Tougher than the Rest

November 20, 2022 Michael Olesker

Nancy Pelosi (File photo)

One sunny afternoon several years ago, I found myself interviewing Nancy Pelosi in her Capitol Hill office when the Speaker of the House glanced at four television sets on a nearby wall, all tuned to cable news stations.

“Oh, there I am,” Pelosi chuckled lightly. “Doing something, and I don’t know what. Was this yesterday?”

“It’s on Fox,” an aide said.

“Then it can’t be anything good,” said another aide.

“Fox, Rush Limbaugh, the whole Republican mechanism,” I said. “They’ve really demonized you.”

“Oh, really?” Pelosi said. “I didn’t know this.”

She chuckled again, and casually changed the subject. Such criticism meant nothing to her, she was saying. Let them all have their say. She was tougher than any of them.

This is something her political foes have never understood. All those voices trying to brand her as some dilettante out of San Francisco, they missed the kid from the streets of Baltimore’s Little Italy, the daughter of a machine politician. She came from people who were not made of fluff.

She’s the child of Tommy “The Elder” D’Alesandro Jr., the three-time mayor of post-war Baltimore. One time, a Baltimore Sun City Hall reporter told D’Alesandro, “My desk wants to know …”

Tommy leaned down and put his ear to the top of his desk, as though listening to it.

“And my desk,” said the mayor, “says to tell your desk, ‘Go [bleep] yourself.’”

But it was the mother, Annunciata “Big Nancy” Lombardi D’Alesandro, who was the tough one in the family. She understood feminism before it had a name.

When Little Nancy graduated high school at the Institute of Notre Dame, she wanted to attend college out of town. The mayor wanted her to stay home, the way young ladies stayed planted in the long-ago.

“Trinity College,” said the mother.

“Over my dead body,” said the mayor.

“That could be arranged,” said the mother.

Nobody imagined Little Nancy would make history down the road. But she did, didn’t she? Even her critics have to admit it. Some of them even bothered to show up last week on Capitol Hill when Pelosi announced she’d be stepping down from an official leadership position (the speaker’s position’s gone anyway, since the Republicans gained control of the House) and would retire before any more campaigns.

“The hour has come for a new generation” of Democratic congressional leadership, she said.

But as she looked back on her role in politics, the line that grabbed some of us around here was the reference to her “beloved hometown of Baltimore.”

This is where she learned the game. When other little girls played with dolls in their bedrooms, young Nancy wrote names of voters on yellow legal pads. When other girls scanned Modern Screen magazine for details on Tab Hunter’s love life, the teenage Nancy sat at a desk beneath portraits of Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman, and helped people who needed jobs.

From her earliest consciousness, she saw people in trouble and learned how to offer help, and never mind those on the sidelines barking their criticism. She learned it was part of the game.

So let Donald Trump call her “Crazy Nancy.” Big deal, he’s got the maturity of a pouting 9-year-old. Let the right-wing commentators demonize her. They figured she’s a girl, she’ll wilt.

She turned out to be tougher, and smarter, than any of them. They made their snide remarks, but she made history. She was no delicate flower out of San Francisco. She was a fighter from her beloved streets of Baltimore.

Michael Olesker’s latest book, “Boogie: Life on A Merry-Go-Round,” was recently published by Apprentice House. It’s the life story of Baltimore legend Leonard “Boogie” Weinglass, an original “Diner” guy who grew up to create the Merry-Go-Round clothing chain and contribute millions to charity.