For me, the Daley era began in December of 1982. I was a young writer for the Chicago Reporter covering Richard M. Daley’s first mayoral campaign.
I told him I’d like to schedule an interview— photo shoot included—and he told me to talk to his press secretary.
I have a problem with the hundreds and hundreds of millions of property tax dollars intended for the poor that he showers on the rich (yes, I’m talking about tax increment financing again). And with the way he’s fired teachers while giving raises to central office bureaucrats and farmed out charter school contracts to acolytes like the United Neighborhood Organization. The way he bleeds the police department through attrition while telling us he’s adding more cops to the force. You know the story—I’ve been writing it for years.
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When I heard that the International Olympic Committee had saved us those billions by giving the games to Brazil, I happened to be driving through Hyde Park. I was so happy I started honking my horn and yelling out the window.
The residents parade before Mayor Daley like peasants before their feudal lord. They praise him for past favors and beg for new ones. I recall a woman on the northwest side a few years ago telling him that she wakes up every morning with a prayer of thanks that God has made Daley her mayor.
Late in the evening he left the table and wandered around the lobby chatting with reporters and other politicians, leaving his department heads to hear the remaining pleas from the little people.
