History teaches us that iconic figures and events often make deep impressions that stretch beyond the individual and the circumstance to capture our own personal disappointments and sorrow.
And with Bobby Kennedy, it has always been very personal to me.
Today’s post begins with family lore. The year was 1964; the place, the Municipal Airport in Kansas City, Missouri. Both my parents seemed in awe of Jack but in love with Bobby. My father guessed that Bobby would be coming through a different and less crowded entrance. As he did, I imagine all 10 of us were thrilled to discover he was right! But no one more so than my brother Frank, 5, who was crushed that the moment passed and he had missed shaking Bobby’s hand. Whether it was for the love for a child or the adulation of someone who represented hope, my mother propelled herself and Frank forward, (along with my 9-month old sister, Lorraine, in her arms) rushing after Bobby. His security pushed her aside but Bobby stopped and walked along with my mother asking about all the kids he had just met, comparing to how many he had at the time. And then he leaned over to shake Frank’s hand and tousle his hair. It is one of life’s ironies that Frank is the only member in my family to become a Republican but he still has deep admiration for Bobby. And my mother says to this day, she has never seen eyes more blue or a face more full of sadness.
I was six years old when he was murdered four years later. Eight weeks before, I had been pulled from my First Grade class mid-day and sent home with my brothers and sisters. Martin Luther King had been killed and there was fear of rioting. I had seen National Guard tanks drive down our street the summer before during the riots. I remember feeling sadness for Mrs. Renaud, the only African-American teacher at my elementary school and her daughter, Nikki, who was in my class. It seemed to me as if Dr. King was a member of their family in that small way in which children view the world.
My father cried. My mother ripped from a wall in our TV room, a popular poster of the era of Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway as “Bonnie and Clyde.” I remember hearing through her anguished tears, “I am so sick of violence in this country.” I daydreamed I was a famous doctor who could save him so everyone could be happy again. We went to Mass. Later that evening I went to a family friend’s house for dinner. There was no conversation about Bobby, no sorrow, no tears. I was stunned that this family was not at all touched by the death of someone I assumed everyone loved. I wanted to go home. Like the Renauds and Dr. King, it seemed that Bobby was a part of my family.
Today’s post begins with family lore. The year was 1964; the place, the Municipal Airport in Kansas City, Missouri. Both my parents seemed in awe of Jack but in love with Bobby. My father guessed that Bobby would be coming through a different and less crowded entrance. As he did, I imagine all 10 of us were thrilled to discover he was right! But no one more so than my brother Frank, 5, who was crushed that the moment passed and he had missed shaking Bobby’s hand. Whether it was for the love for a child or the adulation of someone who represented hope, my mother propelled herself and Frank forward, (along with my 9-month old sister, Lorraine, in her arms) rushing after Bobby. His security pushed her aside but Bobby stopped and walked along with my mother asking about all the kids he had just met, comparing to how many he had at the time. And then he leaned over to shake Frank’s hand and tousle his hair. It is one of life’s ironies that Frank is the only member in my family to become a Republican but he still has deep admiration for Bobby. And my mother says to this day, she has never seen eyes more blue or a face more full of sadness.
I was six years old when he was murdered four years later. Eight weeks before, I had been pulled from my First Grade class mid-day and sent home with my brothers and sisters. Martin Luther King had been killed and there was fear of rioting. I had seen National Guard tanks drive down our street the summer before during the riots. I remember feeling sadness for Mrs. Renaud, the only African-American teacher at my elementary school and her daughter, Nikki, who was in my class. It seemed to me as if Dr. King was a member of their family in that small way in which children view the world.
My father cried. My mother ripped from a wall in our TV room, a popular poster of the era of Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway as “Bonnie and Clyde.” I remember hearing through her anguished tears, “I am so sick of violence in this country.” I daydreamed I was a famous doctor who could save him so everyone could be happy again. We went to Mass. Later that evening I went to a family friend’s house for dinner. There was no conversation about Bobby, no sorrow, no tears. I was stunned that this family was not at all touched by the death of someone I assumed everyone loved. I wanted to go home. Like the Renauds and Dr. King, it seemed that Bobby was a part of my family.
As I g
rew up, I read everything I could about him. And deepening the connection, I remember, “Robert F. Kennedy and His Times” was the last book my father read.
There is no question that Kennedy was a flawed man. He supported one of the most hated senators in American history, Joseph McCarthy. He was obsessed with Jimmy Hoffa (perhaps their propensity for revenge was a mirror). He was famous for saying “Don’t get mad, get even.” He was considered ruthless, vindictive, and a person who would do anything to win. He was slight, barely 5’9”, introverted, a stumbling and uncomfortable speaker. There are shadows in many other places that may never be uncovered.
But the tragedy of his brother’s death changed him in a noble and lasting way. It is in this transformation that his largeness can be found. His sister-in-law, Jackie, was responsible for much of his adult education, introducing him to Greek mythology and French existentialism. He seemed to absorb these different perspectives of life as a salve against the pain in ways the faith of his childhood could not offer.
And in this sorrow, came the compassion and authenticity that reached across the divides of America that no politician since has been able to recreate. Bobby didn’t look like the disenfranchised, the forgotten, the oppressed, the poor, the hated, and the ignored –nor did he in his abundant wealth and extreme sports - live like them. He was, however, the first white male leader who noticed them; noticed them as human beings and not simply a demographic providing the Democratic Party with a voting advantage.
As he transformed, he became a more courageous politician. His face bore a vivid and ravaged map which spoke of what it meant to be human – to know both the best and worst of times; to know profound joy and deep loss; to know supreme accomplishment and bitter regret. And so, he entered places in which the forgotten of America and outside of America persevered, their hope stowed away in place of the grit needed to survive: the burnt-out streets of Watts, the forgotten black hills of Appalachia, the ignored farmlands of California, the entrenched poverty of Bedford-Stuyvesant. He flew to California to support the migrant worker’s strike and was humbled by the dedication of their leader, Cesar Chavez. Ascending from a horrendous coal mine in Lota, Chile, his comment to a reporter was, “If I had to work in that mine, I’d be Communist, too.” He challenged South Africans, still under apartheid rule, to imagine God as black.
He wasn’t afraid – although he was shocked –to listen in silence to the anger of blacks who were fed up with the slow pace of civil rights progression. Although their lack of patriotism was abhorrent to him (much like those who were naively shocked by Michelle Obama’s uncensored outburst of pride when her husband won the Iowa primary), he sought to understand their anger.
When I see photos of him cradling the face of a poor child in his very privileged hands – it is clear it wasn’t for his own personal glory but for the photo opportunity that would allow that child’s agony to be known to a wider audience. Over and over, published articles and books tell of his weeping after witnessing scenes of poverty and despair. It is no wonder, yet still astonishing, that he routinely used the words love and compassion in political speeches.
His words on the occasion of Martin Luther King’s death is one of these speeches and it is the best ever given by an American politician. He spoke in a poor, black, neighborhood in which the police refused to protect him. He asked the crowd to put down their signs of support for him and then he told them the news. He used no notes. He quoted the Greek poet, Aeschylus, in a voice –halting and full of sorrow- without arrogance, without exclusion, without expediency - because it was what had comforted his own soul and his own heart; and perhaps, theirs as well. Indianapolis –unlike many other American cities that night- was quiet.
His other nod to the Greeks, the phrase, “let us dedicate ourselves to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world” is what I wrote on my team’s white board when I returned to work after 9/11. It was one of the first things I thought of on that awful day because it captured the essential human condition – how to make sense of that which has no explanation?
rew up, I read everything I could about him. And deepening the connection, I remember, “Robert F. Kennedy and His Times” was the last book my father read.There is no question that Kennedy was a flawed man. He supported one of the most hated senators in American history, Joseph McCarthy. He was obsessed with Jimmy Hoffa (perhaps their propensity for revenge was a mirror). He was famous for saying “Don’t get mad, get even.” He was considered ruthless, vindictive, and a person who would do anything to win. He was slight, barely 5’9”, introverted, a stumbling and uncomfortable speaker. There are shadows in many other places that may never be uncovered.
But the tragedy of his brother’s death changed him in a noble and lasting way. It is in this transformation that his largeness can be found. His sister-in-law, Jackie, was responsible for much of his adult education, introducing him to Greek mythology and French existentialism. He seemed to absorb these different perspectives of life as a salve against the pain in ways the faith of his childhood could not offer.
And in this sorrow, came the compassion and authenticity that reached across the divides of America that no politician since has been able to recreate. Bobby didn’t look like the disenfranchised, the forgotten, the oppressed, the poor, the hated, and the ignored –nor did he in his abundant wealth and extreme sports - live like them. He was, however, the first white male leader who noticed them; noticed them as human beings and not simply a demographic providing the Democratic Party with a voting advantage.
As he transformed, he became a more courageous politician. His face bore a vivid and ravaged map which spoke of what it meant to be human – to know both the best and worst of times; to know profound joy and deep loss; to know supreme accomplishment and bitter regret. And so, he entered places in which the forgotten of America and outside of America persevered, their hope stowed away in place of the grit needed to survive: the burnt-out streets of Watts, the forgotten black hills of Appalachia, the ignored farmlands of California, the entrenched poverty of Bedford-Stuyvesant. He flew to California to support the migrant worker’s strike and was humbled by the dedication of their leader, Cesar Chavez. Ascending from a horrendous coal mine in Lota, Chile, his comment to a reporter was, “If I had to work in that mine, I’d be Communist, too.” He challenged South Africans, still under apartheid rule, to imagine God as black.
He wasn’t afraid – although he was shocked –to listen in silence to the anger of blacks who were fed up with the slow pace of civil rights progression. Although their lack of patriotism was abhorrent to him (much like those who were naively shocked by Michelle Obama’s uncensored outburst of pride when her husband won the Iowa primary), he sought to understand their anger.
When I see photos of him cradling the face of a poor child in his very privileged hands – it is clear it wasn’t for his own personal glory but for the photo opportunity that would allow that child’s agony to be known to a wider audience. Over and over, published articles and books tell of his weeping after witnessing scenes of poverty and despair. It is no wonder, yet still astonishing, that he routinely used the words love and compassion in political speeches.
His words on the occasion of Martin Luther King’s death is one of these speeches and it is the best ever given by an American politician. He spoke in a poor, black, neighborhood in which the police refused to protect him. He asked the crowd to put down their signs of support for him and then he told them the news. He used no notes. He quoted the Greek poet, Aeschylus, in a voice –halting and full of sorrow- without arrogance, without exclusion, without expediency - because it was what had comforted his own soul and his own heart; and perhaps, theirs as well. Indianapolis –unlike many other American cities that night- was quiet.His other nod to the Greeks, the phrase, “let us dedicate ourselves to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world” is what I wrote on my team’s white board when I returned to work after 9/11. It was one of the first things I thought of on that awful day because it captured the essential human condition – how to make sense of that which has no explanation?
Putting the romanticism aside, here’s the truth. He was not the favored candidate. He did not have the support of the Democratic Party. He was not the front-runner. He was not the candidate of intellectual liberals. He waited much too long to speak out against Vietnam and because of it, he did not –contrary to current media lore– have the student vote. His supporters were not the union heads but the union rank and file.
What he had was the poor –and he had them whether they were white, black, Latino, or Asian. In the Indian
a primary, he won 85% of the black vote, and also won seven counties which had voted for George Wallace in the previous election.What he had was the ability to transcend the boundaries of his upbringing - to demonstrate respect for those who were not respected, to share life’s pain in a way that did not demand pity but challenged us to be more compassionate, more loving, more honest, more soul-searching, and yes, more full of hope. Because this was the way he was living his own life.
For me, Bobby’s life is one of deep spiritual pain; pain that asks, “Why?” And when finding no answer, making the choice to keep being human, keep finding truth in compassion, and keep seeking salvation in empathy; redemption in action.
Maybe for those of us who admire him, we see our own potential for salvation, recognize our own pain of exclusion, our own chance for redemption. Maybe in his life’s example, we too, may choose a different and better way to live as individuals and as a country. We too, may, seek a newer world.
