The candidate

In Worcester, a gay ex-cop tests a city's image of itself

by Joe O'Brien

Summer is here, and this particular afternoon is a scorcher. Despite the heat, dozens of teenagers are packed into a tiny conference room at Worcester Polytechnic Institute for what is billed as a "youth leadership training" program. Al Toney, a former Worcester police officer and current gay activist, stands before the crowd, lecturing on the importance of fighting prejudice and being yourself. Most speakers in this situation would be greeted with snickers and jokes, but Toney, a handsome, muscular man, commands the audience's attention. It is an impressive moment.

Fast-forward four years to last month's meeting of the Worcester Human Rights Commission. Toney, a commission member, again holds the spotlight. On this night, the group is mulling over plans to hold public hearings on the state of civil rights in the city. Members are consumed more by process than by the implications of what might emerge.

Anyone who hadn't seen Toney since his WPI appearance would be startled by his reserve. An animated and forceful speaker then, with perhaps a tinge of zealotry, he's now quiet and thoughtful; the best word might be restrained. In that time, the 31-year-old has evolved from an outside agitator into a fixture of the community, a stalwart who represents organizations fighting for gay and minority rights. His passion is now channeled into a more mainstream desire to build institutions and work within the system: he was the force behind Safe Homes of Central Massachusetts, of which he is now director, a host of programs for gay youth including a drop-in center, mentoring programs, and efforts to recruit foster parents for gay kids. And after years of raising concerns about the need for diversity training, he's helped write and implement such programs for foster parents and public-safety workers.

And as of last December, Al Toney -- the new, restrained Al Toney -- is running for the Worcester City Council.

The time has come, he says, for him to enter the public arena. "Worcester needs people like myself," he says, "who will add to the diversity of the city's leadership and who will be able to serve as positive role models for our young people."

Worcester, the second-largest city in New England, is a heavily Catholic and largely blue-collar manufacturing town, a city not famously comfortable with frank talk about minority and gay issues. So a candidate who is both African-American and openly gay would seem to face daunting odds. The city has elected only one black councilor in the past 50 years: Stacey Luster, voted into office last year. Yet Toney's supporters say he is the right person to meet the challenge. The issues he talks about -- neighborhoods, small business -- are the bread and butter of local politics. At the very least, his early entry into the race will help make this fall's campaign one of the most interesting in years.

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It is a matter of received wisdom, especially in this Clintonian era of tell-all politics, that the heat of public examination deters many talented people from running for office. Al Toney doesn't have to worry about such exposure. For him, it came years ago, entirely by accident.

In a split second in the early-morning hours of September 29, 1991, Toney went from being just a regular guy to a household name: the black gay cop shot in the Ding Ho, a local Chinese restaurant.

On that fall night, the off-duty Toney confronted a group of rowdy young men who were harassing the restaurant staff over a takeout order. Toney identified himself as a cop, and the three men retreated. But they waited outside, and when Toney and his friends walked out onto the sidewalk, the men drew guns. Toney, unarmed, was shot in the shoulder. His friend Robert Domiano was shot in the back, and died in Toney's arms.

Toney's condition stabilized at St. Vincent's Hospital, but his troubles were far from over. As he recovered, the local media publicized something that not many people had known: Domiano, his murdered friend, had also been his lover.

Toney's personal life was front-page news for weeks. Meanwhile, he was still in the hospital; the bullet that pierced his shoulder had traveled through his chest and lodged near the heart. Doctors weren't sure they could remove it safely. Toney faced two options: he could do nothing, and be forced to live a sedentary life, or he could risk life-threatening surgery. Toney chose surgery. And after he recovered, this shy man transformed himself into a local icon and a community activist.

But if Toney had seemed destined to be anything, it was a great cop, not a politician. He grew up in a quiet Worcester neighborhood by the West Boylston town line, one of three children in a family whose business is public service. His father, state police sergeant Albert Toney Jr., was one of the state's first African-American officers. Today, he's a legendary figure, known both for his heroism and for his persistent fight to win equal opportunity for minorities in law enforcement. His mother, Deborah, is a veteran public-school teacher. Toney's two brothers, Eric and Christopher, followed in their father's footsteps: Eric is a Worcester firefighter; Christopher is a state police officer in Connecticut.

Although Toney's was one of only two African-American families in their neighborhood, race was not a major issue during his childhood. The young Al was a shy kid, but he came into his own at Holy Name High School, where he played sports and worked a part-time job. He attended Worcester State College, where during his junior year he and his brother passed the Worcester Police and Fire Department test.

Toney recalls those days fondly. He served on the local police force for five years, quickly moving from the street beat to the Great Brook Valley Strike Team, Worcester's first attempt at community policing. He acknowledges that his race was at times an issue, but he says that most people treated him well and he expected to become a career officer. "I loved being a cop in Worcester," Toney says, with a touch of sadness. But the shooting left him with permanent injury to his right shoulder. In 1993, after a brief return to the force, Toney was placed on permanent disability, and he retired from duty.

Even before the shooting, he had already come out to close friends, and he says he found most people supportive. In the wake of his very public outing, however, things changed. Toney recalls being shocked by the discrimination he endured from some people. Most of it was subtle: a certain tone of voice, phone calls never returned, visits to the hospital dwindling. A friend who was helping Toney repair his house never came back.

As soon as he had physically recovered, Toney threw himself into his new cause: to "make things right," to be sure his daughter, Kayla -- the child of a brief marriage in college -- would not "grow up in a world filled with bigotry and homophobia." Today, Toney is one of the state's leaders in the fight for gay and minority rights. He worked for AIDS Action Committee in Boston, and he joined the board of AIDS Project Worcester.

In addition to spearheading Safe Homes of Central Massachusetts, Toney has consulted with businesses to improve their minority-recruitment policies, and he has worked with employees to help them recognize their own prejudices. But the bulk of his time is spent working for the state Department of Education, training police and state workers on issues of diversity. He lectures on cultural differences and teaches officers to understand their own racial biases. Toney educates law-enforcement departments about the resources available in the community to help officers protect at-risk populations. He also works with these departments to improve minority recruitment.

And Toney is the owner of Strong Arm Cleaners, a small commercial and residential cleaning business in Worcester.

In many ways, he seems to have found a sense of peace and stability in his life. Toney recently bought a small house just down the road from his parents. He shares custody of his 10-year-old daughter. His life is a busy one, and it's hard to see where he's finding time to run for office. Still, this is an election Toney is determined to win. His father has no doubts: "Al has always accomplished the things he sets out to do," he says. "Just as he was a good cop, he will also be a good political leader for our city." The senior Toney is quick to point out the similarities between police work and politics: both jobs require the ability to listen to the community and to deal with adversity.

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Sittin in the living room of his comfortable home, Toney talks about his campaign, which he sees as a logical step in his lifetime commitment to the city. This is his first foray into politics, but Toney is clearly at ease with the rituals of public life. Why is he running? Toney responds smoothly: "I believe that my experience, dedication to the city, and my demonstrated leadership qualities make me a viable candidate who will be able to bring about positive change for our city." He says he has a vision for how to move Worcester forward.

For now, that vision is padded with generalities, but Toney says he is likely to build his platform on issues such as neighborhoods, small-business development, and a local arts district. He argues for the creation of a citywide organization of community groups to bring additional resources into neighborhoods. He criticizes the city's failure to develop a plan to attract new small businesses to Worcester. These are issues that could easily appeal to voters citywide, but still -- is Worcester ready to vote for a candidate, even a qualified candidate, who is gay and black?

Surprisingly, insiders seem to think so. The fact that he is gay and black may even be an asset. Former city councilor John Anderson thinks people will judge Toney on his agenda, especially if he sticks to hot-button items such as public safety and taxes. "People in Worcester," he says, "are not that different from people in Fall River who vote for Barney Frank, or voters on the Cape who elected Gerry Studds."

Privately, several of Worcester's key political strategists believe that race can even be an advantage in a general election. Consider last year's election of Stacey Luster. Whereas most newcomers, such as first-term councilor Tim Murray, have enjoyed a strong Irish voting base and built large grassroots campaign organizations, Luster had little campaign experience, a tiny organization, and only a small voting base to draw on. Yet she not only won on the city's progressive west side, but also drew large numbers of votes throughout Worcester.

But Toney is clearly not counting on any pregame analysis. Instead he is following the time-tested formula of getting organized early and raising money. He held his first fundraiser before the holidays. He has begun assembling his organization and has named a friend, Rick Benoit, to be his campaign manager. In the spring, Toney will go door to door, building support in each of the city's 50 precincts.

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Despite the positive rhetoric of local spin doctors, the reality is that Worcester is still a city with a long way to go on gay and minority issues. For Toney, the silent lingering of racism and homophobia is a double whammy. Issues embraced by the gay community, like condom distribution and needle exchange, have been soundly rejected by Worcester's leaders. And though some progress has been made in the area of race relations, a recent controversy over a downtown youth center has shown that the fault lines are still active: neighboring business owners succeeded in getting the center, which serves mainly black and Hispanic kids, kicked off Main Street. Worcester's neighborhoods remain largely segregated. Clearly, for Toney the campaign trail points straight uphill.

But it is also clear that Toney has several factors in his favor. He comes from a respected family of public servants. As a spokesman on public safety, he occupies an extraordinary position: he's not only a former police officer, but also a victim of a violent crime. Toney's compelling story, striking looks, and seasoned public-speaking skills will no doubt appeal to many voters. If he can raise money and build an organization -- and if Worcester voters ultimately decide that what he can do is a more important issue than simply who he is -- this outsider may walk through the doors of City Hall as Worcester's latest insider.

Joe O'Brien writes about politics for the Worcester Phoenix.