http://www.miaminewtimes.com/Issues/2005-05-26/news/kulchur.html

 

>From miaminewtimes.com
Originally published by Miami New Times 2005-05-26
©2005 New Times, Inc. All rights reserved.

The D Word
Say anything you want, but just don't call them Democrats
By Brett Sokol




Photos by Steve Satterwhite



 

Steve Satterwhite



Alex Penelas and Manny Diaz: When their party comes calling, ethnic politics
trumps all 


 

It's hard to imagine another major city in America with as many closeted
politicians as Miami. No, not closeted about being gay -- in the closet
about being Democrats. Whatever shortcomings Alex Penelas may have had as
county mayor (and as a Democrat), he had few qualms about making county hall
a comfortable workplace for openly gay staffers, spinmeisters, and of course
lobbyists. 

Likewise Miami Mayor Manny Diaz. While his 2001 election opponent Maurice
Ferré hemmed and hawed, speaking out of both sides of his mouth about the
county's gay rights ordinance -- yea to audiences of liberal Anglos, nay to
audiences of conservative Cubans -- Diaz simply declared the entire subject
a nonissue. He matter-of-factly announced his support for the law, as well
as for repealing the ban on allowing gay couples to adopt foster children.
And then he sent his younger, forthrightly gay brother Jorge -- a SAVE Dade
veteran -- to canvass in the same Little Havana neighborhoods whose
presumably delicate sensibilities Ferré had seemed so terrified of
offending. 

Yet just try asking Diaz to declare his fidelity to the Democratic Party and
it's back to The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name. A lifelong Democrat who
switched his voter registration to "unaffiliated" shortly before his mayoral
bid, Diaz may have long-standing ties to -- and been a generous fundraiser
for -- such well-known Democratic figures as Rep. Kendrick Meek and U.S.
Senator Bill Nelson, but don't even think of nailing down Diaz's identity in
front of an open microphone. In fact the only guessing game that excites
local gossips more than Diaz's designs on a statewide office is under which
party's banner he'll make that leap. 

Alex Penelas too spent much of his public career as a Democrat in name,
raising funds for the party's candidates and shaking the requisite hands.
But when partisan passions heated up during the 2000 presidential race and
subsequent recount, he went AWOL, leading Al Gore to brand him "the single
most treacherous and dishonest person I dealt with during the campaign
anywhere in America." 

Even Miami Beach's Democratic Mayor David Dermer -- presiding over a burg
the Democratic National Committee (DNC) deemed friendly enough to host
Gore's massive Election Eve rally -- keeps his party membership card tucked
firmly out of sight. Last year Dermer was quick to trumpet his support for
turning the Beach's city hall into a national registry for gay and lesbian
couples. And he championed an anti-discrimination measure for transsexuals.
But when John Kerry rolled into town, Dermer made sure every local reporter
knew he was stumping for George W. Bush, coyly hinting that his stalwart
support would be rewarded with a job in the Bush administration come 2005. 

You hardly need to be an expert in backroom politicking to understand this
odd phenomenon. Just listen to Penelas's wife Lilliam, a Republican who
crossed the line only to vote for her husband. "Democrats are viewed as
Fidel Castro commie lovers," she quipped to the Herald last summer, and,
syntax aside, that does indeed sum up the opinion of much of the Cuban-exile
community, which sees a history of Democratic perfidy stretching from Elian
Gonzalez on back to the Kennedy White House. And with el exilio remaining a
decisive voting bloc in local elections, it's a legacy most aspiring pols
choose to steer clear of. 

Jimmy Morales, the new Miami-Dade Democratic Party chairman, doesn't
disagree with this assessment. But he argues that it needs to be dealt with
if his party is ever going to re-establish itself as a serious force in
wresting Florida out of the red-state column. He credits the ineffectiveness
of the local party as one of the key factors in his own failed mayoral quest
this past November. 

"I grew up in the shadow of Dante Fascell, Claude Pepper, Lawton Chiles, and
Ruben Askew," Morales explains, intoning the names of Florida's deceased
Democratic heavyweights. "Now there's no more shadow. I think of myself as
someone who has a lot to offer -- but now, without a strong party, even if I
run a perfect campaign, I can't win." So feel free to label his motives in
resuscitating the party as self-interested, he continues, even as downright
selfish: "I want to be part of making it possible for folks like myself to
bring that good old Democratic policy back to bear in Tallahassee and
Washington." 

The first step, he says, is focusing on younger Cuban Americans, the
much-cited Generación ñ. "I'm not going to convince most Cuban Americans who
are over the age of 50 to switch their votes. They're set in their ways,"
Morales concedes. "But there's a lot of younger Cuban Americans coming up.
They're fair game. They don't hate Democrats because of John F. Kennedy and
the Bay of Pigs. They're interested in economic issues." 

Yet while this past presidential election season was filled with pundits
opining on a looming divide between older exiles and more recent arrivals
from the island, with the Cuban embargo serving as a wedge issue, Morales
sees this approach as a dead end. He contends that groups such as the New
Democratic Network, which poured millions into ads attempting to foment such
a split, did little more than flush away money, as borne out by the results
November 2. 

"You don't talk to these younger people about foreign policy," Morales
groans with a dismissive shake of his head. "Supporting the embargo may not
be a huge issue for them, but out of respect for their grandparents and
parents, they aren't necessarily going to support a change." 

Morales himself, born to a Cuban-exile mother, offers proof of that view.
Asked for his opinion about the 45-year-old embargo, he freely calls it a
"failed policy" with no hope of toppling Castro. But in the same breath he
insists it be kept in place: "Why reward Castro? Ending a trade embargo
hasn't changed things in Vietnam. It hasn't changed things in China."
Moreover, for as much as he wants to visit Cuba, he says: "I won't. It would
break my mother's heart. " Perhaps sensing Kulchur's surprise at his
emotional response, he quickly adds, "And I don't want to reward that regime
by giving them my hard currency." 

There's room in Miami-Dade's Democratic Party for pro- and anti-embargo
adherents alike, he says, with Howard Dean's call for a return to party
fundamentals as the uniter. "When I was a county commissioner, I represented
a district that was half Republican, including lots of Cuban Americans and
much of Little Havana," he notes, referring to his 1996-2004 tenure on the
dais. "Those people were the first ones to want Section 8 vouchers for
public housing, food stamps, job training programs -- all these Democratic
öGreat Society' programs that Republicans are cutting. No one ever makes the
connection to them. People would call me up and say, öWhy don't we have that
bus service any more for the senior center?' Tallahassee cut the money.
öWell, do something about it!'" 

Morales pauses before repeating his curt reply to that angry constituent:
"Why don't you call your Republican state representative you love so much
and ask him why he cut the money?" He concludes with a sigh: "That's the
disconnect, and that's the message we have to bring." 

Not that Morales isn't grudgingly appreciative of the Miami-Dade
Republicans' playbook: "They've seen how important it is to build a bench.
Look at Marco Rubio, the incoming state house chair -- he started as a city
councilman. [State Rep.] Julio Robaino was a city mayor; [state Rep.] Ralph
Arza was a community councilman." 

But it's the GOP's prowess at fundraising he really admires, and here he
once again invokes the wisdom of DNC chair Howard Dean as an example of how
a legion of small donors writing checks for $25 can be just as effective as
a handful of big-money donors. The comparison seems more than apt. After
all, both Dean and Morales were previously considered far too liberal to be
Democratic standard-bearers. Now, despite spectacular flameouts at the
polls, both are literally the face of their party. Accordingly, having
turned conventional wisdom on its head, both men are inspiring fresh
speculation about their ambitions. For his part, Morales says he won't
consider another race until after he has shepherded his party chapter
through the 2006 elections. 

He's willing to muse though, telling Kulchur that "the state attorney
general race would be a fascinating way for me to make a difference." Asked
how he'd like to be addressed in a decade's time, Morales flashes a wide
smile: "Ten years from now, in 2015? I'd love to have you call me Senator." 

However at least one of Morales's admirers wishes he'd take his own advice
on building a bench. "Leading the Miami-Dade Democratic Party will test
Jimmy's patience; it would test any rational person's patience," scoffs
Derek Newton, a Democratic political consultant who served as Morales's
mayoral campaign manager. "If you put a hundred of these activists in one
room, you'll hear a hundred different reasons for their being there -- and
only five of those people are serious about winning elections." 

Newton feels that Morales belongs in Tallahassee, achieving concrete goals.
"Jimmy has passed up being the Democratic Party state chair; he's passed up
being the nominee for state attorney general or chief financial officer," he
says. "He may even have taken himself out of the running to be a lieutenant
governor pick. These are huge political sacrifices to do something that I
believe is largely unrewarding." 

Still another local party strategist believes Morales is following his own
timeline, and recalls a recent party meeting: "I was sitting right there
when people were discussing how to get Alec Baldwin to come down for a
fundraiser. Now, Jimmy can get Alec Baldwin on a plane with one phone call.
But he didn't say a word. He's conserving his strength." 

 



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