 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant Author's program note. This is an appreciation of a man who walked the corridors of power, specifically the ornate corridors of Massachusetts' grandiose State House designed to awe by Charles Bulfinch in 1787. He was crucial to the way our demos works... yet he never presented himself to the voters as a candidate... never was elected to any public office... never asked for, and was never given, the public's trust. Yet he was always present, always in the know, closer to some of the leading personages of the Commonwealth than their own spouses or children. He was a man who could be, had to be, totally candid, even brutally frank with these men, each (in his own mind) "The People's Choice." He knew everything from peccadilloes to state secrets; knew who was cheating on "my darling Katie whom I love more than life itself" and who never forgot (though the Great Men always did) to tip the bell hop, who knew enough to blow His Excellency out of the Corner Office, and bring in that hapless ne'er-do-well who was only put on the ticket in the first place because he was from a city no one ever wanted to visit but which the party needed for victory. He knew what his "boy" needed before his "boy" had to ask for it. Kept track of the guy to make sure he ate, didn't overeat, took his medication but never on an empty stomach. Made sure he didn't touch the sauce... and wrote the punch lines for the candidate's most celebrated speech on toilet paper during a bout of nausea and diarrhea. Exhausted he might be, but he was the one who tucked in "I give you the next Governor of the Great Bay State of Massachusetts"... and who got his sure-to-be- next Excellency out of bed. ("Dammit, he's got to stop smoking!!!"). (Note to self: "Stop at CVS and get some odor-eaters; God, what a smell.") He was at once the candidate's conscience, his 24-hour-a-day wake-up call, the hound who chided, reminded, prodded; made sure the shoes were polished and that the public never saw those infernal stogies ("yeah, they're the real Cubano"), or that His Honor the Mayor (loathed by the candidate) always got a personalized birthday card and box seat tickets to the Sox, with photographers on hand so that the voters, always the voters, knew that this worthy (who didn't know s--t from shinola) was a real booster, God Bless America. This exemplary worker goes by many names, driver, manager, executive assistant, principal private secretary, it is always the same... this person was the glue, the key, the one essential element that helped turn people you never heard of into new paragraphs in history books. Martin A. Burke III, universally known as Marty, was one of these people... and the great irony was this: the man who knew so much about so many was next door to a secret to all of them. And that's just the way he liked it. "I was born down on 'A' Street, raised up on 'B' Street" Burke was the son of John and Helen (Gurney). His mother died of cancer when he was 5. His father, who worked in the old Charlestown Navy Yard as a longshoreman, died of cancer at 50. He lived with his grandmother in Dorchester, where so many of Boston's Irish began, a place they couldn't wait to escape from, Marty included. There were many ways out... crime, the priesthood, sports, college. Despite the war then raging, slicing the Great Republic, he chose the Marines, dropping out of English High School. Nobody tried to dissuade him. It wouldn't have mattered if they had. Once his mind was made up, he was adamant. That never changed. Purple heart to Harvard Crimson. He rarely talked about it, most vets didn't, but Vietnam was his own personal Armageddon. Drinking buddies and comrades paid the highest price, alive one minute, mangled, oozing remains the next. Burke left with shrapnel wounds, a Purple Heart, and an abiding joy to be alive, determined to make each passing day the best day of his life. It was his Credo. To him, this meant higher education; his good service provided the means. And so, first, he matriculated at Columbia University in New York on the GI Bill; from there transferring to Harvard, the destination of choice for Kennedys... and Marty. Like many Harvard folks, admission to the World's Greatest (and Richest) University was like getting a seal of approval from God. Play your cards right and the world was your oyster. Just saying "I'm a Harvard grad" wafted him high and above lesser men. However, like many Harvard men before and since, he said it too often, creating animosities and needlessly hurt feelings. This too is part of the Harvard experience. Nobody told Burke, like poet Robert Frost told JFK, to be more Irish than Harvard. It would have spared a lot of grief if they had and he'd heeded the sage admonition. Master of none. Harvard, as expected, provided the laissez passer to the greatest circus on Earth -- the politics of the Great Republic. Here Marty learned the secret to success was, as Woody Allen once said, "showing up." Show up, make yourself helpful, come early, stay late, make yourself indispensable. And, above all else, stay close to the Great Man or Woman at all times. Eve Harrington did it to Margo Channing in "All About Eve." Now Marty Burke did it, carefully studying, deducing that press secretary gave him the power, glory, entree, and access he wanted. And so he put himself on the fast upward escalator of Massachusetts politics, media meister to two state attorneys general, Robert H. Quinn and Francis X. Bellotti. He then decided he was ready not merely to assist candidates.... but like Pygmalion to create them. Here fate played into his hands, in the persons of Michael Dukakis, sitting Governor of the Commonwealth, and the man Marty Burke decided should replace him, Edward J. King. Now Marty was that most heady of entities, a player... and he relished every minute of the Great Game. His self-appointed task was making his unlikely candidate papabile. This meant living, eating, sleeping with the man, overseeing all, orchestrating all, thinking all, resolving all. And he did. Governor Dukakis helped Marty out. The good citizens of Massachusetts might agree Dukakis was competent and honest, but they detested his constant condescension and assumption that he, and only he, knew what was best for everyone. And so Edward J. King (and Marty) won the 1978 Democratic primary and then the general election. Marty Burke was now certifiably the wizard he wanted to be. Enter Nemesis. It is rightly said that there is only one thing worse than failing, and that is succeeding. And so it proved with Marty and His Excellency Governor King. King had once relied on Marty. Now he had a coterie of eager, knowledgeable advisors; Marty felt pushed out, neglected, unloved. But King was only following the old adage: as soon as you have arrived, get rid of the people who helped your ascension. They are not worthy. Appointed to the backwater of the MBTA Burke felt the sting in this insight. And here he showed how much he still had to learn about people, Harvard degree or not. For instead of biding his time and making himself useful, he began to carp, criticize and ridicule his one-time student. And Edward J. King took such sentiments from no man. Marty was toxic, eased out, shouting about ingratitude, inequity, incompetence to anyone who would listen. Thus the glory days ended, forever. Now Marty Burke is dead, the man who rose high on his energy, initiative and hard work, only to fall farther from hubris, is gone. I believe I see him now as I saw him just weeks ago; sitting in the early morning sun at the Montrose Spa in Cambridge, a heap of newspapers scattered on table and pavement, a quip for everyone, just as it had been for the 40-some years I knew him... Yes, I'm sure that's him, teaching God Himself the indomitable, jaunty words of "Southie Is My Home Town" (found in any search engine). "Say they'll take you and break you, but never forsake you. In Southie, my home town"... ... and they're both smiling. Yeah, Marty will get along with the Big Guy just fine. |
