Moscone Family: Resilience in Tragedy : On the 15th Anniversary of the Mayor’s Death, His Children Share Their Thoughts and Set Record Straight

His last morning began like a television sitcom, something out of “Make Room for Daddy.”

One by one, three of George Moscone’s children bounded down the stairs on their way to school, each with a different request.

Christopher, 16, wanted money for his class ring. Jonathan, 14, had been arguing with his dad all week and just wanted to make it out the door. Rebecca, 18, needed a check to register at UC Berkeley.

“For some reason, I thought he’d just pull out his checkbook,” she recalls. “And he said, ‘What do you think, I’m made of money? You have to tell me ahead of time.’ He was yelling and so, of course, I yelled back.

“But as I was leaving, he said he loved me, and I said that I loved him, too. When I heard what happened later, I was so happy I’d said that.”

On Nov. 27, 1978, San Francisco Mayor George Moscone was gunned down at City Hall. The killer, a former member of the Board of Supervisors, also fatally shot Supervisor Harvey Milk.

In the years since, books, movies and plays have focused on Milk and Dan White, the assassin. But the Moscone family has declined to tell its story, mainly to protect its privacy. Now, on the 15th anniversary of their father’s death, his children have decided to share their thoughts and feelings, to recall a man who influenced them deeply, to set the record straight.

On a recent weekend, they’ve gathered at a friend’s home near San Francisco for an impromptu reunion. The three-hour conversation ranges from warm humor to somber memory, from childhood stories to vivid recollections of their dad’s spirit.

Gina Moscone, the mayor’s widow, can’t participate because she’s attending dedication ceremonies for a municipal arts complex downtown, near the Moscone Convention Center. With passing years, many San Franciscans remember the late mayor chiefly in relation to that center, an irony his children deplore. They want people to remember his human side.

“Like anyone who’s gone through personal loss, you have two choices,” says Jonathan, now 29 and associate director of the Dallas Theatre Center. “One is to stay where you are, to remain angry and hurt. Or you can have your catharsis and move on positively with life. That’s what we’ve done as a family--to remember what’s important and draw strength from it.”

Jennifer, the mayor’s then-21-year-old daughter, didn’t live at home in the fall of 1978. But she distinctly remembers her last conversation with her father. It was just after the People’s Temple massacre at Jonestown. Paranoia swept the city, and politicians, including Moscone, had received death threats.

“I saw Dad and he was on the phone with a reporter, talking about Jonestown,” Jennifer tells the group. “And for the first time, really, I remember seeing fear in his eyes. He told me about the threats and I never forgot that look on his face. He was a strong man, but this was different.”

*

A heavy rain begins falling and the conversation shifts to dinner-time memories: For a man who preached a gospel of change and liberalism, Moscone’s home was surprisingly traditional. He jousted with his kids about everything from table manners to capital punishment.

“We were almost brought up like an Old World family,” Jonathan says. “I remember dinners when I couldn’t get up until Dad was finished. You’d just sit there.”

Christopher, now 31, plans to be a public defender. He remembers an intense and caring father who hoped his children would understand his political views. Insisted might be a better word, he says, as the room breaks up in laughter.

“He wanted us to know what he stood for and not be ignorant. So I think there was a little ego and a little bit of Italian father. He’d think: ‘I want to tell my kids what’s right.’ ”

Despite adversity, Moscone was perpetually chipper. Ask friends what they remember and his humor springs to mind. Rebecca, now 33, says her father was proud to be mayor of his hometown, and he infected his kids with that feeling.

But sometimes the mood got ugly. Once, the Moscones were returning from a football game the 49ers had lost and a man pulled up in traffic beside them.

“This guy said: ‘The 49ers play football like you . . . run a city,’ ” Jonathan says. “And my dad started to respond verbally, attacking him. I was scared, but I remember Rebecca encouraging my dad and how he reacted.

“I was so often terrified (by his political life), and there was a long time that I thought the reason my father died was that he couldn’t keep his opinions to himself.”

*

When family members got the news about the assassinations, one cruel discovery followed another.

His wife was driving home from a funeral and heard about the killings on the radio. Christopher and Jonathan were removed from school and driven home by a fire marshal who said nothing. They learned the truth hours later.

Jennifer was watching “Family Feud” on television and saw a news bulletin. Rebecca was pulled from class by college officials who told her nothing for two hours. When she learned what had happened, she fainted.

The divisions that plagued San Francisco during Moscone’s tenure continued after his death. Once, a crowd of high students taunted Christopher by chanting, “Dan White, Dan White.” Rebecca, working in a Berkeley pub, was approached by a man who had learned her identity and began cursing her father.

The children grew up in a hurry.

“It’s hard when you’re the son or daughter of this person and people of a different era are not very sensitive to this,” says Jennifer, now 36 and a tax consultant. “They’ll say, ‘Oh, are you any relation to the convention center in town?’ And I try to explain. Not because it was my father . . . but because he represented so much of that time. And so much of it has been lost.”

Once upon a time, Rebecca was a fun-loving girl in overalls and pigtails who rode her bike to City Hall. She sparkled with intelligence and friends thought she would be the family member who might follow her father into politics.

“His death killed a lot of things in me. My life would be a lot different now if he was alive, and there were a lot of things I wanted to do with my life that I didn’t do,” says Rebecca, who now works in retail management.

“But I haven’t let it cripple me. You have to move on. And I remember all the good things my dad stood for.”

Too often, the media and a voyeuristic culture confuse tragedy with melodrama, turning survivors into victims and objects of pity. For 15 years, the Moscone family has avoided that, preferring to get on with the business of living. They’re positive, resilient people whose loss has given them strength.

“We have happy moments and sad moments,” Jonathan says. “But we don’t let our memories focus only on that one day. We live 365 days a year. I know that may sound unromantic and unsentimental. But that’s what life is.”