of the Australian secret ballot. In those days candidates and parties had their workers — often called sluggers — parked in front of every polling place handing out their ballot. You picked up a ballot and went inside to vote. Shrewd voters took all ballots offered and made their choices inside the polling place. When it was over, Gutierrez had defeated Torres by a solid 880-vote margin with 53 percent of the vote, carrying 29 of 44 precincts. On March 18 they had split the precincts and the vote. Key to Gutierrez' victory was a surge in votes from blacks (most evident in precinct 11) and improvement in his share of the ward's majority of voters — the Puerto Ricans. Significant vote margins shifted to Gutierrez in most heavy Hispanic precincts. Torres' main voting strength remained the same — the white ethnic enclaves scattered throughout the ward. What I will remember most about this election was its sheer emotional fervor. This election was Chicago politics at its best, or worst: all-out war. In other wards, in other times, the sound and look of voters may have been different. Today the players fighting in the precincts who formerly whistled "Garry Owen" may now be trumpeting "Deguello," but the message from the 26th is still the same: "Take no prisoners. " July 1986/Illinois Issues/43 |
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