Ebony: Kwame Kilpatrick: Mayor with diamond earrings changes gears in Detroit

SPORTING a diamond earring, Detroit mayor Kwame Kilpatrick often greets men with a chest-bump, embraces women with a hug, land tells those looking to talk business to "hit" him up on his cell phone or two-way pager. But don't hate on the 32-year-old mayor of Motown because he's able to lead the country's tenth largest city and roll like a rap star--all at the same time.

The 6-foot-4 mayor, who grew up in Detroit listening to hip-hop (and still listens to it), has kicked bureaucratic fronting to the curb in favor of youthful energy and a can-do attitude. In less than a year in office, Kilpatrick has charmed the ladies (young and old alike), inspired the men, appeased the city's old-guard political power structure, and energized the business community, convincing all of them that they are the real players in turning around a city that historically has been dogged by high crime and low expectations.

Detroit Police Chief Jerry A. Oliver Sr., one of the first people Kilpatrick brought onto his staff, says, "People can see themselves in the mayor's vision for the city. This is not some abstract vision that you can't really get a hold on, that you can't get your mind around. He can make a vision real in his comments to people. He can energize them to want to accomplish it. That's his strength."

His style even caught the attention of Chris Rock, who was so taken by Kilpatrick's streetwise demeanor that the comedian has patterned one of the characters in his upcoming movie, Head of State, after him. It's his substance, however, that has residents of Detroit comparing him to the city's legendary mayor Coleman Young, the city's first Black leader who was successful in carrying Detroit to new heights during much of the '70s and '80s. Like Young, Kilpatrick believes he's a true grassroots politician who speaks from the heart. He calls Young his "political hero," and is still amazed at the accomplishments of the man he says is "one of the brightest political figures of all time."

While he sits at the same desk that Young used during his 20-year stint, Kilpatrick is the first to say that he is no Coleman Young. And perhaps he's not--yet. But there's no doubt that he's special. He represents a new kind of Black leader, one not raised during the Freedom Movement of the 1960s, one who is a little less fiery and confrontational, but more methodical and businesslike in maneuvering around the political landscape.

Speaking recently to the faculty and staff at Wayne State University, the mayor talked with ease about his family, about politics and appropriations as he exhibited his uncanny ability to relate to a variety of people and topics. After his speech, doctors and orderlies alike applauded, and the school's president, Irvin D. Reid, heaped praise on the mayor for having "leadership and excitement and demonstrating the kind of activism that could be the trend for mayors throughout the nation."

Personality aside, Kilpatrick knows he has to produce results--and fast. Detroit has seen its ups and downs, but overall has been in a tailspin for decades. With murder and unemployment rates higher than the national average, Detroit has lost a million or so people since the 1950s.

The mayor says when he took office, the city was a mess. "We had a $170 million deficit. There was very little accountability in place. Our equipment hadn't been maintained in years. The infrastructure, a lot of it, from transportation to public lighting, had not been cared for in years. We came into something that was not working. We had 48 labor unions. All of the contracts had expired. We had to negotiate these contracts as soon as we walked in the door. We didn't know how bad it was."

Kilpatrick immediately began to put out fires and to make good on his campaign promises. Among the mayor's accomplishments:

* Balancing a potential budget deficit of $170 million through a series of management initiatives, achieved by the previous administration.

* Brokering a permanent casino development deal for the city's three casinos, securing the city $285 million.

* Implementing one of the most successful tax amnesty programs to bring in $30 million in unpaid taxes.

* Launching "Motor City Makeover" in March, pulling together the community and contractors to clean up the city. This effort collected over 11,000 tons of debris, 1,300 abandoned vehicles and knocked down more than 2,100 abandoned houses through a new accelerated demolition process.

* Implementing Mayor's Time, which coordinates and provides after-school programs for the city's youths. The kickoff attracted more than 15,000 parents and children from the Detroit area to sign up for programs.

The mayor's first priority is changing Detroit's image. "We have to change our national and international image," he says. "There are lots of things going on here that people don't know about. We're still trapped on what was happening here in the 1980s. We need to make sure that we erase all of that. We need a lot of things to happen, and they are happening. But we need to tell the world about it."

Kilpatrick's office overlooks the Detroit River and the Windsor, Canada, skyline. The walls are lined with family photos and newspaper and magazine articles. When he's in his office, he oftentimes walks around in slippers and is constantly calling his staff and attending briefings.

The mayor has lived in the city all of his life, except for the few years he studied political science and taught at Florida A&M University. He was the captain of the football team and an honor student, who "didn't miss a party," he says. "I was a typical football player, hung out, partied, had a good time. I had a lot of fun in college."

It was in a college government class that he met a young lady named Carlita. The two married, had twin boys while he was in law school at the Detroit College of Law, and have since had another child. The first mayor of Detroit with young children, Kilpatrick says he constantly faces the challenge of balancing his duties as city chief with his responsibilities as a father. "Fatherhood is No. 1, there's no doubt about that," says Kilpatrick, who wakes up early, many times taking his sons to school before heading to the office. "Some of the people are upset because I can't make it to their program, but I might be taking my kids to the circus or spending family time at home."

Most of his staff is also under 40 and married with young kids. He describes them as "people with that hunger in their eyes, people who want to do something positive for the city," he says. "All revolutions started with young people. If we want to have a revolution in Detroit, we have to bring young people to the table."

It was support from young voters and senior citizens that helped propel him to a come-from-behind victory. (Four months before the election, one poll gave him 13 percent and his opponent 50 percent of those polled.) In the end, Kilpatrick resoundingly won the 18-40 vote and the over-65 vote, although he failed to win over middle-aged voters. He gives major credit to senior citizens who understood, he says, the need for change. "They understood that that we needed something revolutionary to happen in the city," he says. "The young people and seniors are the reason that I'm sitting here now."

The mayor's talking about folks like 75-year-old Mattie Davis and her friend Rsie Shaw. The two Detroit natives bubbled with joy as they left a community rally attended by the mayor. They have seen the city go from good times to bad, but they say they have never been as excited about their city's future as they are today. Both say they are expecting good things from Mayor Kilpatrick. "He loves the seniors, he takes the seniors under his wings and not too many people have done that for the seniors," Davis says, adding: "He reminds me a lot of Coleman Young. The way he carries himself, the way he talks to the people, whether you're poor, young, old, Black, White, he communicates with anyone."

Shaw loves the mayor so much that she invited him to her 50th wedding anniversary party. And to her shock, he came. "He showed up and stayed for the ceremony; he got up and spoke to the people," Shaw says. "You don't have to be a big shot. He knows me by name."

Many older folks call the mayor by his first name, which is just fine with him. But what he has a problem with is people who do it out of disrespect because of his age. "Those people, I check right away," he says. "It's happening a lot less now than it did when I was elected. In fact, it is rare now. I was this kid who didn't have any business having this job. But in six months, when you start closing casino agreements that have been here for five years, when you cure a $170 million deficit, when you tackle projects that have been sitting for years and get them done in a few months, then it's easy for people to call you `Mr. Mayor.'"

He believes that part of the job of being mayor is to inspire people to do more, to do better, to get involved. He feels connected to Detroit, and to him, improving the city is personal. "I was born and raised in Detroit and [went to the public schools]," he says. "To grow up in the '80s in Detroit, you really understand a lot of the people, a lot of the issues. The schools are exactly the same. You still have some of the same teachers, some of the same people in the neighborhoods. A lot of these people helped raise me."

The mayor's political roots run deep. His mother is U.S. Rep. Carolyn Cheeks-Kilpatrick (D-Mich.) and his father, Bernard Kilpatrick, is a former Wayne County commissioner. The mayor can remember vividly going out as a kid with his mother to meet with constituents. He also remembers how she would cry when things beyond her control happened in her district. It was her dedication, he says, that influenced him to pursue a career in politics. When his mother, then a state representative, ran for congress, he successfully ran for her house seat. In short order, he served as Democratic leader of the Michigan House of Representatives, and then leader of the entire house, the first time an African-American had held either position. When former Mayor Dennis Archer decided not to seek re-election, the door opened for Kilpatrick to run for mayor. He admits that he looks to his parents for guidance and encouragement. "I think my mother is the best public servant in the world," he says. "I only hope to be half as good as she is."

His mother refers to him as "mayor," and tries to rein in her overflowing pride when describing her son's accomplishments. "The mayor has energy to burn," his mother says. "He's very intelligent on his feet. He has a quick wit. He has a passion for the city of Detroit. He has an undying love for African-American people. He is a righteous young man. That's the way he was brought up."

Just as proud is the mayor's father. Something of a legend in city politics, Bernard Kilpatrick continues to be active in Detroit matters, often participating in the same meetings as his son. "Talk about the pride--people think I'm lifting weights now, because I walk around with my chest out all of the time," his father says.

Kilpatrick's parents divorced when he was 11. After that, he moved between the two until he graduated from high school and left home to attend Florida A&M. He was a good student, although he had the gift of gab even back then. "I got a lot of whippings," he says. "My mother had to come to school a lot for me. I was talking, running my mouth, playing. But I always made good grades."

Cheeks-Kilpatrick believes her son is unique. But she says there are other young people, who, "if we would just step back and let them shine and do what we taught them to do," are ready for similar success. "He's a trailblazer. The mayor is showing that it can be done," she says. "He is among a new era of leaders who are going to help take us to the next level."

Having moved up the political ladder so fast, Kilpatrick is often asked about future aspirations. Right now, he says, he is focused on being the best mayor Detroit's ever had. "This is the spot right here for right now. You can create so much from right here. Having the Big Three carmakers in your town, being on an international waterway, you can really put together a power base here, an economic, social and political power base to do whatever you want to do."

Sitting in his office, he chuckles at the thought of being mayor for the next couple of decades. "I don't know about 20 years from now. Coleman Young was here for 20 years. When he left, he could barely breathe. I hope there is a time I can leave politics," he says. "But I'm sure there will come a time when I will wake up and say, `I don't want to do this anymore.' Maybe I will want to go back to teaching. I wouldn't mind coaching high school football."

But while he shies away from making future predictions about his career, his mother sees big things ahead for her son. "He moved quickly. And the sky's the limit for him. He can be governor. He could be a U.S. senator. Who knows, he could be president."

But will the earring ever come off?

Don't count on it.

"I had it before I was in office. It's the first engagement ring that I gave my wife. When I bought her another one, she had the diamond made into an earring and gave it to me as a present," he says. "She loves it, and therefore I love it. It's not going anywhere. I initially had to take the beatings for wearing it. But I think people are used to it now."