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A Day With the Mayor

An average day doing the toughest job in Providence

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Politics is Probably Rhode Island’s favorite spectator sport, and we’ve got more than our share of armchair quarterbacks willing to call plays from the sidelines. Part of the appeal is the same as it is with actual sports: it’s easy to criticize the people on the field because we’ll most likely never wind up there. And just as in sports, the guy (or gal) in the middle of the action is going to be the easiest target for ire. in the case of municipal politics in this fine City of Providence, that’s Mayor Angel Taveras. We’ve all got our own opinion on how good or bad of a job we think he’s doing – but how many of us know what that job actually is? You can scream and yell all you want about the pensions or the unions or the taxes or the potholes, you can question his decisions or his actions or his policies, but do you honestly have any idea what the guy does when he shows up to work every day? I wanted to find out, so I tagged along with him for a day to see it firsthand.

The plan was simple: show up at the beginning of the day, go home at the end of it and take notes on what happened in between. We agreed on a random Wednesday in the middle of August because – well, we wanted it to be a day like any other. I wasn’t interested in finding out what Mayor Taveras does on his best day at work or his worst. I wasn’t looking to spend the whole night riding a snowplow with the guy until the wee hours – as he did during the first major snowstorm of his administration – or standing off to the side as he faced the television cameras to discuss a tragic shooting – as he’s had to do too often. I didn’t need to be in the war room when – surprise – he had a “category 5” financial storm dropped in his lap. I just wanted to see an average day at City Hall in all its run-of-the-mill glory. So we chose an average day – Hump Day, in fact.

This is not to say that even an average, totally normal, extreme weather-, violence- and financial meltdown-free day with the mayor of Providence is necessarily simple to arrange or an easy sell for his administration. It’s not particularly easy to get on the schedule of the chief executive of any large institution even for an hour, let alone an entire day. Beyond that, they’ve obviously got their trepidations about having a pesky journalist nosing around in their business – even one who spends more time writing about the inner machinations of restaurant kitchens than those of City Hall. it took several weeks of back and forth with Director of Communications David Ortiz to find a day that was workable for both sides, and although the administration was pretty hospitable about the whole affair, Deputy Director of Communications Liz White made it clear to me beforehand that this level of access was unprecedented for them.

Eventually, it all came together, and there I was, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the mayor’s first stop of the day, ready to get a front row seat for the action... Or so i thought.

9am: The Office of a Charitable Foundation that Shall Remain Nameless

I was originally supposed to convene with the mayor and his team at his City Hall office, but the day before, Deputy Director of Communications White told me to meet them outside Providence at the office of a rather significant charitable foundation that I ill spare the indignity of being named. I arrive slightly ahead of the mayor, and as soon as I enter the office, several people immediately take notice. I explain who I am and why I am there, and I am quickly and warmly greeted by White, who makes me feel welcome. Making me feel unwelcome, however, is a rather taciturn man from the foundation who informs me that I will not be allowed into the meeting. White protests, explaining that the mayor has given this intrusion his blessing, and I further add that my piece is simply a slice-of-life type story, not some political muckraking. No matter, this man – who, because of his obvious breeding and patrician deportment, I shall call Winston – is not to be persuaded. He informs me that they need the freedom to brainstorm, and so I will not be permitted to enter the boardroom, or even to linger in the waiting room, so as not to in any way interfere with the precise atmospheric conditions necessary for his brainstorms. He politely invites me to head downstairs to the coffee shop, despite the fact that I am visibly holding a full coffee. White and I concede defeat. She is effusively apologetic and tells me to meet her at the next stop. I pass the time until then by sitting in the parking lot and poaching a nearby store’s wireless internet so I can immediately begin work on my Pultizer-baiting exposé.

10:30am: India Point Park

Next on the day’s agenda is Storytime with the Fox Point Library and Friends of India Point Park, groups that I correctly pegged as more amenable to visitors. I arrive, again, ahead of the mayor – which is one of my first insights into the day-to-day operations of the administration. When your time is as in demand as Mayor Taveras’, punctuality is difficult. There are simply too many appointments to keep, too many conversations to be had, too many hands to shake, too many places to be to possibly keep to an exact schedule. It wouldn’t be humanly possible. Conversely, the mayor’s team is, by design, always ahead of schedule. It’s even called the advance team, usually made up of a couple of staffers, including a communications person; they’re always early, scoping out the situation, making sure everything is in its right place. It’s their job to make sure the mayor hits the ground running at every stop. It’s not particularly glamorous work: it’s a lot of waiting, checking their phones and assuring anxious parties that the mayor is on his way, he’s five minutes away, he’s just around the corner, etc. In fact, it’s such an endeavor that there are two separate teams switching off throughout the day. The one at Storytime included Meaghan McCabe, Director of Multimedia and Social Media, who, like all social media people, is constantly taking pictures. (instagram never sleeps.)

By the time the mayor arrives, about a half-dozen families have gathered on blankets in the shade of a tree. it’s mostly women who appear to be in their mid-to late-30s and children five or under – save for the lone dad who sports a t-shirt that reads “Hatchet Army.” I momentarily wonder if he’s someone we should be concerned about, but he strikes me as a guy who knows his way around the heirloom tomatoes at Whole Foods, so I figure he’s probably okay. The mayor arrives and immediately strides over to the group, unhesitatingly removing his suit jacket and taking a seat on the organizer’s blanket. He’s brought books for everyone – more on that in just a moment – but instead chooses to read the book the parents have selected for him, Bark, George, the story of a confused dog who makes every animal sound except the one doggies are supposed to make. To his credit, Taveras gives them a pretty spirited rendition, though the kids, most of whom are too young to even know what a mayor is, let alone be excited about his presence, listen with varying degrees of interest. There is one cute little blonde girl who is so riveted by George’s tale that her mother has to remind her more than once to stop pulling her dress up over her head. The parents are, of course, delighted by the mayor’s presence. After the book is finished, he spends a few minutes chatting with the kids, asking them about their favorite animals, before presenting each one with a copy of his own children’s book, How to Do Well in School, which, as you might imagine coming from the “Head Start to Harvard” mayor, is just about the most adorable thing ever. He asks the kids to promise that they’ll have their parents read it to them. Then, just as quickly as he arrived, the mayor is whisked back into his black SUV (do these guys ever ride in anything else?) and off to City Hall – but not before he presents me with my very own copy of How to Do Well in School. I promise him that I’ll have my mom read it to me.

1:15pm: Central Falls High School

We reconvene for a press conference in the Central Falls High School library after some of what the mayor’s people uniformly refer to as “catch-up time” at City Hall - apparently the mundane hours he spends at his desk making phone calls, returning emails and watching funny cat videos. (i’m speculating about that last one.) The occasion is a press conference to launch Cox Communications’ Connect2Compete initiative, which aims to bridge the digital divide between lower and upper income students by providing discounted computers and internet service. The place is packed – and hot. The library is not air conditioned and the fans had to be turned off so that we could hear the assembled speakers. And what an assembly it was. About 150 people gathered, including students, teachers, parents and, of course, media. Central Falls Mayor James Diossa, Pawtucket Mayor Donald Grebien and Governor Chafee have already taken their places by the podium before Mayor Taveras arrives. When he does, he’s addressed – perhaps in a testament to his personal stature, or the stature of his office, or both – simply as “Mayor,” despite the fact that we are not in his city and the mayor of our host city is indeed there. With Mayor Taveras seated among the luminaries, the proceedings begin, with a procession of speakers paying heed to the importance of internet connectivity to a child’s education and the good this program will do. On his way out the mayor stops to greet some passing children on bikes, giving them a bit of good natured scolding for not wearing helmets. Angel Taveras is a stickler for bike helmets. I can attest to that, having been the previous recipient of just such a scolding. And speaking of bike safety...

3pm: Roger Williams Homes

Jayleen Martinez is a five-year-old girl who lives with her mom in public housing on Prairie Avenue in South Providence, and she loves the mayor. I mean adores him. And he adores her too. Their mutual affection is so genuine, in fact, that at a recent City-sponsored bike event, she had no reservations about asking him to get her a bike because she’s never had one. Of course, at such a tender young age, she doesn’t understand the realities of things like this. The mayor of a major American city isn’t going to just bring you a bike because you asked him for one – except for the fact that we are gathered in the parking lot of the Roger Williams Homes precisely so Mayor Taveras can do just that. For real. He was so moved by the request that he worked with the Olneyville nonprofit Recycle-a-Bike to get Jayleen a pretty sweet little trek, which is awaiting delivery in the back of the advance team’s SUV.

Meanwhile, Providence Monthly photographer James Jones and I wait in the parking lot, speculating as to whether they intentionally arranged this photo op for the day we were going to be there. James harasses the mayor’s people a bit about the environmental impact of leaving their SUV idling so they can enjoy the A/C while they wait, but I imagine that when most of your workday is spent waiting in cars in an indistinguishable series of parking lots, air conditioning is more necessity than luxury.

The mayor arrives, and it’s time for Jayleen’s big moment. Her mother knows we arecoming and why, but Jayleen doesn’t suspect a thing. When she’s finally alerted to Taveras’ presence, she’s out the door like a flash and running towards him screaming, “The mayor! The mayor! The mayor!” She jumps into his arms and hugs him. He presents her with the bike and suddenly she falls silent. The mayor takes her aside and they chat privately in Spanish for a couple of minutes – presumably about bike safety, because before long the mayor is bringing out a helmet and diligently showing her how to wear it. She hops on the bike and he helps her tool around the parking lot a bit. It’s a little too big for her – perfect, considering her age and growth rate – but it’s evident that she’s going to need a pair of training wheels. The mayor makes a note for his team to get those and bring them back. He helps Jayleen and her mother bring the bike back in the house. Before we leave, Jayleen asks, with the kind of honesty and bluntness that only children can muster, “You’re going to get those training wheels, right?”

4:30pm City Hall

James and I head to City hall for our final stop of the day. Outside, dozens of citizens and neighbors have already begun taking seats and numbers for “My Time with the Mayor,” a monthly opportunity for the general public to gain a ten-minute audience on any topic of their choosing with their elected official on a first-come, first-served basis. But first, he has some last minute “catching up” to do. Seated at his desk with white, McCabe and a couple of other staffers, the mayor records the voiceover for his weekly video, this one about a back-to-school backpack distribution program, and signs off on a letter to all returning Providence Public School teachers about the $25 Walgreen’s gift card he was able to secure for each of them to buy a few classroom supplies of their choosing. James even has time to shoot a nice portrait of the mayor before we turn him over to his constituents. At 5:05, they begin filing in for their face time.

This is when the real work begins. Despite the relatively low stakes of the rest of the day’s proceedings – and this writer’s snarky commentary about them – this is real public service in action. Just at the time that most of us are checking out for the day with thoughts of heading home for dinner, maybe hitting the bar or the gym, Mayor Taveras is settling in for at least two more hours (“My time with the Mayor” is scheduled for 5-7pm, but his staff assures me it will probably run longer) of real, not-staged-for-a-photo-op, face-to-face interaction with the people for whom he works. they’ve got real life problems and they want his help.

First up are a middle-aged mother and her teenaged daughter. As each visitor is brought in, a member of the mayor’s staff hands him a sheet of paper with a brief summary of the topic to be discussed. The three chat in Spanish, and I can tell by the hushed, serious tones that these folks aren’t here to complain about a pothole. Two staff members take notes. After speaking for roughly five minutes, they wrap things up. the mayor asks the young girl, in english, about her grades. “i’m an honor student,” she dutifully replies. They are ushered out and the mayor is given a brief pause before the next constituent is brought in.

With this short break in the action, the mayor does something surprising. All day I had basically been a fly on the wall. The mayor and I exchanged brief pleasantries throughout the various stops along the way, but I was here to watch, not interview, and we haven’t had any substantive conversation. But in this moment, knowing that I don’t speak Spanish, the mayor looks to me in the corner and explains what was discussed in an informative, professorial manner. He genuinely seems more concerned with making sure I don’t feel left out because of the language barrier than with trying to play up the story for the journalist in the room. In this case, the woman is sending her promising young daughter to a private school and struggling with the tuition. The mayor agreed to talk with the financial aid officer at the girl’s school to see if he could help, and to put her in touch with some private institutions that may be able to offer some assistance. No pie in the sky promises, no guarantees, just a simple, honest offer to see what he could do. His staff takes notes for follow-up.

What follows is a seemingly endless procession of citizens in varying degrees of need: A woman being evicted from her house who is also dealing with a medical issue that was bungled by her lawyer – the mayor tells his staff to refer her to Legal Services. A man attempts to explain, in mumbled Spanish, his disabled wife’s predicaments. Neither the mayor nor his staff can seem to make heads or tails of what the man is saying, so they agree to send someone out to the man’s Broad Street home to see his wife directly. On his way out, the man informs the mayor that he heard him on Latino public radio, prompting him to show up for “My time.” “You’re younger than i thought,” he adds. two well-dressed fraternity brothers who want to host a charity 5k at Roger Williams Park. An easy one this time – the mayor gives them his blessing and refers them to his Director of Community relations for further assistance. next up, a woman who is seeking employment (“we get a lot of these,” the mayor informs me with some degree of resignation) after applying for a series of municipal jobs and getting nowhere. “I was wondering if you could lead me on the right path, because I’m getting really nowhere at this point,” she beseeches. The mayor patiently explains about staff cutbacks and the union seniority process that governs many of these positions, but he offers to do some follow-up work on her behalf – again, no lofty assurances. “I’d rather under-promise and over-deliver, because it’s very difficult right now,” he says. She seems satisfied. Another woman enters with her young son. “this is the mayor’s office,” she informs him with what seems like legitimate awe. She asks that their conversation be completely off the record, but suffice to say her family’s troubles go far beyond anything that the mayor or any elected official could ever hope to fix. Nonetheless he is reassuring, empathetic and attentive. He promises to check into the few minor details of her story over which he actually holds some sway, but more than anything, she seems grateful and relieved just to have found an audience with someone in power. Like she knows that he can’t really do anything, but that simple validation is just enough to get her through another day. And the same goes for most of the people who showed up: there is only so much the mayor – or any elected official – could do to solve their problems, and he is realistic about what he can offer, but just having the chance to be heard by someone in his position makes them feel like there is at least a chance. That’s real work – the people’s work that he was sent there to do.

I finally leave around 7pm, just about ten hours after our day began. The next day, there is an email from Liz White waiting in my inbox: “My time with the Mayor” finally ended around 9:30pm, after 37 concerned citizens were afforded the opportunity to make their voices heard. That’s a day that anyone, in any profession, could reasonably call grueling – but it’s just another day for the mayor and his tireless staff. (Let’s not forget that they put in as many hours as he does, with only a fraction of the glory [and stress].) We can all debate what kind of a job Mayor Taveras is doing – it’s our right as participants in this great democratic experiment – but one thing we can all agree on is that it’s a damn tough job.

mayor of providence, mayor, providence, ri politics, angel taveras, providence monthly

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