From the archives: Carolyn McCarthy, homemaker pushed into public life

This story was originally published in Newsday on Sept. 29, 1996.

In the passenger seat of her Chevy Blazer, Carolyn McCarthy was making herself over. She pulled down the mirror on the visor to apply some lipstick, a ritual she'd rarely performed in her previous life. "I've never been much for makeup," she said, dabbing at her lips.

But she hadn't called strangers to ask for $1,000 contributions before, or spoken on national TV, or plunged herself into a crash course on the fine points of health care and labor and the Middle East. At 52, without so much as a school board election as a foundation, McCarthy was running for the U.S. Congress.

As the Blazer cruised south toward Franklin Square and a speaking engagement before the American Association of Retired Persons, McCarthy studied index cards filled with notes on key issues: Medicare, health care, gun control. She was nervous. "I still can't believe I'm doing this," she said, with a wry smile.

At the sudden blast of a train whistle, McCarthy looked up from the cards. The express from Penn Station was hurtling through the Long Island Rail Road's Merillon Avenue station, just ahead on Court House Road.

It was at Merillon Avenue on Dec. 7, 1993, that the 5:33 opened its doors and revealed an evening commute that had, in the space of minutes, turned into a massacre. Dead and wounded commuters were scattered throughout the blood-drenched third car, some sprawled in the aisles, some still sitting where gunman Colin Ferguson had sprayed them with 30 rounds from a 9-mm. semi-automatic pistol. McCarthy's son, Kevin, was gravely wounded, and her husband, Dennis, was dead.

As the Blazer passed through the station's underpass, the train clacked overhead. McCarthy was motionless in her seat, her head bowed. Two of McCarthy's aides and her best friend, Carol Neary, sat in silence for long seconds. The whistle sounded again in the distance.

"So," McCarthy said, turning to Beneva Schulte, her press spokeswoman. Her jaw was set. "I start the speech with how I got into the race. Right?"

A shooting spree on a commuter train began her transformation from a quiet homemaker into a gun-control activist fighting legislative battles in Albany and on Capitol Hill. A confrontation with her congressman over an assault-weapons law earlier this year galvanized McCarthy into running for public office as a Democrat, though she's a registered Republican.

Now, four months after she stalked away from a conversation with U.S. Rep. Dan Frisa (R-Westbury) vowing, "I'm going to beat him," McCarthy is amassing money, powerful allies and a small army of volunteers as she mounts one of the nation's most-watched congressional challenges.

It's a race in which McCarthy - facing a veteran campaigner with an war chest of more than $600,000 - must overcome doubts that she has the experience, knowledge and sophistication to represent the district effectively in the barroom brawl of Washington politics.

Frisa and his supporters question McCarthy's motives as well as her qualifications, with the congressman accusing her of "making use of a horrible tragedy for political purposes."

But despite McCarthy's lack of political experience, and largely because of it, the plain-spoken, disaffected Republican has become an instant star in national Democratic circles. Party leaders gave her three minutes of prime-time to address the party's national convention in Chicago. The Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee - hoping to win 20 seats from Republicans and reclaim the House of Representatives - is providing ongoing advice and referrals to Democratic campaign professionals, who have beefed up her "kitchen cabinet" of friends and relatives.

"It's a top priority race for the DCCC," said Patricia Primrose, a spokeswoman for the committee, which will provide $61,000 in money and services, the legal maximum.

In four months, national magazines, major newspapers and TV networks have lavished more attention on the widow who wants to go to Washington than many five-term incumbents enjoy in their careers. And though McCarthy admits she's had little interest in politics until recently - so little that, in an interview, she couldn't remember Ronald Reagan's Democratic opponents - she is quickly learning to broaden her message to appeal to groups like teachers unions and labor.

"I thought she was a one-issue candidate, but she surprised me," said Jack Kennedy, president of the Building and Construction Trades Council of Nassau and Suffolk, an umbrella organization for 42 unions representing 60,000 workers. The council has endorsed McCarthy, though it endorsed Frisa in 1994. "Somebody has helped to educate her; I've got to give her credit."

McCarthy's metamorphosis into a determined political combatant has amazed her longtime friends, as well as herself. Until "the incident," as McCarthy refers to the LIRR massacre, she was a self-effacing, private person most comfortable in one-on-one conversations, friends say. The longtime Mineola resident's involvement in public affairs was limited to an annual volunteer mission to pick up litter on Nassau beaches.

"My wife and I were absolutely stunned to see Carolyn speak at the Democratic Convention," said Charlie Hunt of Garden City, a close friend of the McCarthys since she and Dennis began dating 35 years ago. "Dennis was always the outgoing one, the ring-master. She was always so reserved, so understated. It's like a phoenix rising from the ashes."

Even McCarthy seems dazed at times by the distance she's traveled since her path crossed Ferguson's in a chance collision with madness. "From the incident to today," she said, "it's a totally new world."

But despite the help from Washington and the new roster of famous friends such as former Gov. Mario Cuomo and House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt, the new Carolyn McCarthy's greatest asset is the old Carolyn McCarthy.

For more than two years, McCarthy's pain, her pluck and her role in Kevin's amazing recovery from brain damage and paralysis - he's walking and working again - have been chronicled regularly in newspapers and on the six o'clock news. McCarthy is often greeted by people on the campaign trail as if they'd shared a backyard fence.

They ask about her family. They comment on her diminished weight. McCarthy has melted from a size 10 to a 4 during her 16-hour days of campaigning, fueled mostly by bologna sandwiches (no mustard), eight cups of coffee and cigarettes smoked on the sly.

"How's Kevin coming along?" one potential constituent, Mary Schreck of Williston Park, asked McCarthy during the candidate's recent appearance at a street fair there. "I've always wanted to meet you. We're so proud of you."

With her hair tied back and a smile crinkling the skin around her eyes, McCarthy waded through well-wishers.

"We saw you on TV!" shouted a group of kids.

"You got a lot of guts, baby," said retiree Gus Vlaco of Bellmore, who pledged his vote.

In a county with virtually no Democratic organization, McCarthy has more campaign workers than she can use. More than 700 people have signed up as volunteers, and a core group of 150 rotate through her bustling Williston Park headquarters constantly.

"I've never seen anything like it," says Joseph Galante, a consultant and field organizer active in the Nassau Democratic Party for 10 years, who is working in the McCarthy campaign.

But name recognition and the enthusiasm of core supporters alone will not propel McCarthy into Congress. To win, supporters and Republicans agree, McCarthy must convince voters in the district, where Republicans outnumber Democrats 3 to 2, that she is a serious candidate with more to offer than anti-gun fervor.

Frisa said in an interview that gun control is McCarthy's only real issue, and that her stance on the issue is wrong. The assault-weapons ban that McCarthy supported and that Frisa voted to repeal "doesn't ban anything," he said, branding it "a phony issue." He accused her of being a tool of liberal Democrats like Cuomo.

The Bullet, a magazine dedicated to the cause of protecting the right to own arms, recently dismissed McCarthy as "a professional widow."

Few people put it so harshly, but sympathy alone won't make supporters of many voters. "If she's going to run on that one issue, it isn't going to work," said George DiBona of East Meadow, after greeting McCarthy politely at a campaign stop. "Besides, the politicians will eat her up. She's got no experience."

McCarthy concedes that the reason she's running is that Frisa "got my Irish up" by voting to repeal the assault-weapons ban. (She concedes the law has holes, but says it's better than nothing.) And she says her first legislative priority would be to impose new, "common sense" restrictions on weapons without taking away the right to own them. As an example, she says she'll push for a federal version of a Virginia law limiting individuals to purchasing no more than one gun a month, to prevent people from buying large numbers of guns and then selling them on the streets.

But her battle to curtail gun-related violence, McCarthy said, has evolved into a broader, populist campaign.

Her message: Gun-related violence is the "end product of many of the problems we're facing in this country"; Frisa, who voted with the Newt Gingrich-led Republican majority 93 percent of the time, has abandoned crime victims, urban poor, union workers, senior citizens and other middle-class voters with his small-government "extremism."

"I want to go to Washington and put a face on the government," McCarthy said at an appearance this month before the Coalition of Retired Teachers of Long Island, echoing a message she repeats at many campaign stops. "I have no political experience - and I'm proud of it."

The line brought loud applause, with some in the audience springing to their feet. Surveying the audience, McCarthy said in an accent that was pure Long Island, by way of Brooklyn: "I don't care if you're a Republican or a Democrat. I am one of you."

In a windowless room, McCarthy was asking faceless voices on the telephone to give her money.

"We have Judy Moyers, Bill Moyers' wife, on the phone," a campaign aide, Jonathon Trichter, called over. Just outside her tiny office, her headquarters was bristling with youthful enthusiasm and fervent retirees. "It's not just guns, stupid," a hand-lettered sign on the wall proclaimed.

But McCarthy's spiel to Moyers was mostly about gun control. "I know this is kind of steep," McCarthy said after a while, "but I'm wondering if you and your husband could possibly pledge $1,000?" There was a long silence. McCarthy said, "Fine, I'll send you some material." She looked relieved when she hung up.

"A fantastic pitch," Trichter said. He'd been listening in. "But when she said, Send me some material, I would have liked to seen you come back with, How about $500?' "

McCarthy nodded. "The Irish hate to ask for anything, especially money," she sighed. "This is so difficult for me." So far, the campaign has raised more than $400,000, 57 percent of it in donations of $50 or less and much of it arriving unsolicited along with very personal letters of support.

Fund-raising is just part of McCarthy's crash course in politics, after a quiet, middle-class life on Nancy Street in Mineola devoted principally to her family, a large circle of friends and ski weekends in Vermont. McCarthy lives in the same two-story home where she grew up, had her wedding reception, raised Kevin and received visitors after Dennis McCarthy's funeral.

By training, she's a nurse, a profession she chose after her high school boyfriend was seriously injured in a car accident. McCarthy sat at his bedside while a private-duty nurse tended to him with affection and skill; the day he died, she said, she went home and applied to nursing school. McCarthy would later work at the former Community Hospital in Glen Cove and at St. Francis Hospital in Roslyn.

Her father, Thomas Cook, was a welder and leader in the Boilermakers union who moved his family from the Flatlands in Brooklyn to Mineola in 1951. McCarthy's mother, Irene, worked as a buyer for Woolworth's, relying upon an aunt to help raise her children. Both were religious Catholics.

The Cooks never had much money, didn't take vacations but kept food on the table and their kids in hand-me-downs.

"Things were tight," remembered McCarthy's brother, Tom Cook, of Mineola. "A big treat was to get soda and potato chips on Friday night, and watch TV." Both parents were unfailingly polite and rarely raised their voices, Cook said, but could demonstrate iron wills if they encountered perceived misdeeds or injustices.

Carolyn, the second of five children, was a tomboy and a gifted and competitive athlete. She played basketball and field hockey and ran track. Schoolwork was a struggle because she had severe dyslexia. The learning disability went undetected in that era, and it was only when her son was diagnosed that McCarthy realized why she had such trouble in school.

"English and spelling were a horror," McCarthy said. Teachers made her feel stupid, she said, and she often stumbled over her words when speaking in front of the class. Though she's grown accustomed to public speaking, she still gets very nervous. Out of sight of audiences, her legs often tremble behind the podium. McCarthy doesn't read her speeches, committing basic themes to memory and winging it.

At the Democratic National Convention, McCarthy said, she was so frightened that "I was basically unconscious for the whole speech."

Why would someone with such a strong fear of public speaking run for Congress? She couldn't knock Frisa from his seat any other way, McCarthy said. "Dennis and Kevin deserve no less," she said. "It's not about revenge. It's just something I believe in very strongly."

McCarthy said she had no thoughts of challenging Frisa when, on March 22, he voted to repeal the assault-weapons law, which banned 19 types of semiautomatic weapons and large-capacity magazines, including the kind of 15-round clip Ferguson used to murder her husband. In response to a reporter's question whether she'd run for his seat, an angry McCarthy said she just might. She then spent five weeks agonizing over whether she would, first meeting with Republicans such as county leader Joseph Mondello, who said they wouldn't help her run a primary, and then fielding phone calls from prominent Democrats urging her to do it on their line.

Her friend Carol Neary remembers the moment McCarthy's resolve hardened into a decision. McCarthy was attending a Bob Dole fund raiser at Hofstra University, still hob-nobbing with the Republicans she had come to know in her anti-gun campaign. She spotted Frisa and badgered him again about his vote. Once again, Frisa told her the law was bad legislation.

"When Carolyn walked away, she was so furious she was shaking," Neary said. "She said to me, I am running, and I'm going to beat him."

At first, McCarthy was running the campaign almost single-handledly, but has since delegated organizational duties to her professional staff. The staff is working hard to bring McCarthy up to speed with frequent issues briefings and feedback sessions. McCarthy has proven to be a quick study.

The day after a briefing session with Jerry Connolly, an official of the Boilermakers union, McCarthy surprised a group of union representatives at a meeting in Hauppauge with a detailed pitch on how she'd protect the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, the Davis-Bacon Act and prevailing wage laws from conservative House Republicans.

"I come from a union family," McCarthy reminded the 50 union representatives, all men. "If we see the breakup of the unions, we'll start to see the downslide of the country."

After the speech, Joseph Casey, the business manager of the Sheetmetal Workers Local 28, walked up, handed McCarthy a check for $4,000 and kissed her on the cheek to enthusiastic applause. "We were concerned she was a single-issue candidate, but she dispelled that," Casey said later. He said he was impressed by "her basic sincerity about wanting to improve things for middle-class people, not only on labor issues, but on social issues like crime, the cost of living on Long Island, taxes."

Appearing before a small group of people with AIDS at the Long Island AIDS Action Coalition, McCarthy emphasized her background in nursing and her experience with the health-care system during Kevin's rehabilitation.

McCarthy admitted ignorance during a discussion of AIDS policy issues, and was sometimes out of her comfort zone, as when one man made a graphic reference to a high-risk sex act.

McCarthy blushed and covered an embarrassed smile with her hand. "In my generation, in the '50s and '60s, people didn't have sex," she said, smiling. But she listened with evident pain in her eyes to the stories she heard, and pledged to learn more.

"She didn't have slick answers, but she made a real human connection with people," said Jeff Reynolds, LIACC's policy director. "They trusted her."

But while McCarthy's backers consider her lack of polish among her most endearing traits, her naivete sometimes shows up in heavily hedged answers to questions she hasn't studied, such as one man's inquiry at a Mineola house party about how she would maintain the fiscal solvency of Social Security.

"It's a given right to our senior citizens," McCarthy said. "We have to find ways to make the money grow, and I'm certainly going to look into that."

Asked during an interview for this story whether she had voted for former President Ronald Reagan, McCarthy responded, "Who did he run against?" She said she believed she voted for Reagan over Jimmy Carter, but voted for Walter Mondale in 1984 because of the presence of Geraldine Ferraro on the ticket.

"It's too bad they knocked her off the ticket because of what her husband did," McCarthy said. Ferraro, of course, was not knocked off the ticket despite a flap over her husband's personal finances.

"Obviously," McCarthy admitted, "I didn't know much about politics" before the LIRR massacre.

Admirers like Cuomo, to whom she speaks occasionally, say McCarthy's inexperience won't hurt her with voters or on Capitol Hill. "Most of America is saying no to the politicians who are in place," the former governor said.

Cuomo said McCarthy's experience of running a household, paying taxes, supervising her son's education and dealing with the health-care system as a nurse and as Kevin's advocate has given McCarthy all the background she needs.

To win, supporters say, McCarthy must maintain her image as an outsider and keep her distance from Democrats. That's one reason she hasn't changed her party registration. Coyly, McCarthy said "that's a decision she'll have to make" and that she won't decide until after the election. She described herself as "a moderate" and "an independent" without strong identification with either party.

" Nassau Republicans like to send their party a message every now and then and elect a Democrat who's independent - Lew Yevoli in Oyster Bay, Ben Zwirn in North Hempstead," said county Legis. Bruce Nyman (D-Long Beach).

McCarthy said she's confident of winning - so confident she's already begun thinking about how many terms in Congress she'll serve. At first, she said, she assumed she'd "serve two years and go home." Now, McCarthy thinks she'll need several terms to "get things done."

But in private moments, she is not quite so bold. "She says sometimes, Wow, what if we do win?' " said her brother, Tom. " What do I do then?' "