An irreverent Congressman led me to a holy man

From ‘Animal House’ to the Dalai Lama, Bill Delahunt was our Representative

Our man in Washington, Bill Delahunt, rumbled off the plane and into a cab bound for his office on Capitol Hill. He dumped some papers, made sure his staff was holding down the fort (or at least made gestures), then invited me on a trek to his nearby apartment.

“I’m not sure I want you to write about this part,” he said, giving me an elbow, white hair rumpled, face florid (we did have a drink on the flight), eyes amused in a hang-dog way. “But I’ll leave it up to you.” 

That was as far off-the-record as he ever went with me, beginning as a district attorney through his years as our Congressman, 1997 to 2011.

We tromped up a few steps and he banged open the door. My first impression was undergraduate housing, disheveled, male. A bed was set up at the front of the living room by the windows facing the street, sheets and blanket askew, pillow wadded up. A TV was blaring the evening news upstairs.

“Durbin!” Bill yelled. “How you doing?”

The United States Senator from Illinois, Dick Durbin, aka roomie, shouted down from his bedroom. “Good, all’s good.”

The other roommate was out, that would be the United States Senator from New York, Chuck Schumer (now Majority Leader), so we had the first floor to ourselves. As I remember there were only two bedrooms upstairs, and Schumer had the other one – maybe Senators got dibs? – so Bill slept in the living room. At some point another California Democrat joined as well.

Just for grins I opened the refrigerator to see what these guys might be eating; nothing in there but a container of orange juice, some vodka in the freezer.

“Let’s get something to eat,” he said, mistaking curiosity for hunger. Then again, that probably was as much time as he typically spent at his “pad,” which D.C. journalists discovered and came to call “Animal House.”

Delahunt had a penchant for being in the thick of things, not with a fateful Forrest Gump naivite but more instinctive, luck of the Irish he might say. He won his first Congressional election based on a “hanging chad” recount that went all the way to the state Supreme Court, presaging Gore-Bush. On the Judiciary Committee he became part of the Clinton impeachment, delivering passionate arguments against. He instigated a small group of Congressmen to make late-night condemnations of the war in Iraq, night after night, until they became anticipated C-Span events long before things went viral. He got to know Hugo Chavez from Venezuela, met Fidel Castro, laughed off charges that by mingling or negotiating with these Communists he was betraying his oath.

He could blur lines, do things that left people wondering, mix personal and professional. His superb staff covered for him, true of any good Congressman. What isn’t true of many is that he didn’t take himself so seriously that he became pompous, arrogant, or much removed from the people he represented.

That knack for putting himself in the right place at the right time manifested to my everlasting benefit one D.C. day when he grabbed me and said, “There’s a reception starting in half an hour. It’s the Dalai Lama. Knowing you there is zero doubt you’ve always wanted to meet him. I’m on Foreign Affairs, I got an invite. Let’s go.”

“They won’t let me in,” I sputtered. “I’m a journalist, I got no credentials anyway.”

“You’re with me,” he said. “That’s enough.”

Bill blustered us inside, no one asked who I was so I didn’t have to lie. And there was the Dalai Lama. His English was impeccable, I knew, but he would let a translator painstakingly morph every question into Tibetan to give him time to muse before speaking; China, religious oppression, his hopes for United States foreign policy.

The formality ended and there was a buffet, vegetarian of course. I remained standing at the far corner, my back against the wall, marveling. And then I felt a presence. I turned to face saffron robes. He took a place beside me and let his shoulders rest against the wall, mimicking mine, almost touching.

I had no clue what to say or do, so I said and did nothing. Deep breaths ensued. And then the Dalai Lama turned to me with a look that barely concealed what I saw as overwhelming joy, and this is what he said:

“Us bald guys -- we have to stick together.”

Delahunt, I’m giving you credit for one of my all-time best moments. Hope you’re good.

NEXT, THE SHERIFF’S INMATE: ONE WOMAN’S VIEW INSIDE THE BARNSTABLE COUNTY HOUSE OF CORRECTION