The exit of our second one-term Black mayor underscores the need for a bigger kind of leadership.
The abrupt end of Eric Adams’ mayoral campaign closes one of the most difficult chapters in recent New York politics. Voters had grown weary — embarrassed, even — by an administration marred by state and federal investigations, erratic messaging and a perceived alignment with Donald Trump that seemed antithetical to the interests of most New Yorkers. For Black voters in particular, the fallout carries a deeper sting: an uneasy recognition that the city may not see another Black mayor for a long time to come.
This is about more than Adams heading to the exits to become New York’s first one-term mayor since David Dinkins, the city’s last Black mayor, left office more than 30 years ago. The demographic and political realities shaping New York today are vastly different from those that enabled the city to elect David Dinkins in 1989 or even Adams in 2021. Outmigration of Black New Yorkers to southern states mirrors the transformation of other Rust Belt cities where once-robust Black communities have been hollowed out by economic and housing pressures. Those who remain in the city are more dispersed; Harlem, Bedford-Stuyvesant and other neighborhoods no longer hold the same density of Black voters who once anchored a powerful political base. At the same time, younger and wealthier Black residents who are gentrifying neighborhoods often lack deep ties to Democratic Party machinery. Their party registration may be as much a tool for access to the ballot box in the primary as an expression of ideological loyalty. The political ecosystem I grew up in feels far away.
I am a member of Generation X, perched at the intersection of analog and digital. We were children of white flight, navigating a city in flux even then. We were raised on hip-hop. We played outside until the streetlights came on. My earliest exposure to politics came during the era of Jesse Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition and David Dinkins’ “gorgeous mosaic,” which seemed to fit right into a modern and quickly changing city. Jackson’s electrifying speeches at the 1984 and 1988 Democratic National Conventions invited me to imagine a bigger table.
By the time I entered political work in the early 1990s, I had the rare chance to meet the so-called “Gang of Four” — David Dinkins, Charles Rangel, Percy Sutton and Basil Paterson — and work with them in various capacities throughout my career. Each was formidable, but Sutton left the deepest impression.
Sutton’s biography reads like a roll call of Black excellence in the 20th century. A Tuskegee Airman. Manhattan borough president. Co-founder of Inner City Broadcasting. Attorney to Malcolm X and Betty Shabazz. He was tall, elegant and carried a commanding presence. He spoke with sharp eloquence, always certain of his point. Other leaders referred to him as “The Chairman,” a recognition of his stewardship of Black politics rooted in Harlem but extending across the entire city.
What made Sutton unique was his mastery of both inside and outside political strategies. Andrew Cuomo, for instance, excelled in maneuvering within government but often struggled to connect with people. Eric Adams, who built his reputation as a retail politician, couldn’t really get his hands around the levers of public agencies and offices. Sutton could do both. As Manhattan borough president and a member of the powerful Board of Estimate, he wielded bureaucratic power to deliver for his constituents. Yet his closeness to Malcolm X, Stokely Carmichael and grassroots activists grounded him in the politics of mobilization. He understood that true influence required aptitude at both levels. Later, he worked to leverage Black media to tell our stories and leverage Black wealth to widen economic opportunity.
He also recognized the importance of political institutions within the Black community such as the once-powerful Council of Black Elected Democrats (COBED). Though largely forgotten today, COBED was a regular gathering of Black elected officials in New York City, an effort to set policy priorities and coordinate electoral strategy. Its decisions were not binding, but the effort at consensus gave weight to the concerns of Black New Yorkers. Many, including the other members of the Gang of Four, trusted his counsel. Al Sharpton, as a convener through the National Action Network — a successor to Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Push Wall Street Project — is the closest equivalent. But it’s unclear whether younger generations of political leaders and operatives will see that institution as part of the establishment politics it's campaigned against.
Staffers were not admitted to COBED meetings, but young operatives like me found outlets through parallel gatherings. Journalist Jonathan Hicks of The New York Times, for example, hosted off-the-record conversations for young Black politicos to trade insights and test ideas. The rules were simple: do no harm. You could work on opposing campaigns, but you supported each other’s growth. These experiences mirrored the seriousness of the elders while also acknowledging the gaps in mentorship.
In retrospect, those spaces were invaluable. We learned by watching, by absorbing the lessons of Sutton and his contemporaries. But as time passed, the “young guns” became veterans themselves. And without direct sanction from the old guard, our attempts to organize often met resistance. In a 2010 article, I reflected on how Harlem’s political elite sometimes treated new leaders with suspicion, guarding the gates rather than opening them. Sutton was different. His grasp of the totality of civic and political engagement meant he understood the importance of preparing the next wave of leadership.
Sutton’s absence since he passed away in 2009 has been keenly felt.
He lived long enough to see Dinkins ascend to City Hall and Barack Obama claim the presidency, but not long enough to witness Adams’ brief and troubled tenure. Since his death, New York City has lost other towering figures — Rangel, Harlem Chamber of Commerce leader Lloyd Williams, NAACP President Hazel Dukes Dinkins and Basil Paterson. Today, House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries, Attorney General Letitia James, Public Advocate Jumaane Williams, and Lieutenant Governor Antonio Delgado represent a lineage that can trace its roots back to Sutton’s generation: believing that institutions were flawed and inherently discriminatory, but that they could be improved by leaning into inclusive decision-making and power sharing. Sutton sought those linkages throughout the public and private sectors.
The entire Adams episode, however, reminds that Sutton’s absence left a vacuum not only of institutional history but of moral authority. From the outset, Adams sought to model himself on Dinkins’ example and legacy, aspiring to be as beloved. But Adams’ missteps were largely self-inflicted. His flirtation with Trump in his final months only deepened voters’ disillusionment. The enduring lesson he didn’t learn from Sutton, which Sharpton often conveys, is that Black politics is rooted in a sense of a shared fate — historical memory of political marginalization and collective understanding of the need for a strategic response.
It is tempting to romanticize the past and fall into a kind of nostalgia tourism, but the impending exit of Eric Adams from the political scene still leaves a hole in the aspiration of Black political power. The lesson of “The Chairman” is not about longing for the past. It is about recognizing the need for leaders who can marry institutional savvy with grassroots connection, who can build consensus and enduring institutions while mentoring the next generation.
Maybe Zohran Mamdani, if elected, will work to build a new “gorgeous mosaic.” Regardless, the next generation of Black political leadership in New York will not look like the last. The demographics are different, the neighborhoods transformed, the party less centralized. Percy Sutton showed us how to build-cross sector leadership that many across race and ethnicity benefitted from. We would be wise to remember.