It was an unusual moment. Quinn wasn’t a global feminist icon like Hillary Clinton. In fact, she was later criticized for downplaying gender in her race, refusing to talk about what it would mean to have the first woman, and the first openly gay elected official, running City Hall. Despite all that, something registered, and this girl was, out of nowhere, sobbing uncontrollably. Quinn put her arm around her shoulders. She quietly told her, “You made my day,” and gave the girl a hug.
That evening, Quinn, whose close ties to Bloomberg were both an asset and her undoing, came in a distant third to Bill de Blasio. I watched her end her campaign, and her political career, as Katy Perry’s “Roar” blared across her somber election-night gathering at the Dream hotel in Chelsea. Conceding, Quinn said she was disappointed but still believed in New York City’s future. She promised her supporters that she was “optimistic.”
Was I? Professional lives have natural chapters: the end of a big case, the end of the school year. Moving on from a family whose child you cared for. There’s a sense of finality, but also, hopefully, of a new adventure. But at the end of an election, all the energy and excitement culminates in an unsettled feeling. What now? Where do we go from here? The public may be grappling with what the election means for existential issues like climate change, abortion rights, and education. As a reporter you’re also wondering, pettily and yet humanly, what am I going to do next—as in, tomorrow? What does it mean for me?
In my case, it meant covering Joe Lhota, the Republican nominee who would run against de Blasio in the general election that November. He’d served as deputy mayor on September 11, 2001, helping to bring the city back from the brink. He never stood a chance of winning.
Standing with him at the Staten Island Ferry terminal, where he was supposed to be greeting conservative-leaning commuters, I saw why. The fact was he hated campaigning, much preferred gossiping with reporters, and spent most of the hour letting streams of potential supporters glide by as he kibitzed with us. (He liked me because he got a kick out of the fact that my then boyfriend, now husband, was also a journalist and had covered him as chairman of the MTA. Years later, my husband took Lhota as his date to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.)
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