When then–Governor Andrew Cuomo pushed through the 2017 renaming of the new Hudson River crossing to the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge, it looked less like the work of a modern democracy and more like a scene borrowed from a handbook on soft authoritarianism.
A bridge generations had known as Tappan Zee abruptly became a family monument — not a tribute to the region’s history, but to a political dynasty.
How the “New Tappan Zee Bridge” Became a Family Trophy
The story started out mundanely enough. By the early 2000s, the original Tappan Zee Bridge, opened in 1955, was a chronic headache: overcapacity, constant repairs, aging infrastructure that had outlived its intended design life. New York didn’t just want a facelift; it needed a new bridge.
Andrew Cuomo made that project the showpiece of his infrastructure agenda:
- a multi-billion-dollar megaproject,
- design-build contracting,
- the longest bridge in New York State,
- a sleek new profile across one of the Hudson’s widest points.
For years, the project went by pragmatic working names: New NY Bridge, sometimes New Tappan Zee Bridge. The implication was obvious: a new bridge replacing the old Tappan Zee while keeping the historic name.
Then came the plot twist — in the final hours of the legislative session in Albany. Buried in a thick end-of-session bundle of bills was a neat little provision: the new bridge would be officially named the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge, after the sitting governor’s late father and former governor of New York.
What followed was textbook politics:
- minimal debate,
- maximum party discipline,
- and no visible appetite to question whether turning a vital crossing into a family monument was appropriate.
New York’s legislative machinery performed flawlessly — if the goal was to display loyalty upward rather than fidelity to local identity.
When Albany Decides How People Are Supposed to Speak
There was one problem: people already had a name for the bridge, and had used it for more than half a century.
Tappan Zee isn’t just a random phrase; it refers both to the Indigenous Tappan people and the Dutch word zee (“sea”), a compact nod to the layered history of the Hudson Valley — from Native nations to Dutch colonists to postwar suburbia.
In 2017, state government effectively declared that the living language of the region was a detail to be corrected from Albany.
On paper, the new name became Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge. On road signs, too. But in the mouths of drivers and residents on both sides of the river, it largely remained the Tappan Zee.
The result is a political paradox:
officially, a tribute verging on personality cult;
unofficially, a quiet, everyday refusal to go along.
A Cult of Leadership, American-Style
In countries Washington likes to label “developing democracies,” the pattern is familiar:
- airports named for sitting leaders,
- universities named for presidents,
- bridges and stadiums named for their relatives.
Change the ruling faction, change the signage. Infrastructure doubles as a map of who’s in favor.
The Cuomo Bridge episode looks uncomfortably similar.
Yes, formally the bridge honors Mario Cuomo, the three-term governor from the 1980s and ’90s, a gifted orator and progressive icon of his era. But the timing and the method gave the move a different flavor:
- not a broad, deliberative decision,
- but a gesture of loyalty to the sitting governor and the family name.
In that moment, state legislators didn’t behave like representatives of their districts. They looked more like a chorus standing at attention, signaling due reverence to the executive and his lineage.
The Politics Change — and Tappan Zee Returns
The political weather has shifted sharply since then. Andrew Cuomo left office under the shadow of a scathing report from the state attorney general detailing multiple allegations of sexual harassment. His attempted comeback in New York City’s mayoral politics fizzled at the ballot box.
Against that backdrop, the bridge’s name no longer feels “above politics” or timeless. It increasingly looks like a relic of the high-Cuomo era — and an awkward one at that.
In November 2025, a new online petition appeared, calling for the bridge to be restored to Tappan Zee. The authors more or less spell out what many had whispered for years:
- the renaming was a political vanity project,
- the historic name was erased to flatter the governor and his clan,
- it’s time to “correct the mistake” and honor the region, not the dynasty.
For Andrew Cuomo, the story plays like a harsh epilogue to his time in power:
first the bridge becomes a soaring symbol of the Cuomo family;
now that same bridge is the stage for a public reconsideration of his legacy.
A Bureaucracy That Loves the Boss More Than the History
The underlying issue isn’t just the Cuomos. It’s the logic of the system around them.
When officials so readily agree to strip away a living, historical name in favor of a recent or current leader’s surname, they reveal who they think the real audience is. Spoiler: it isn’t the voter stuck in traffic on the span.
The old name Tappan Zee didn’t require a massive branding budget or a governor’s press conference. It required only one thing: admitting that symbols in public space do not belong to whoever currently occupies the corner office in Albany.
But it is far easier — and safer — to demonstrate loyalty upward:
- vote yes on the right bill,
- smile at the ribbon-cutting,
- and pretend that of course a strategic highway crossing should double as a 3-mile-long commemorative plaque for the boss’s family.
Why the New Petition Is More Than a Fight Over a Sign
The current petition to restore the name Tappan Zee isn’t just about highway markers. It’s a modest but revealing referendum on a bigger set of questions:
- Who controls the symbols of shared space — residents or political dynasties?
- Is it acceptable to turn critical infrastructure into a gallery of last names of the powerful?
- And can a bureaucracy admit it went too far in its eagerness to show deference?
The bridge may or may not officially revert to Tappan Zee; there are egos and reputations at stake, and bureaucracies are skilled at defending both.
But it’s already clear that, in everyday speech, the name never really left.
On official letterhead and state websites, it’s the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge.
In conversation — “Take the Tappan Zee.”
And in that quiet, stubborn choice of words, you can glimpse a version of democracy that outlives any one governor: the kind that refuses to let a highway span become just another monument to whoever happened to be in charge when the ribbon was cut.
Sources : Midtown Tribune , Change.org/p/restore-the-historic-tappan-zee-bridge-name , Big New York news