Reflecting on 'Mayor for Life'

AS SOMEONE who grew up in Washington, D.C., I was one of those folks who jokingly called former Mayor Marion Barry Jr. "Mayor for Life.'

Sometimes I said it with admiration.

Other times with disgust.

There were times when I said it with sheer embarrassment.

Today, I call him "Mayor for Life" with sadness.

News that Barry had died early yesterday at the age of 78 hit me as if he'd been a long-lost relative. I had just seen a photo of Barry on a friend's Facebook page and noticed that Barry looked feeble, grandfatherly even, as he held the hand of the D.C.'s new mayor-elect Muriel Bowser. Maybe I read too much into a snapshot but to me it symbolized the city's old guard was passing on and a new generation was taking over.

People talk a lot of trash about Barry.

I won't lie. I've done it too.

He gave you plenty of ammunition. There will probably be a lot of rehashing the worst in the days leading up to his funeral. He wouldn't be surprised. Barry leaves behind a flawed legacy.

But even with his many failings, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that he also did a lot of good for my hometown - something that gets overlooked in light of his infamous 1990 drug arrest and subsequent legal troubles. Barry's story is the stuff of legends. The man was re-elected mayor in 1994 after serving a prison term.

Growing up, he was the only mayor I really knew.

I still remember how excited my parents were when he was elected. Back then, Barry symbolized hope and black empowerment. Under his leadership, the city's black middle class grew as African-Americans got access to government jobs and contracts previously out of reach. Barry's summer-jobs program gave many of my friends their first work experiences. He helped revitalize one of the nation's worst red-light districts by building a municipal building there.

True, he was frequently dogged with whispers of corruption. Barry was known to have a thing for the ladies. His roving eye was legendary as were murmurings about late-night partying and drug use. He once tapped me on the backside at an event and when I gave him a dirty look, he acted as if nothing had happened. There were the constant stories about political corruption and such.

During the late 1980s and 1990s, he became emblematic of all that was wrong with D.C. as the city struggled financially and drug wars terrorized the streets. His second drug arrest took place in 2002, when the U.S. Park Police found traces of marijuana and crack cocaine on him.

Last night, Omar Tyree - the Philadelphian and Central High School grad who co-authored Barry's autobiography - told me he hopes that people will read his entire life story as a civil-rights activist and a champion for D.C.'s poor and working classes, not just the salacious bits. He recalled that Barry was determined to safeguard his legacy.

"Marion Barry Jr. is much more than a sound bite," Tyree said. "And he says that in the very first paragraph of his introduction."

Still, Barry remained a fixture in D.C. political circles.

We're talking about the nation's capital. Not some small town. If his life were a movie plot, it wouldn't have been plausible. For as long as I've known D.C., it seemed as if residents were stuck with Barry, which is why they called him, "Mayor for Life."

The name stuck, too.

He even named his 2014 autobiography "Mayor for Life: The Incredible Story of Marion Barry Jr." I hope his family has that nickname engraved on his tombstone. He's earned it.