I first interviewed Mary Alice Cisneros in 2009 over the cheers of Mayor-elect Julian Castro’s memorable win. That same evening, Cisneros had defeated grassroots opponent Chris Forbrich with 55 percent of the vote, securing her second term on the dais. It was a short interview, and as is often the case with the quietly elusive Cisneros, unrevealing. "The people have spoken!" she shouted into the mic, like a chilly Eva Peron.
Earlier this year and purely by chance, I attended a lecture by veteran journalist Rick Casey, who spoke at length about her husband, former Mayor and HUD Secretary Henry Cisneros, whose affair with campaign volunteer Linda Medlar erupted into a public scandal in 1988, and a decade later resulted in a federal indictment.
This June, when her husband went public with his prostate-cancer diagnosis, Cisneros was still by his side. Based on the Medlar scandal alone, we can guess we’ve never seen the whole Mary Alice, despite her four years in the public eye of city council. It also seems likely that all these years, while SA fed on soundbites of Henry’s adventures, it’s truly been Henry and Mary Alice all along.
I caught up with Mary Alice late last month on the sidelines at Casa Hernan, where Henry was the marquee name in support of a fundraiser for 10-year-old Sebastien De La Cruz, a contestant on the reality competition show America’s Got Talent.
For the next hour, the stars aligned and I seemed to have scored the undivided attention of San Antonio's most socially prominent First Lady.
Councilwoman Cisneros often appeared in power red, but tonight she’s sporting a pale blue business suit and silver, open-toe, high heel shoes.
I ask after her husband.
“He’s halfway into his therapy session,” she says. “We were able to catch it early.”
The diagnosis, she adds, is as an opportunity to “support, promote and advocate” prostate cancer awareness among men. Three verbs that circumscribe her very public life.
I mention my renewed interest in her marriage, and Cisneros skillfully directs the conversation to other “power couples,” like Nelson and Tracy Wolff.
I wonder if she agrees with the old “behind every great man" adage.
“Yes, but at the same time we each have our own interests that we support and that we do,” she says.
With divorce a ready option these days, I ask her what ran through her own mind in those difficult moments when many other spouses would have left for good.
“That life is what we make it," she says. "And by the grace of God we’re all still standing here and supporting one another."
A photographer from KENS 5 snaps a picture of us.
The sparkle in her eye dims. She's done with the marriage questions, but Mary Alice isn't walking away, so I ask about John Paul, the youngest of their three children. He was born in 1987 with no spleen and a malformed heart and stomach. Today he’s a 25-year-old JP Chase analyst in New York.
When he graduated high school and left for college, she says, “It was a different chapter for me.” Friends told her that women were sorely needed on the council.
“My friends told me, ‘You have the commitment, you know the district, your husband will support you and you have the money,’” she says. “And at $20 a week, you know, it’s tough for other people to keep a job and do council.
“And it wasn’t going to be for the rest of my life, it was going to be for a term ... two twos ... four years total, because that’s the way the system was. And they said to me, ‘Get in there and change that! If you do anything, get in there and change that!’ And with the help of Mayor Hardberger we were able to change that to eight.”
I suggest that perhaps the memory of Forbrich’s surprisingly strong challenge faded quickly because Cisneros’ name and position made it easy to accomplish her goals.
“I never experienced that, because it takes six votes to do anything on council,” she says. “You can’t do it alone. You have to lobby the votes.”
Cisneros was born and raised on the city’s West Side. She graduated from Providence High School, not far from Central Catholic, which Henry attended at same time. They dated and eventually married in 1969.
“I’m very rooted in my neighborhood,” she says.
When she tilts her head to the side, she becomes youthful, coquettish, even sexy.
We turn our attention to the young De La Cruz.
“He could cross over,” she says gesturing towards the large television monitors that are screening episodes of America’s Got Talent. “You know, in the way that Selena might have crossed over. And he’s doing it in Spanish, on a national network. He’s promoting the Hispanic culture. Just think of the number of Hispanic people in this country who will be touched,” she says.
Her eyes are glowing again.
“And I personally love mariachi music. I love the violins.”
She says perhaps mariachi lessons should be part of the school curriculum.
“You’re developing and opening up some brain cells that will never, ever close.”
Cisneros works with American Sunrise, a nonprofit after-school program that tutors and mentors kids from the local public schools that she and Henry founded.
I ask if she sings.
“Not well.” She smiles and gently twists her multicolored bracelet. “No, not well.”
But she has done karaoke.
“Henry and I’s favorite song is ‘Misty.’” He can play the 1954 jazz standard on the piano. “That's our song.”
A modestly dressed Rosie Castro, mother of Julian and state Representative Joaquin approaches us and praises De La Cruz.
“He has a grand opportunity,” Cisneros says. Castro agrees and takes her leave.
Cisneros touches her pearl necklace often when she speaks. She's holding a pair of reading glasses, and I notice the faded polish on her cuticles. Many of the people who've greeted her tonight may as well have dropped down on bended knee and kissed her hand, but Cisneros deflects this suggestion.
“San Antonio is full of great, strong leaders,” she says. “There must be something good in our water.”
Most of her answers start with the word “we.”
What would you like your headstone to say? I ask.
She shakes her head softly and quickly and backs away from me uncomfortably. She twists her bracelet again.
“I won’t go there,” she says. Her lovely smile is gone.
But in a hundred years, people will be reading about Mary Alice Cisneros; what would you want them to know about you?
She shakes the ice in her glass and looks away.
“I won’t go there. I’m only 63. Henry’s 65," she says.
So you’re not done yet? I offer.
“Right! Right ..."
There's the smile.
I turn my attention to the multicolored bracelets she’s been tugging at all evening.
“Oh, it's just costume jewelry. It’s not anything major." Her voice trails off. “We give back to the community a lot,” she says. “Because we’re always asked to give back and help.”
“This little outfit is getting old,” she says, struggling to undo the clasp of her jacket. “I can’t undo the button."
The former first lady of San Antonio's advice for Erica Lira Castro is to “do it ... to touch ... to open doors for others.”
But no one can wave the magic political wand like Mary Alice, even decades after her husband's mayoral term.
