In an empty State House, power consolidates even more
The corridors, once the commons full of impromptu access, fall silent
When I first showed up to work at the Massachusetts State House a dozen years ago, a neophyte chief of staff to Cape and Islands Senator Dan Wolf, I got lost every day.
I wondered whether the accumulated centuries of architectural add-ons that made “the halls of power” so hard to cruise served a powerful purpose; the uninitiated never knew how to navigate the labyrinth, and that became an intimidating barrier.
Deep State conspiracy people will love that. But I’m not one of them, and as time passed I grew to love those halls.
Come evenings when the building emptied, electeds long fled and staffers gone to flirt in Beacon Hill watering holes, I would walk dark corridors, footsteps echoing off marble floors, paintings and sculptures of soldiers, governors, nurses keeping me company. The day’s lingering cynicism would fall away. Hell, I was wandering through the building that houses the oldest continuous legislative body in the country; John Hancock and Sam Adams walked these halls. The entire bicameral structure of the federal government was copied from what birthed here in the 1700s.
Slipping into the Senate meeting room, which used to be the Senate chamber, I’d pause under a carving of an animal mounted above the doorway. It’s a fictional creature, and why? There had been a big fight about choosing our national bird. Some wanted the eagle, a fierce scavenger and predator. Some, like Benjamin Franklin, wanted the turkey, cunning and elusive like the Minutemen. The 1700s carver didn’t know which side would win out, so invented something half-turkey (broad back and wings) half-eagle (sharp beak and claws), and so it has remained for centuries.
“Visiting the Teagle?” Kerry from the security team asked, invoking the hybrid nickname, sitting at her desk, a small pool of light shining on a celebrity magazine.
“Yeah, I know it’s weird but the symbolism appeals to me, it’s the perfect expression of how things get made around here, mix and match, the end result a combo of ideas that doesn’t resemble anyone’s original notion – or anything real.”
“Ah, gotta love you philosophical Cape guys,” she smiled. She said it because she was a good soul, and because she had been known to tend bar on this side of the bridges come summer.
Such moments were wonderful, but the daytime import of those halls, how they contributed to what we call the democratic process, mattered more. They were the commons; everyone needed to use them. The corridors, stairs, cramped elevators, created remarkable opportunities, access via serendipity. Senators and reps, chiefs of staff and legislative aides, lobbyists and activists, Cabinet officials and backwater appointees, regulators and regulated, all came into unscheduled, unplanned contact. Buttonholes fingered, elbows grabbed, coffees gulped, jokes that humanized -- this was where personal politics practiced, where a lot of sidebars joined.
The chair of a committee wouldn’t take your call, but if you bumped into her chief of staff in the halls, made an impromptu case, you had a shot at movement. A home rule petition was bottled up for a mysterious reason; turned out there was a misunderstanding by a Ways and Means staffer that could be corrected in a hot stairwell moment.
This wasn’t altogether a romantic or egalitarian setting. Corporate lobbyists worked the halls for the same reasons I loved them. They schooled, predatory fish holding positions along the railings, waiting to strike. They were the guys (almost all guys) wearing cufflinks that shone against white starched cuffs above manicured fingers, clean-shaven, alcohol-flushed, puffy or getting puffy, wafting cologne.
Then there was the poorly funded antidote to that crowd, activists in purple t-shirts carrying backpacks, five at a time sidling through to explain that a cut in food stamps actually would cost taxpayers more than it saved, dental care not covered by Medicaid is another stupid loss leader, and minimum wage really was poverty wage not living wage.
All this created what one person who often parlayed those halls called “robust dialogue around the fringes of the agenda.”
Those who understand how the State House really works know that legislative power has dangerously consolidated; the Speaker of the House and the President of the Senate control the bodies, define the agenda, direction, priorities, and timing. How and why this has happened is a book, but believe me, it’s true. One of the few ways astute public participants were able to slip around that control was by working the halls.
Perhaps you’ve noticed I’m using past tense.
The corridors of the State House have been silent and empty since COVID. Intended or not, leadership now controls process and agenda even more than ever. There is no opportunity for impromptu, personal, “robust dialogue.” The “fringes” have been cut.
Recently I had a great conversation with a legislative director for one of the real good Senators in the Commonwealth; a dedicated, idealistic, young public policy wonk, just the kind of person you want in the State House. After we explored an issue of mutual interest, I mentioned how much I had enjoyed moving through the halls, how much I learned and accomplished there.
“I’ve been in this job for almost two years,” she said, “and I’ve never set foot in the building.”
That made me want to cry. And that is a very bad thing for the Commonwealth.
Haven’t subscribed yet? Here’s how to keep seeing a Voice:
OK...now the book...please!