The Education of Eva Moskowitz

by Eva Moskowitz

  I was excited about my plan and new career. A few weeks in politics had given me the happiness and self-confidence that for years had eluded me. However, I was troubled by a personal issue. Eric and I wanted to start a family but I’d been unable to get pregnant. We went to a fertility doctor. He found nothing wrong with us but observed that women had more trouble conceiving as they got older. I didn’t realize that was true even for a woman of my age, thirty-two. I was upset that I’d perhaps inadvertently squandered my chance to have children by waiting too long. To improve my odds, I began fertility treatments.

  On August 26, 1996, I was having a cup of coffee with someone when Eric suddenly showed up and asked me to come with him right away. We jumped in a cab heading toward his mother’s apartment, where Eric’s younger brother, Alexi, a film student, still lived. Alexi, Eric said, had overdosed on heroin. Eric knew that his brother had used heroin but hadn’t realized how serious his problem was and hadn’t told me about it because his mother had wanted to protect Alexi’s privacy. When we arrived at the home of Eric’s mother, she confirmed what Eric had feared: Alexi was dead.

  I can’t even comprehend the pain Eric’s parents felt. As for Eric, he soon fell into a deep depression. He suffered from extreme anxiety, couldn’t sleep, and took little pleasure in anything. Ordinarily, Eric had a happy-go-lucky adventurous quality so it felt like a different person was inhabiting his body. It was terribly painful for me and I tried my best to help Eric out of his depression, but I also tried to stay focused on my goals. Perhaps that sounds selfish, but I didn’t see how my being less happy would make Eric more so.

  That fall, Congresswoman Maloney won handily and I convinced the staff I’d recruited for her campaign to work on mine. Among them was Ilana Goldman, an unusually mature and hardworking young woman who served as my campaign manager. In addition, my college roommate, Kathryn Gregorio, agreed to be my campaign treasurer.

  When I told my parents about my plans, they looked as if I’d said I was going to join the circus. They didn’t know anyone in politics and it struck them as a shady and risky profession. They said, however, that if that’s what I wanted to do, they’d support me, and they became quite involved in my campaign, as did Eric’s mother.

  My obvious disadvantage was in fund-raising. Eristoff was descended on his father’s side from a Russian prince and on his mother’s side from Henry Phipps, a tycoon who was partners with Andrew Carnegie. Eristoff had spent $300,000 on his last campaign although it was just a six-week special election. While I couldn’t hope to match his spending, I wanted to raise enough so I’d at least have a fighting chance. I began calling people off of lists of other candidates’ contributors. Nearly everybody turned me down and many of them were nasty about it, but I just forced myself to keep on calling, and every now and then, someone would agree to contribute. One guy whom I asked to give me $1,000 responded, “If you knew who I was, you’d ask for more,” so I did and he gave me $3,000.

  Another person I called was Michael Bloomberg, who hadn’t yet entered politics. He asked to meet with me and asked me many thoughtful questions about education policy, perhaps because he was already thinking of running for mayor. He contributed $1,000 to my campaign.

  In total, I made around fifteen thousand cold calls. I refused to take contributions from the real estate industry, however, because Eristoff had attacked his last opponent for doing so. One of the many checks I returned came from Donald Trump, who summoned me to Trump Tower to explain myself. It wasn’t personal, I said, and explained my reasoning. Trump was amused. I suspect he felt that a five-foot-two former history professor who refused to take contributions from the real estate industry wasn’t likely to go far in politics.

  I also called up many voters. I’d spend ten or fifteen minutes on the phone with someone just to get one vote. When I began speaking, the person on the other end would sometimes say “I hate these recorded calls,” and I’d have to convince them I wasn’t one. My parents and Eric also called voters and we held “meet-the-candidate” events to which people would invite their friends and neighbors. Even if only a few people showed up, they would talk to their friends and neighbors. All of this outreach took an incredible amount of work, but I was blessed with a team of idealistic and energetic staff members whose youth was so striking that a local newspaper printed a cover with caricatures of them sucking on pacifiers.

  As Election Day approached, I did more street campaigning, particularly focusing on the rush-hour traffic at subway stations. Senator Chuck Schumer told me to go to the same station in the afternoon at which I’d campaigned in the morning because people would think I’d been there all day and was incredibly hardworking.

  On October 19, the Times wrote an article about the campaign titled “Money’s No Object in This Council Race.” While technically an objective news article, it was slanted in my favor (how often do you hear me admit that!). It noted that I was a former professor who’d “assembled a list of campaign contributors that includes dozens of professors and teachers and at least one student (who gave $1)” while Eristoff was a former tax lawyer whose list of contributors included “big donations from the Republican County Committee . . . and occasionally reads like the Social Register, with names like Rockefeller, Frick, Loeb and Luce.”

  Most people assumed the Times would endorse Eristoff, but he had an Achilles’ heel: his refusal to participate in the city’s campaign finance program. Moreover, I put together a book on my policy positions so that the Times would know that I wasn’t a typical Democratic politician beholden to the party machine, but rather was willing to take unorthodox positions such as ending tenure for public school principals to make them more accountable.

  On October 30, the Times came out with its city council endorsements. Eristoff, said the Times, had been a good council member, but his refusal to participate in the campaign finance program was “an overriding flaw.” “Fortunately,” wrote the Times, “voters have a good alternative in the Democrat Eva Moskowitz, a history professor who has campaigned hard and given serious thought to the issues facing the Council.” Realizing I might actually win, Eristoff doubled down, spending more than $800,000 in total, most of it his own money, a record amount for a council race.

  But I felt good about my chances. It seemed like our grassroots campaign efforts were working. When I’d campaign on the street, many people would tell me they’d had contact with my campaign: that they’d spoken to me or to my family on the phone or had been invited to a house party or a fund-raiser by a neighbor or a friend. We prepared for Election Day like it was D-day. My father built hundreds of wooden stanchions for my posters and we convinced hundreds of volunteers to campaign for us. On Election Day, I woke up at five, voted first thing, and then started campaigning. People came up to me in droves telling me they’d voted for me. An elected official who campaigned with me said she’d never seen anything like it and that I was sure to win. Just before the polls closed, I went home to change before attending the election night party at which I would either declare victory or concede defeat. I rested for a few minutes to get my energy back and Ilana soon called to give me the results.

  Eristoff had beat me, albeit narrowly. At first I couldn’t believe it. Everyone had worked so hard and so many people had told me they’d voted for me. Yet from the beginning, I recalled, many people had warned me that no matter how good a campaign I ran, I’d never beat a wealthy incumbent. Now, I felt naive and foolish for having imagined otherwise. Moreover, I’d convinced my supporters to join me in this delusion. Now they’d find out that I’d sold them a bill of goods, that all of their hard work had been for nothing. I felt both embarrassed and guilty, and I dreaded facing them. But I did, thanking them profusely for their hard work while vainly fighting back tears.

  The following morning was brutal. When you lose an election, your loss is incredibly public. Everyone knows. I was embarrassed and wanted to crawl into a hole. I also felt rudderless. When you’ve been consumed with somethi
ng, it’s devastating when it suddenly disappears. I nonetheless spent the next several weeks calling all of my donors and volunteers. Several of the more politically sophisticated people I called said something that lifted my spirits. Precisely because I’d been considered a long shot, they said, I’d impressed many people by even coming close. As a result, I was now viewed as an up-and-comer.

  But what should I do next? I didn’t want to work for another politician because most of them made too many compromises for my taste. Besides, I didn’t want to become part of the regular political machine. Instead, I took a job at Prep for Prep, a nonprofit program that worked with gifted minority children.

  Because of Eric’s depression and my focus on my campaign, we’d stopped fertility treatments, so I was quite surprised to discover in January 1998 that I was pregnant. One day several months later, however, I suddenly began bleeding. I jumped into a cab to go to the nearest hospital and told Eric to meet me there. Although it was obvious I’d miscarried given how much blood I’d lost, a doctor ordered an ultrasound just to make sure. As they spread cold jelly over my swollen belly, I held Eric’s hand fiercely, mourning our lost child. It had taken me four years to get pregnant; who knew if I’d even succeed again, much less carry a child to term? The doctor turned the ultrasound screen toward us. “See this?” she asked, pointing to something that was barely visible but seemed to be blinking. “That is your baby’s heartbeat.” It seemed impossible after all that blood. I cried tears of joy. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

  I later learned I’d had a hematoma, a condition in which the placenta partially detaches from the uterus and blood fills the void. Often it does cause a miscarriage but not always. Several months later, I gave birth to a healthy baby we named Culver after a relative of Eric’s.

  By now, Eric had recovered from his depression, and one day at work, he read that New York was about to pass a law authorizing the creation of charter schools. Eric had long been interested in school choice and had come to believe even more strongly in it after noticing that all of the African Americans on Congressman Rangel’s staff had gone to parochial schools. This reinforced Eric’s sense that public schools weren’t providing African Americans with the same level of opportunity that they were providing to white people.

  Eric put out the word that he’d offer his services pro bono to anyone who wanted to start a charter school and was eventually put in touch with a woman named Kristin Kearns Jordan whom he helped found the Bronx Preparatory Charter School, on whose board Eric served for many years thereafter.

  On June 24, 1999, I learned Eristoff had resigned his seat to join the Giuliani administration. I still yearned to become an elected official but I worried that the demands of politics would prevent me from giving my son the attention he deserved. Eric, however, strongly encouraged me to run anyway. My mom had worked hard, he observed, and I’d turned out fine. Besides, he said, I’d be happier if I pursued my ambitions and that would make me a better mom. I found Eric’s support reassuring and decided to run again.

  Because I’d done well against Eristoff, no serious Democratic candidate challenged me, but a formidable Republican opponent soon emerged: Reba White Williams, a businesswoman who had impressive credentials including a position on the board of directors of Alliance Capital. Moreover, like Eristoff, she vowed to fund her own campaign generously.

  I hired a talented young lawyer by the name of Anessa Karney as my campaign manager and she in turn recruited a hardworking team. I was now particularly glad I’d made such efforts to thank my donors the last time around since I would now be calling on them again for their support. Most were happy to provide it. Then one day a woman who happened to be visiting a nonprofit next door saw my campaign office and walked in. She turned out to be Judy Rubin, a philanthropist and the wife of Robert Rubin, the former secretary of the treasury. She generously offered not only to contribute to my campaign but to hold a fund-raiser for me.

  The unions, who usually backed Democratic candidates, were another potential source of support but they made it clear I’d have to “evolve” my positions on several issues such as my opposition to tenure for principals. I wouldn’t, and most of the unions, including the UFT, backed Ms. Williams.

  Ms. Williams was known for her take-no-prisoners approach to politics. After getting into a feud with Giuliani, she’d offered a $10,000 bounty to any journalist who’d dig up dirt on him. At debates, she belittled me. “This is not a job I need,” she boasted, “but for Eva this would be the best job she’s ever had.” She also criticized me for bringing my son to some meetings of the community board, of which we were both members. “I didn’t know who she was,” said Williams, “I thought she was just the woman with the baby.”19 While these attacks didn’t trouble me, I soon found out I’d made a huge mistake that did. Given that I had a young child and community board meetings went on until all hours of the night, I’d sometimes left before they ended. Unfortunately, that’s when most of the votes took place, so I’d missed many of them and Williams sent out a piece attacking me for this. I felt terrible. It raised issues I had about the conflict between pursuing my professional ambitions and being a good mother. I was also incredibly frustrated with myself. By making this one stupid mistake, I’d jeopardized not only all the work I’d done but that of my supporters and family members.

  As the election got closer, Ms. Williams promised to spend even more than Eristoff had but we soon got good news. I was endorsed by all of the major papers: the Times, the Daily News, the Observer, and even the Post, which rarely backed Democrats. One person who stayed neutral in the race was Donald Trump. He commented, “They’re both extraordinary. I’m going to vote for both of them.”20

  On Election Day, we again mounted a full-court press and this time around it worked. We’d won. I was overjoyed that I would finally be able to use my talents to help people. I was also happy not to have disappointed everybody who’d supported me and to whom I was incredibly grateful. I had no idea, however, what a strange institution I was about to join.

  23

  MOM, WHY DON’T YOU OPEN UP MORE SCHOOLS?

  2009–2010

  Before Success, I’d never managed more than a dozen employees. By the fall of 2009, Success had ten times that number and a budget of over $20 million. It had turned out to be the most important, engrossing, and challenging thing I’d ever done but, like many women, I felt torn about not spending more time with my children. I wondered what was morally right. At work, I was responsible for educating over a thousand mainly disadvantaged children, while at home I had only three children who were hardly disadvantaged, but they were my children and I feared they might resent my absence or, even worse, simply come to view me as some distant figure.

  If you’re hoping that this is the part of the book where I tell you how women can have it all, you’re out of luck. I think that it’s just an irresolvable dilemma. My children would have benefited from my having had more time to read to them and talk with them. That they didn’t suffer more reflects not some brilliant plan of mine but dumb luck. Many children have learning or physical challenges that require a lot of parental involvement but, for some reason, all three of my children are quite sturdy both psychologically and physically. In addition, Eric is a particularly involved father. And our parents have been very generous with their time, particularly Eric’s mother. She often played board games with our children, helped them with their homework, and cooked dinner for them. When they got sick, she’d come over to care for them and take them to the doctor. She was also a specialist in learning disabilities and helped Culver with speech and reading issues he was having. And finally, I was very fortunate to find a wonderful young woman by the name of Teresa Witkowski to help me with childcare. I hired her two weeks after Culver was born and she still works for us today, nearly two decades later. She’s like a second mom to our kids.

  All of this help allowed me to focus virtually every waking hour on Success. I didn’t social
ize, have hobbies, watch TV, or exercise. Aside from the time I managed to carve out to spend with my family, I worked all day every day. Success required so much of my time in part because the issues multiplied as we grew. New things arose every day. For example, I learned that one of our deans was dating one of our teachers, which was a problem since deans evaluate teachers. I asked Eric to draft what is known as a “cupid policy.” It required employees to disclose certain romances (such as the dean-teacher romance) so we could address any issues it created. It also prohibited romances between an employee and someone in their direct chain of command, such as a principal and a teacher in the same school. There was only one person, Eric explained, who couldn’t become romantically involved with any other Success employee: me, since everyone was in my chain of command. “Funny how that worked out,” he added.

  Another issue arose when a parent told us that her child had been slapped on the head by one of our teachers and then the parent of another child made a similar complaint about this teacher. I was conflicted about what to do. This teacher had been with us since our first year, was totally committed to teaching, and really seemed to reach her students, whom she’d motivate by doing things like playing the Rocky theme song. She denied hitting the kids, but she must have had a rough style given that there had been two complaints, and since she wasn’t acknowledging she was doing anything wrong, I didn’t see how the situation could improve. I decided I had to let her go. It was a painful decision, and I’m not sure I got it right. Sometimes you just can’t get to the bottom of things so you’re left with uncertainty and, knowing full well you may be wrong, you just have to use your best judgment.