A day after Jersey City Mayor Glenn Dale Cunningham died of a sudden heart attack, people from all walks of life gathered at City Hall on Grove Street to grieve, comfort one another, and contemplate the effect the mayor had on their lives.
Many pondered the life of a man whom they said they would remember for his integrity, strength of character, and ability to light up a room with his humor and kindness.
Mourning at City Hall
At the security desk in City Hall, the officers’ faces betrayed the pain of losing a loved one. Carol Pasquale, the head security officer, was teary, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep. Pasquale had rushed to Greenville Hospital Tuesday night upon hearing the news that her boss and good friend had been admitted. She had known Cunningham for over 20 years and had last seen him the day before.
“To me, he was a man who needed no introduction when he walked into a room,” said Pasquale, her voice cracking. “And when he died, a part of me died.”
Pasquale walked away, unable to continue speaking, but would soon be comforted by another city worker.
In fact, every few seconds, staff would come up to one another and hug, trying to help each other cope with the sudden loss.
A grim-faced Robert Byrne, the city clerk, was descending the stairs. When asked how he was feeling, he answered “not too good” and said he planned to cancel the City Council meeting scheduled for that day. At the meeting, there was a chance the nine-member City Council would vote for an acting replacement for Cunningham, but for now, the role has fallen to City Council President L. Harvey Smith until a council vote can be conducted. (The county Democratic organization is rumored to be supporting the choice of Smith by the council, when they meet.)
Byrne later shared that he had come to know the mayor since 1982, when Byrne started out as “a gump,” as he described it, in the City Clerk’s office. Cunningham was a councilman at the time, later council president, and Byrne would deliver paperwork to the council. He said Cunningham always treated him with respect.
Another figure outside of City Hall on Wednesday morning was a saddened Jennifer Morrill, who worked under the mayor in his communications department. She cried on this reporter’s shoulder but regained her composure to help a Spanish-speaking visitor to City Hall. The gloom that blanketed the historic building did not impede the workers from taking care of business.
Crowd gathers
On the second floor, there wasn’t much action at first. But slowly a congregation of supporters made their way to the floor, many just waking up after being up all night grieving and comforting the mayor’s widow, Sandra.
On the third floor, workers were outside on the balcony putting the finishing touches on a display of purple bunting and the Marine Corps flag. Cunningham had served in the Marine Corps from 1961-1965.
Standing inside, Jeffrey Dublin, a supervisor in the Hudson County roads department, remembered the man who was a mentor to him, both politically and personally. Dublin had been elected to the city’s school board recently, receiving the support of Cunningham. Dublin was celebrating his birthday when heard about what happened to Cunningham, and immediately went to the hospital.
“We lost a great person. He was a personal friend to everyone,” said Dublin. “I’m a young African-American. I have been doing this [working in government and politics] since I was a sophomore in high school, and he has always been there to give advice and to be a role model for me.”
Many who spoke of Cunningham called him a personal friend, role model, father figure, teacher, a man of many firsts, and a man who seemed invincible.
For Ronnie Meadows, an investigator in the Law Department, Cunningham was his teacher and mentor at New Jersey City University in the 1980s. Both had backgrounds in law enforcement and the Marines. For John Guarini, an employee in the Housing Code Department, Cunningham was the man he knew for over 30 years who led by example with his ability to show compassion and look out for “the little guy.”
For Betty Outlaw, the head of the city’s Public Works Department who had known Cunningham since the 1970s, he was the man who called her every day. He called to check on her and let her know about what Public Works needed to do to serve the city, always concerned about his constituents. She also knew him as the man who had helped her career immeasurably.
Questions and answers
By 1 p.m., City Hall was swarming with reporters, more city employees and residents, and a press conference took place. But keeping with the solemn climate of the situation, it would be just a public statement with no question and answer period, as announced by the mayor’s spokesman Stan Eason.
A procession of supporters stood behind Ward F Councilwoman Viola Richardson as she made a public statement. Richardson spoke on behalf of Sandra Cunningham as she spoke of her friend of over 25 years as someone who committed his whole heart and soul to his native city. “His devotion to Jersey City was a part of his blood,” Richardson said. “He never talked down about Jersey City. He never left Jersey City. In fact, every day of his life he tried to uplift Jersey City and its people.”
Richardson ended the speech by saying that “our mayor may be gone, but he’ll never be forgotten, and his dreams of uplifting Jersey City and its people to higher heights lies within each of us to keep it alive.”
When the press conference ended, many of the teary-eyed supporters and well-wishers filed out quietly. But the emotion of the moment was overwhelming for Kabili Tayari, who was an observer. Tayari, the head of the city’s NAACP office and a longtime city employee, broke down in tears, and had to be consoled by Deputy Mayor Eugene Drayton.
Richardson later reminisced about Cunningham, not wanting to answer many questions. But she did offer this observation of the man whom she first met when she was just a recruit in the Jersey City Police Academy and he was a senior officer.
“He had a gift to make people from all cultures and backgrounds in this city feel special,” said Richardson.
A smile broke across her face when she was asked about his sense of humor, as she recalled she could be sometimes his target but she saw that as part of what made him special – an ability to not take himself too seriously.
Outside City Hall
Observing City Hall from her studio on Grove Street, across from the building, was Barbara Meise. The owner of the Art Builders studio and an expert on restoration, Meise heard about Cunningham’s death on the radio 4 a.m. that morning and couldn’t go back to sleep.
“There was an honesty about him that showed, and a love for the people that was apparent,” said Meise, who recalled that the late mayor and his wife would make periodic visits to her studio. Meise also wondered how a man who looked in such fine shape could die of a heart attack.
Dianne Jordan, shopping in the Extra Supermarket on Martin Luther King Drive, grew up on Garfield and Claremont avenues not far from where the mayor had been raised. She found out from her mother, who remembered him as a young boy and would receive visits or phone calls from the mayor over the years.
“He was such a personable man who my mom had such faith in because he would always check in on her,” said Jordan. Rosalyn McFarland, a resident of Bramhall Avenue, was in tears at the Cunningham headquarters on Martin Luther King Drive as she recalled a man who gave her a job in City Hall after she had submitted a resume four times under the Schundler administration.
On Orient Avenue, the block where he spent his formative years, residents still couldn’t believe that Cunningham had passed away. A man named Charles who did not give his last name remembered the mayor as a beat cop who patrolled Martin Luther King Drive when Charles was a young boy. He recalled one time when the Mayor was marching in a parade.
“I said hello to the Mayor and I called out to him ‘Come over here,’ and the mayor did,” said Charles, laughing. He later recounted how he asked the mayor about getting jobs for him and his friends.
“I didn’t get a job, but he helped a lot of people I knew,” Charles said. “He helped a lot of people dealing drugs to get off the streets.”
At 80 Orient Ave., the house where Cunningham had grown up, the current owner, Beatrice Morrison, stood outside, in shock.
“What can I say at the moment?” she asked. “There’s no words that I offer after something like this.”