[Extensions of Remarks]
[Pages E1131-E1133]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]

JOHN BURTON: SUI GENERIS

______

HON. FORTNEY PETE STARK

of california

in the house of representatives

Thursday, May 25, 1995
Mr. STARK. Mr. Speaker, for those of my colleagues who served with
John Burton in this House or have known him otherwise, there's no need
for me to say that John is a one and only. The brother of the late Phil
Burton, John is now an Assemblyman in the California legislature
representing the city of San Francisco.
Sunday, April 9, 1995, the San Francisco Examiner Magazine published
a feature that catches the essence of the John Burton I know and love.
John tells it the way it is and he doesn't spare himself. His
commitment to [[Page E1132]] his constituents, especially those that
can use a helping hand, comes through loud and clear, as does his love
for his city.
Some might ask why, in these days of penny-pinching stewardship, I
devote limited resources to spreading the John Burton story over a few
lines of this Record. Anyone with an ounce of compassion will know
after reading what follows. Serving the public involves more than a
green eye shade and a sharp pencil. John Burton has that extra
ingredient. Maybe by putting these words before my colleagues some of
what John Burton has will rub off. I hope so.
[From the San Francisco Examiner Magazine, Sunday, April 9, 1995]

The Last Tangle

(By Edvins Beitiks)

Caught up in the memory of Jimmy Durante's how's-by-you
scene from The Man Who Came to Dinner, Assemblyman John
Burton swung around in his chair, imaginary fedora tipped
back on his head, imaginary nose groaning under the weight of
a Hollywood gone by, ran his fingers across an invisible
piano on the desktop in his office and sang, ``Didju ever
have the feeling that you wanted to go and still have the
feeling that you wanted to stay. . .''
Burton laughed. ``Saw Durante in Vegas once,'' he said.
``What a show. I goddamn tingled.''
There are other names that get Burton smiling: Burl Ives,
doing his version of ``Big Rock Candy Mountain.'' Louis Prima
and Keely Smith. Phil Harris and ``That's What I Like About
the South.'' June Christy singing ``Something Cool.''
Burton remembered listening to Christy on the hi-fi in the
mid-'50s, when he pulled a tour with the 2nd Armored in
Germany. ```Midnight Sun' `I'll Take Romance,''' he said.
``That got me through the Army.''
When California's term limit kicks in on the veteran
Democrat, forcing him to leave office in 1996, he'll be going
back to Ives, Harris and Christy for some soothing words. Not
that he needs to be soothed--politics these days isn't what
it used to be, said Burton, and leaving the Assembly won't be
that hard.
``It's tougher to do the public's business, every day,'' he
said. ``You're fighting a battle against people who want to
cut off a whole hand. I've never been one to take any
satisfaction in being able to say, `We saved two fingers.'
I've never been happy with saying, `Well, we got them to cut
only $10 instead of $20 from the old people's pension.'
That's no thrill for me.''
These are miserly times, said Burton, who publicly
underlined his disgust by introducing legislation at the end
of last year to ``criminalize'' poverty. His Swiftian bill,
AB44, suggested that if a family of four ``intentionally or
maliciously'' falls below the federal poverty guideline of
$14,763, the parents should go to jail.
Republicans brushed the bill off as another piece of
windmill-tilting by Burton, but the longtime liberal said he
just wanted some honest debate on the issue. At the time, he
explained: ``Maybe during the hearings it might come out that
. . . you can't make it a crime for someone to be poor
because a lot of people don't want to be poor.''
Sitting behind the desk at his Sacramento office, Burton
said, ``It was something I felt like doing. The idea is to
let somebody have a reasonable chance at a decent job and a
good standard of living. You know, people don't want to be
poor. They don't want to live that way.
``I'm very pessimistic at the way things are going,'' he
said. ``Your basic Republican comes goddamn near to being an
anarchist. They accuse the Democratic party of steamrolling,
but they did something Democrats haven't done--threatening
their moderates that if they don't go along with this b.s.
they won't get committee chairs, they won't get anything.''
Republicans have also pushed for a constitutional amendment
on a balanced budget--a concept Burton has always opposed.
``It's government by minority,'' he said. ``Businesses are
allowed to go into debt, individuals are allowed to go into
debt, individuals are allowed to go into debt to buy a home
or a car. But to say the entity responsible for providing for
the common defense and promoting the general welfare . . .
isn't allowed to go into debt? That's crazy.''
After 30 years of political give and take, said the 62-
year-old Burton, ``The thing I miss most is . . . your word
is your bond. A guy gave you a handshake and that was it. No
more.''
Although he didn't see eye to eye with former governor
George Deukmejian, Burton acknowledged that ``Duke at least
stood up for what he said. And Ronald Reagan, for all his
faults, was much more human than Pete Wilson.''
Burton dismissed the current governor as ``this p-- --.
He's not reactionary. He's not moderate. He's nothing. He was
for affirmative action when it was popular, now he's against
it. It was OK to bring in Mexican farmworkers, now he's
against immigration. I don't like people like that.''
He hasn't changed much since his first election to the
Assembly in 1964, Burton said, ``except that I'm more
tolerant of viewpoints different than mine. I don't consider
that members who are conservatives are, on the face of it,
fascists, although some right-wingers would put on
brownshirts in a minute if they could.''
Burton learned to distrust conservatives on his daddy's
knee. His father, Thomas, was a traveling salesman who
decided to go to medical school when he was 36 years old and
brought his family west to set up shop in San Francisco--
making house calls in Hunters Point, not charging patients
who couldn't pay.
``The guy always had a social conscience,'' said Burton.
``He was always very color-blind. . . . I can remember
driving once down Golden Gate with him and we saw these kids
playing, 6 to 7 years old, black and white, and he said,
`Kids that age don't have a problem, but when they grow up
they're told, `You can't play with those people.'''
Thomas Burton, a native of Indiana, was an early supporter
of Franklin Roosevelt and the liberal wing of the Democratic
party. ``In 1956, he sent a $1,000 check to Adlai Stevenson,
which was a lot of money for anybody, much less our family,''
Burton said.
Their father's liberal leanings were passed on to his three
sons, starting with Phillip Burton. ``He ran the first time
in 1954,'' John Burton said of his legendary older brother.
``Challenged an incumbent who died two weeks before the
election and the guy still won.
``In `56, just after I got out of the army, he went against
Tommy Maloney, who'd been in city politics forever. I told my
brother, `You're f--------g nuts! If you lost to a dead man,
how are you going to beat this guy?' But he did, and when he
won it, it was a great tonic for me. The beginning of my
political career, really.''
In 1964, John Burton was elected to the Assembly from the
old 20th District, a district so Democratic he couldn't lose.
``It was different in Sacramento back then,'' he
remembered. ``I was calling the sergeant-at-arms `Sir.' Jesse
Unruh was speaker, I voted against him and he started to s--
---- on me a little bit. That kind of stuff happened all the
time.''
Unruh, son of a Texas sharecropper who boasted of not
wearing socks until he was 12 years old, was of the old
school, said Burton. ``People like Unruh and my brother ate,
slept and breathed politics. Not many people up here are into
it like that anymore.''
His longtime friend Speaker Willie Brown belongs to the old
school, too, and it made Burton grin to see the way Brown
out-maneuvered Republicans to win back his spot after the
last elections. ``Some Republicans objected to even calling
him `co-speaker.' They didn't want to even give him a share,
and now he's the speaker. The kind of tickles me.''
Calling back faces from the past, Burton remembered San
Francisco Supervisor Bill Blake, who once arrived late to a
restaurant, threw the keys to his car to a man standing at
the curb, thinking he was a valet, and came out after dinner
to find his car stolen. And then there was Congressman Eddie
Patton, who ``used to talk out of the side of his mouth like
this,'' Burton said, tossing frogtones out of his lower lip.
``Eddie was a piece of work.''
The phone rang and Burton talked a little, chuckled a
little, then offered the three golden rules for a man getting
old: ``Never pass a urinal, never ignore an erection and
never trust a fart.'' He leaned back in his chair and smiled,
nodding his head to the laughter that came bursting from the
other end of the phone.
Burton turned to talk about his growing-up years, when he
lived at the edge of West Portal and the whole city was his
playground. ``I went to Jefferson Grammar School, played
behind Colonial Creamery on Irving Street. When I was at
Lincoln High, we used to go out to McCoppin Park, 24th and
Taraval, regular. Drank some beer, played some basketball.
``I can remember, as a 12-year-old kid, working at the YMCA
on Friday nights, getting out about 9:30 and walking down
Leavenworth and up Market. You'd have all these hucksters out
on the street, selling trick packs of cards, ducks with their
heads dipping in water, and never thought for a minute
anything could happen to you.
``Sometimes I'd walk all the way out to Sloat Boulevard,
rights through the tunnel. If the streetcar came through, you
had to step to one side, let it go past. Walk all that way,
and never worry.''
Burton drew other pictures of San Francisco in the air,
including the image of John D. Monaghan, bartender at No. 10
Sanchez. ``I used to take my daughter there on St. Patrick's
Day--John standing behind the bar, answering the phone, `No.
10,' kind of rocking back and forth on his feet, talking to
everybody, more full of s-- than a Christmas turkey. Oh, man,
how could you not love it?''
But those days are gone, said Burton.
``Society's getting worse, therefore the city's getting
worse. You had the `homeless' at Third and Howard, a few
drunks sleeping at night in Union Square * * * but now
`homeless' is a part of our society. Not since the Depression
has there been the underclass we have now.''
Because the government flat gave up on the War on Poverty,
said Burton, ``we're reaping a whirlwind of neglect.''
There has been plenty of speculation about Burton's options
after he leaves the Assembly. He waves it away, saying,
``When I get out, there are two things I want to do--learn
Italian and play some bocce ball.''
But he's not getting out anytime soon.
Last month, he threw his fedora into the ring for state
senate--the 3rd District seat [[Page E1133]] belonging to
Sen. Milton Marks. Burton's ultimate decision, though, will
take into account whether Willie Brown runs for mayor of San
Francisco or Marks' seat.
``I think it's important for somebody to be doing battle
with the right-wing Republicans, who are more and more taking
over the Republican party in this state,'' said Burton. ``To
thwart their efforts to cripple public education, cripple
environmental protection and take away women's right to
choose. These are tough times, and you should get in the
fight and stay in the fight--not drop out and kind of bitch
and moan.''
Burton's name has been mentioned for The City's mayoral
race, but he doesn't see himself running. ``My mother didn't
raise me to cut back on libraries or playgrounds or AIDS
funding, or go after poor people on the street,'' he said.
Lately, San Francisco has been ``penny wise and pound
foolish,'' added Burton. ``But, to be fair, the city just
doesn't have the resources.''
It doesn't seem that long ago that Burton's best friend,
George Moscone, was assassinated at City Hall on Nov. 27,
1978. But it's been a long time, and--for Burton--a hard
road.
Moscone was his friend from the day they met in 1946 until
the day the mayor was shot to death with Supervisor Harvey
Milk, said Burton, who still can't understand the killings.
``It was such a f----g nutty thing,'' he said, looking down
at his hands. ``I heard some political forces were egging
(Dan White) on--`Somebody ought to kill that f----r,' things
like that. I don't know.
``During that period I was, shall we say, involved in doing
drugs, and I started doing more,'' Burton said. ``I don't
know if what happened to George was the reason for it, but I
guess I used it as a reason. I mean, George was as close to
me as my brothers.''
Burton found himself hooked on ``what they call crack now,
called it free-basing back then. I would get so depressed I
couldn't move. I'd stop for a couple of days and had to start
again, just to get energy.
``I got into nitrous oxide, too,'' said Burton. ``I'm a
very addictive-compulsive person * * * went on a four-month
run once, like you see on TV or in the movies, the guy's OK
one day and the next he's in the gutter.
``I learned you can't quit for six months and go out and
celebrate with a couple of toots or a couple of tokes and
quit the next day. The only way to do it is not to do it at
all.''
By the time of Moscone's death, Burton was already known
for stream-of-consciousness speeches from the floor of the
legislature that made no sense. In ``A Rage for Justice: The
Passion and Politics of Phillip Burton,'' a biography due out
this fall, Sacramento political columnist John Jacobs writes,
``John Burton was going downhill fast. Rumors surfaced that a
dry cleaner found packets of cocaine in his coat pocket * * *
friends feared they would find him dead somewhere.''
Burton got the message himself, calling an end to his brief
Congressional career two days before the filing deadline for
the 1982 elections. He remembers the date exactly: Sept. 30.
``I went back to vote against the balanced budget
amendment. That was on Thursday. Sunday, I flew down to a
hospital in Arizona and checked myself in. It was easy after
I really decided to do it, after I acknowledged half-assed to
myself that I've got a problem, instead of, `It's no big
deal.'
``Haven't had a drink since then,'' he said. ``Not too long
ago I was at a party where they had that Australian beer--
Foster's--I took a little sip and I could feel it going down.
I knew I'd be in trouble if I took a good gulp. And
nonalcoholic beer? I had some once and the guy says, `Tastes
good, huh?' and I said, `Yeah, it does taste good. I better
not have anymore.'
``I don't miss it,'' Burton said. ``I don't really like
being around people who drink. Three drinks and they have a
heat on, don't even know what they're saying. Women who take
a drink and just get silly.''
Burton, who has been married twice and remains divorced,
smiled and said, ``I'm sure it breaks their hearts, but I
just have to pass.''
In Jacobs' book, one Republican argued it was worth keeping
Burton in office because ``at least John Burton stood back in
his stupor and didn't do much but vote wrong.''
But Burton's legislative record has been anything but
passive.
``At one point, before the Republican governors got ahold
of it, our aged, blind and handicapped had a better standard
of living than the aged or blind anywhere else in the
country,'' said Burton, who sponsored SSI bills for the
handicapped. ``And our autistic children's program was the
first in the nation.''
Burton was also proud of his ``asset forfeiture law--
keeping law enforcement officers from just coming in and
grabbing property without cause.''
But he acknowledges his own political career doesn't
compare to the record of his brother, Phillip.
Some of Burton's best memories come from sharing the
spotlight with his brother back in Washington. ``I kept
thinking about what Phil and I together were doing to all
those conservatives in the Old Guard. Driving them up the
wall. I laughed my ass off.
``You look at what Phillip's done, it's awesome. There
hasn't been a minimum-wage bill since he did it, and he's
been dead 10 years. Redwood Park, Golden Gate National Park,
miners' lung legislation, and on and on and on. He just
brought me along for some of it.''
And Burton enjoyed the ride, every minute of it. He
remembered walking down the steps of the Capitol with his
brother, making up words to a song about angry Republicans,
then making them angrier with new legislation.
``Nowadays, there are so many intrusions into people's
rights to live decently,'' said Burton. ``If I did something
for the quality of life for people, just helped a little, who
gives a s-- whether they erect a statue to you or not?''
Having his political life wrapped up in the wonder of
California has made it all worthwhile, Burton said.
``California's got so much, you know? Like Pat Brown used to
say--`When I fly over this great, big beautiful state of
ours. . .'''
Burton, whose desk holds a glass ball that beams, ``God
Made the Irish #1'' and a nameplate with shamrocks on either
side, reminisced about the power of Irish districts when he
first started out, when ``the Mission was Irish, Noe Valley
was Irish, the Sunset. Around the Castro it was the
Scandinavians, the Excelsior was Italian, Potrero Hill--
Russians and Slavs, the Richmond was kind of Irish, kind of
Russian, there was Manila Town off Kearny, and the Haight was
a mixture.
``The mix has changed, but it's still a melting pot, and
it's wonderful. You can't beat it,'' said Burton, grinning
all at once.
``San Francisco. You've got to f____ love San Francisco,''
he said. ``I remember once when I went out to eat at a
restaurant, must have been down around Westlake, and there's
all this fog. I got out there, wound up just walking around
the parking lot for 10 minutes, maybe more, taking it all in.
``The woman I was with must have thought I was nuts, but
being away from San Francisco and coming back to the fog . .
. you've got to love it.''
Burton looked around his office, filled with photos from
three decades of political hand-shaking and head-shaking and
hand-wringing and loud singing in the front room with people
from the Mission and Sunset and Bayview. He smiled to
himself, hummed a bit of ``Big Rock Candy Mountain,'' and
said once more ``You've got to love it.''

____________________