Suddenly, Tom Bradley Looks Mortal, and L.A. Blacks Feel Orphaned

“I’ve come home . . . I’ve come home.”

Three years ago, Mayor Tom Bradley spoke these words to launch his second ill-fated gubernatorial campaign at a rally of hundreds of black supporters who had jammed into a poorly ventilated room in South Los Angeles just to see and hear him.

Tom Bradley has come home again. With the mayor’s blessing, last week a gathering of black influentials rose to Bradley’s defense as he faces the most serious crisis of his political career over questions about his financial dealings and allegations of conflict of interest.

What was behind the stout, if belated, defense of the mayor has as much to do with deep concern for the future of all blacks in this city as it does with Tom Bradley’s political future. The black leaders mounting the mayor’s defense are afraid that without Bradley, the doors will shut again at a City Hall that was all but off-limits before he took office; in a broader sense, they fear that his absence will create an overall social and business environment more hostile to blacks in a city that already is strongly segregated.

No matter what the disposition of the current investigations, the era of the 71-year-old Bradley’s quiet political dominance is in its twilight. And in spite of 16 years as mayor, Bradley, who has surrounded himself at the highest levels largely with people who represent his big business/Westside money base, has no political protege.

Among the three blacks on the City Council, none appears able to forge the multiethnic coalition that Bradley attracted.

Gilbert Lindsay, 88, represents a district with a boundary change possible in the future and a growing Latino population; there is a reasonable chance that the next representative will not be black. Robert Farrell, 51, has had to beat back two recall attempts. Nate Holden, 60, is a populist scrapper who ran against Bradley this spring. Holden proved himself adeptat tapping into widespread dissatisfaction about the quality of life in Los Angeles. But he did poorly against the mayor in the three predominantly black City Council districts.

Ironically, many black political activists are pinning their highest hopes on a lawsuit initiated by the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund. Either through creation of an expanded Board of Supervisors resulting from the lawsuit, or through natural succession to the seat currently held by Supervisor Kenneth Hahn, blacks are expecting a place on that powerful body. Rep. Julian Dixon, Assemblywoman Maxine Waters and Holden already have indicated interest.

But in spite of its tremendous influence over health care, courts and environmental issues, the county board remains a nebulous entity to many voters. The mayor and council, like the President and Congress, are easily identifiable and thus most often looked to for leadership. And right now, the pool of younger blacks in position to ascend politically is limited.

Bradley himself may have unwittingly fostered this dearth of local black political up-and-comers. When the mayor in 1987 put the power of his office behind the council candidacy of Homer Broome, a sincere but uncharismatic city commissioner with no electoral experience, the decision had a domino effect. Rita Walters, who wanted to run for the council, decided to stay on the school board. That set back Mark Ridley-Thomas, executive director of the local Southern Christian Leadership Conference and one of several young black professionals hungry for a chance to make a difference in politics. He found himself unexpectedly running against the well-supported incumbent Walters. The result: He lost, and another chance of political upward mobility for a new generation of black leaders was lost, too. And since incumbents rarely leave office, the “thirtysomething” hopefuls grow gray waiting for their turn at the political helm.

So, many blacks cling to Bradley, with an interest less in protecting him personally and more as an act of self-preservation.

“Even if you’re not a fan of his,” said one prominent black businessman, “if he goes out with a cloud over his head, it hurts us all.”

Many privately express worry that they will be forgotten in Los Angeles as Latino and Asian populations grow. It’s an odd worry for a city that has the third-largest black population in the nation. But that infrequently quoted fact is little comfort to the blacks who have personalized Bradley’s woes.

Such a deep fear, which likely seems exaggerated to whites, is credible to many blacks. A January Los Angeles Times poll showed why with an ugly reality: Blacks are the group most disliked by others in Southern California. Although no poll was needed to confirm that to a black person, living daily with that knowledge has its deleterious effects--like seeing racism as the motive when the press naturally goes after a big news story about Bradley’s finances.

The love-indifference-love relationship between Bradley and black voters was best described to me by a longtime resident who has known the mayor for several years.

To the black community, this person said, Tom Bradley “is like the cousin in your family who was bright and managed against all odds to get to college and do better than anyone else in the family, and everyone’s so proud. Then the cousin moves to the other side of town and visits less often because he’s busy and successful. You understand. But as time goes on and baby brother needs shoes and mom gets sick, you sort of resent him for not doing more (to help). But when someone outside of the family attacks him, you end up leaping to his defense--though you may think about it awhile first.”

And so to the degree that the black community ties its fate to that of the mayor, both face some difficult times and hard questions ahead.