Watching Freddy Work The Big Parade As the days dwindled down to a precious few, Fernando Ferrer brought his September song to Lincoln Terrace Park in Brooklyn yesterday. He was at that stage of a political campaign where all bone seems to have been eroded from the body, when the voice is hoarse, the eyes tired and even ambition and desire are sapped. "I would kill — well, not kill — but I'd do anything for 24 hours of sleep," he said with a wistful smile. "Just to sleep. ..." At 9:15 on a glorious, clear morning, Ferrer came with his aides into a small green meadow dominated by an immense white tent. He was greeted with hugs and handshakes. Older men and women with West Indian accents stepped forward, called him Freddy, reminded him of their names and wished him the best of luck. An itinerant newspaperman could see Ferrer breathe in deeply, as if receiving a small gift from the old gods; in his difficult craft, compliments are pure oxygen. Drums and rhythm tracks rolled down the slope of Buffalo Ave. from Eastern Parkway, where hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers were assembling for the West Indian American Day Carnival Parade. The rhythms washed through the tent, where tables were crowded with what the leaders called dignitaries, all of whom were attacking eggs, croissants, sausages and other earthly delights. Everyone seemed happy and loose. All were handsomely dressed. Ferrer found a seat beside Carl McCall to the side of the speaker's stand. He poked at a platter of food. He sipped black coffee. "I've learned a lot in this campaign," he said to me. "I learned a lot about the city, and I learned a little about myself, too." He paused. "But I feel good. I feel good. You saw what that was like out there, when I was coming in. Every hug and handshake I earned." Assault on the Mind All campaigns are exhausting these days, the body of each candidate carried for presentation, arms flailing and head bobbing, before this ethnic group and that religious congregation in hopes of endorsement. The relentless assault on the candidate's mind is even more bruising. All hope for sustained original thinking is lost as each politician's mind is sliced, bent, folded and mutilated by the urgings of political consultants, media swamis, unpaid advisers, old friends, various mullahs and imams, trade unionists, campaign contributors and those who sit on editorial boards. It's a barbaric process. "But there's no other way to do it," Ferrer said yesterday. "I wish there were. There isn't." We tried talking under the obliterating baritone of the sound system. What should President Bush do about amnesty for immigrants when he meets this week with Mexican President Vicente Fox? "The present laws are unfair," Ferrer said. "So I'm in favor of a general amnesty. For everybody who is here, legal or illegal, for everyone who has become a part of our society." He agreed that if all the immigrants suddenly left New York, the city would be in terrible trouble. "Nobody could get a taxi, nobody could find a greengrocer open at night, the economy would fall apart." And what would he do as mayor if the American economy continues sliding back into a pre-Clinton recession? "As mayor, I'd have to make tough choices," he said. "Even if the economy recovers. I mean, just as an example, how can you cut after-school programs for kids? They're already not good enough, and now they want to get rid of them altogether. This is what we call a disconnect! What will working mothers do? Quit their jobs? And drive up welfare costs? I guarantee that if you cut after-school programs, crime goes up." Policies, revenues and budgets are, of course, part of all politics. But New York is always a bit different; more dispersed, more vehement, often too swift to take sides based on the accidents of birth. Ferrer said he thought there were many common threads under that white tent in Lincoln Terrace Park yesterday, threads joining the Spanish-speaking Caribbean to the English-speaking Caribbean. "And not just plantains," he said. Many Paths to City The different islands share histories of slavery, of rich popular cultures, of independence movements. Every island has had its own diaspora. All produced human beings who found their own routes to New York, where they have enriched the life of the city. "They came here the way my grandmother did — to live better," he said. "For many of them, it was like the Irish, the Jews, there just wasn't any choice. You leave, or you die." Ferrer's grandmother came to New York before the war, when the ships of the Bull Line docked in Brooklyn. "She arrived on the Marine Tiger," he said with a smile. "That's the Puerto Rican Mayflower." And though life here was never easy, and his people, like so many millions of others, suffered the idiocies of bigots, Ferrer is proof that the process still works. He has been the best Bronx borough president in memory; he is a serious candidate for mayor; he has remained a decent man. He wants to win but might lose because he has insisted on reminding audiences that someone must speak for los de abajo, the underdogs, those who live on the margins of this marvelous city. This part of the Ferrer campaign has been criticized by some as fostering class hatred, or making race the heart of the argument, or creating a vision of Them vs. Us. Such arguments are not new; they were made against the Irish in the 19th century. But Ferrer has been endorsed by Al Sharpton and proudly marched with him yesterday, and that is cited as evidence that he envisions a city ruled by a black-Latino coalition. All of this is nonsense. Ferrer simply wants all citizens to be part of that "us." "My vision of the city is a great beef stew, with all kinds of good stuff in the pot," he says. "Who wants just tomato soup?" Under that tent yesterday, he saw Alan Hevesi and Mark Green, greeted them with cordiality; the Democrats know one another, and their campaigns have been free of venom. He saw Mayor Giuliani walk in, too, to present a proclamation to Carlos Lazama, one of the primary architects of the parade. Giuliani was draped with a sash saying "Mayor," wore sunglasses and seemed hunched and exhausted from his various troubles. If Ferrer thought about it, Giuliani was a symbol of what the job can do to the strongest human being. Back Into the Flow Then Ferrer went out to the parade, to the smoke of baking corn and curried goat and the trays of jerk beef. He saw women dressed in the gold and turquoise of carnival and men wearing T-shirts bearing the names of Grenada and Trinidad, Guyana and Jamaica. Many of them were waving American flags. And listen, mon: That's Bob Marley. And look, over there, near the barricade: A cop is dancing.