Raymond L. Flynn International Airport, anyone? Anyone?
The most intriguing debate you’re probably missing is the deliberation over what to name for Ray Flynn, the three-term mayor (actually, two terms and change) and onetime political colossus.
Flynn reigned over Boston from 1984 until his somewhat abrupt departure in the summer of 1993. At his height, he may have been as popular a mayor as the city has ever seen. He was elected to his third term in 1991 with nearly 75 percent of the vote. But that was before he resigned to become US ambassador to the Vatican, and before Tom Menino served 20 years, in the process becoming the only mayor a generation of Bostonians remembers with any real clarity.
Flynn’s diminished reputation has been a major irritant for years, both to Flynn and his ardent defenders. So earlier this year, City Council President Bill Linehan appointed a commission on Flynn’s legacy. Its main purpose is to figure out what to name for Flynn to give his tenure its due. It is made up of loyal former staffers, Flynn-era politicians, and friends from various stages of his life. One of Flynn’s sons, Edward, is also on it. The group has a self-imposed deadline of the end of the month to figure out what to recommend to the City Council and to Mayor Martin J. Walsh.
Though most of the commission’s deliberations have been out of public sight, it’s been obvious from the beginning that there’s no consensus about what to do.
At one of the first meetings, someone suggested renaming Logan Airport, which might be the single worst idea floated in town this year. A host of South Boston landmarks have been kicked around. But the convention center is a nonstarter — Menino built it, and someday someone will probably propose naming it for him.
Some people like the idea of a park, representative of Flynn’s history as a neighborhood guy. Inevitably, a statue has been proposed. But statues cost money — both for creating them and for upkeep — and the commission, at this point, doesn’t actually have any money.
Underlying the specific back-and-forth is the complicated matter of
Flynn’s legacy itself. He came into office as the anti-Kevin White, the leader who would prioritize the city’s neighborhoods over downtown development, as he insisted White had done. His role model was James Michael Curley, the so-called “mayor of the poor.” He vowed to move beyond the naked racial animus sparked by busing, and he poured energy and political capital into cooling race relations.
Critics grumbled that Flynn was too fond of the limelight, and not focused enough on substance. I think both sides were right.
Flynn’s legacy unraveled after he left office. He resigned to become Vatican ambassador. He had an idea that he would be a mediator between the president and the pope, but the lasting image of Flynn in the job is of him holding an umbrella over the two of them during a speech. He’d walked away from power to become a valet. When he came back, he tried in vain to resurrect his political career. He ran for governor, he ran for Congress. He was buried in both races. The magic was gone.
It didn’t end well between Flynn and Menino, once longtime friends. During their painful transition, Menino complained that Flynn and his staff were being less than helpful. Tracked down in midafternoon having lunch, Flynn shot back, “This isn’t the White House and we aren’t dealing with Nicaragua.”
But Menino would have the last word. Fairly or unfairly, to many people Flynn is nothing more than the guy who served between White and Menino.
To my mind, whether Flynn rates a statue or an industrial park misses the point. He deserves to be remembered as a mayor who improved the city. That his commemoration is turning out to be messy and divisive merely reflects the complicated nature of the man himself.
Adrian Walker is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at walker@globe.com. Follow him on Twitter @Adrian_Walker.