Remembering Mike Fitzpatrick six years later
In 1994, a young Republican named Mike Fitzpatrick was knocking on doors in a Levittown neighborhood when a dog lunged from a porch and bit him. Most candidates would have packed it in for the day, heading to a clinic or at least home to change.
But not Mike.
The future Bucks County commissioner and four-term congressman simply looked at his torn, bloodied shirt, wiped himself off, and moved to the next house. He had more neighbors to meet.
It is hard to believe that six years have passed since we lost Mike Fitzpatrick to cancer. In those years, so much has changed and today it seems like politics is primarily performative; most politicians prioritize the plaudits of pundits over the concerns of constituents.
But not Mike.
Mike was an Irish Catholic from Levittown who wore cowboy boots and a wrinkled suit, and spoke with the quiet grit of a man who never forgot where he came from. He had a steel-trap memory that could recall people, places, and events in a way that made people feel seen, heard, and remembered by their congressman.
While that’s the relationship with their representatives the founders had intended, it is far from common. The congressional roster — then and now — is full of individuals changed by the glitz and glam of D.C. and the self-importance of being “the member.”
But not Mike.
He was a staunch fiscal conservative who befriended a train engineer so he could hitchhike to Washington in the engine cab, saving the taxpayers the cost of an Amtrak ticket. He was the rare representative who returned over $100,000 of his office budget to the treasury. He slept on his office couch to maximize every hour he could spend working for his people.
Like when a local mother reached out because her son had been illegally detained in Honduras while working in Central America. The Obama State Department essentially said, “Sorry — nothing we can do.”
But not Mike.
He flew to Honduras, walked into that prison himself, and dared the officials to stop him from bringing those Americans back to U.S. soil.
He understood that the power of a congressman wasn’t found in the title but in the ability to stand in the gap for those who had no other advocate.
That type of solution-oriented work helped him earn the distinction as one of the most bipartisan members of a divided Congress. In today’s climate, many view bipartisanship as a sign of weakness or a betrayal of principle.
But not Mike.
He understood that you don’t have to surrender your beliefs to find a solution. He could be a tireless crusader for the right to life and a champion for land conservation in the same afternoon because he saw both as part of a single duty: protecting what is permanent and sacred. He wasn’t interested in “owning” the other side; he was interested in owning the problems that kept his neighbors awake at night.
Even when the cameras weren’t rolling, Mike was omnipresent. Critics often poked fun at his devotion to Eagle Scout ceremonies, believing them nothing more than political photo-ops.
But not Mike.
As an Eagle Scout himself, he viewed those courts of honor as the bedrock of a healthy community. He treated a grocery store run like a town hall.
Perhaps the greatest testament to his character was his exit from office. In a town where people cling to the levers of power until their final breath, most find an excuse to stay just one more term.
But not Mike.
He had promised term limits, and he kept that promise. He returned to the private sector and to local boards, continuing the quiet work of serving the Bucks County he had loved since childhood.
But even on his departure from public office, the name Fitzpatrick remains so powerful in Bucks County that in 2016, when his brother Brian Fitzpatrick was running to fill the seat, national Democrats blasted the airwaves with five second TV ads appended to their candidate’s own forcefully telling voters “Brian Fitzpatrick is not Mike Fitzpatrick.”
Just last year, the unrelated Amy Fitzpatrick — a Democrat running for a seat on the Court of Common Pleas — surprised some prognosticators as the highest vote-getter in the county, outperforming candidates in high-profile races for sheriff and district attorney. Not to demean Ms. Fitzpatrick’s campaigning ability, but it is difficult not to look at her leading vote total as partly powered by a name that voters associate with reliability and service.
Today, Mike rests at the Washington Crossing National Cemetery — a place that exists because he refused to take “no” for an answer from the federal bureaucracy.
Six years later, we don’t just miss his vote or his voice in the well of the House. We miss the decency he represented. Today, it seems leaders are looking for the spotlight or a influencer gig once out of office.
But not Mike.
He looked for a way to be useful. So, on this anniversary, the best way to honor him is to stop looking for leaders on television and start looking for the ones willing to get their hands a little dirty and their shirts a little bloodied for the sake of their neighbors.
Publius Pax is a tenth-generation Bucks Countian, political consultant, and author.
