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The loss of one of America's most beloved presidents--my uncle John Kennedy--to a brutal murder when I was 12 remains one of our nation's pivotal moments to this day. The memory is etched forever in the minds of those old enough to remember where they were when they heard that the president had been shot.
I was in music class at my school, the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Bethesda, Maryland, when Mother Mahaney came to tell me the news. Immediately I went home, where already many of my parents' friends had gathered. My normally loud and laughing home was now hushed.
I went upstairs to my parents' room and discussed the tragedy with a close friend of my father's, Dave Hackett. How on earth could this have happened? Wasn't my uncle fighting the good fights--against Communism and for civil rights, against poverty and for a more peaceful world? He had inspired millions of young people across the globe with his call to service. How could his own public service not have been protected? Where was the God we prayed to every day to protect Uncle John in his leadership? Did God know this had happened? Did he care?
On the day that President Kennedy was buried, my father gave me a note he had just written. He was devastated. He had spent most of the time trying to comfort Aunt Jackie and working out the vast logistics, protocol, and transition in the wake of his brother's death. But what he wrote to me did not convey fear, anger, or bitterness. He did not speak of revenge. He focused on the future:
Dear Kathleen,
You seemed to understand that Jack died and was buried today. As the oldest of the Kennedy grandchildren, you have a particular responsibility now-a special responsibility to John [my cousin] and Joe [my brother]. Be kind to others and work for your country.
Love,
Daddy
Can you imagine, in your own moment of horrendous loss, reminding your child--and reminding yourself, really--to turn outward, not inward, to perform works of kindness and not of anger or revenge? It still stops my breath to think of my father stealing away on that chaotic, dreadful day for a quiet half minute at his desk to make sure I would have this message with me always. He entrusted me with his sense of duty to family and to country.
Over the next few months, my father spent many nights alone in his room. He read The Greek Way by the German-born educator and classicist Edith Hamilton. He read Aeschylus and Shakespeare in an effort to deal with the enormity of his loss and the greatness of his grief. Those readings put him in touch with the traditions that don't sugarcoat death, that don't diminish pain and loss and horror. The worst confronts us, and the question for each of us is, How do we respond?
The day that Martin Luther King, Jr., was killed, my father was on his way to deliver a speech in Indianapolis during his campaign for president. He received word of Dr. King's murder and then word from Mayor Richard Lugar that he should not come to give the speech, as it was too dangerous downtown and the mayor could not guarantee his safety.
The mayor was not being unreasonable. Across the country, cities were about to break out in angry desperation and rioting as the awful news began to spread.
But my father believed that he had to go. His campaign was about reconciliation. He could not refuse to go. On his way there, he scribbled a few notes to himself.
Standing on the back of a flatbed truck, my father addressed the crowd and told them about Dr. King's death. They had not yet heard the news. After their gasps of grief and lost hope, he delivered a speech that, sadly, still resonates today (as my father also said to the crowd that day, "I had a member of my family killed … he was killed by a white man"):
"My favorite poet was Aeschylus. He once wrote, 'Even in our sleep, pain which we cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.'
"What we need in the United States is not division. What we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need is not violence or lawlessness-but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice for those who still suffer in our country whether they be white or whether they be black.
"So I ask you tonight to return home, to say a prayer for the family of Martin Luther King. But more importantly, to say a prayer for our own country, which all of us love--a prayer for understanding and compassion."
While riots broke out in more than 100 cities that night, there were none in Indianapolis. A black assistant chief of police said that the senator and his family could have slept outside all night and remained unharmed. My father had reached people with his own understanding of suffering and pain and with what had been his clear determination to serve and to help. His actions gave his words credibility.
After my father was killed, I went to work on a Navajo reservation in Rough Rock, Arizona. I tutored in English, planted pistachio trees, and helped build a science center out of adobe brick (it is still standing today). I had a sense of responsibility. I wanted to work. And over the next few years, I helped my mother take care of my younger brothers and sisters.
I had learned how to deal with death by watching my father's example. He had kept involved in public life. He had reached out to those who suffer. He had grasped the notion that suffering can be a path to wisdom, can be cathartic, a cleansing of the soul. And, all the time, he insisted to his own children that we try our best, do our best. He wanted to make sure that we had a sense of responsibility. To those who had been given much, much was expected.
I don't recall pity. We weren't expected to feel sorry for ourselves. Just the opposite. I often heard, around our house, that Kennedys don't cry.
I saw that my mother made an effort to be cheerful, to fill our house with activity and a sense that life must go on. That is, not to diminish the loss, which was horrific, but to affirm our duty to his memory and to the living.
Just as we honored those who had died, it was also wise to remember that we must live for those who were still with us. Our sadness didn't give us an excuse for endless solitude, for retreat from life's challenges. As Mother Jones, the great union activist of the early 20th century, put it: "Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living."
I was attracted to the notion that I needed to put my energy into those who were still on earth. There were ten other children to care for. To retreat into a real recognition of death would have deserted those who were still living-who still needed us now.
There was not much solace in this. But the call to live for the living was compelling.
My experience with my father's death is unique. But there are aspects of it that shed light on other situations.
When I was lieutenant governor of Maryland, I attended funerals for police, firefighters, and soldiers. Just as my father had, these men and women had died in the line of duty. They had given their lives so that we could all be safer, freer, and at peace. Our lives are better because of their dedication. The state of Maryland arranged their funerals with great solemnity, pomp, and circumstance. On a regular basis, their sacrifice was honored. The government and philanthropic individuals made a sustained effort to gather the families of these heroes together. It was important to let the families know that the sacrifice of their loved ones was appreciated.
Still, these stories are the exception. Most of us die in relative obscurity, as do those we love. We aren't afforded opportunities to talk about our parents or friends. We don't have annual ceremonies to remember them or to discuss the contributions they made to those around them, to remember their many dreams or to revive the spirit they embodied. We suffer their loss alone.
One of my daughters hates funerals. She really prefers not to go, even if they're for people she loved. I seldom succeed in convincing her to go.
But I wish I could. I find that funerals are a way to affirm a life, to acknowledge to myself and to the greater community that this person was important to me.
In his great poem "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd," Walt Whitman wrote eloquently of how he wanted to break the twig of a lilac so that he could cover the coffin with the perfumed flower. That gesture speaks to the need we have to say to the deceased: "I love you, I care for you, I want to bless you. You are in my heart."
***
Giving Comfort to Those Grieving the Loss of a Family MemberI have a set of lessons learned about how to console those who have suffered a loss, based on my own personal experience and observation over the years.
First, go to the funeral. Thirty years ago, Mayor Richard Lee of New Haven, Connecticut, told me that he always went to funerals. It's there that you see people, he said, and that they see you. It's there that you mingle with families, listen to them talk, and lend your full support. I had never heard that advice stated so explicitly, but he was exactly right. Death opens an enormous hole in the heart. A funeral service brings together those who can help fill that hole.
Second, call or write your friend when someone close to her or him has died. It is remarkable how few people actually reach out in tough times. Perhaps they don't know what to say; perhaps they think the person would prefer to be left alone. It is better to try and be rejected than to never try at all. Your friend can always resist the effort-not answer the phone, not open the letter. But it is hard to imagine anyone not appreciating it.
Third, never say "You will get over it." People rarely do.
The death of a loved one rips us apart, shakes us up, hurts terribly. So my fourth tip is to embrace the person who suffers. I think of the kiss my mother would give me when I would scrape my knee or cut my finger. Her act of love was more healing than any antiseptic.
Make it clear in the letter or phone call to your friend that she or he is wonderful. The outstretched arm, the warm embrace, the freshly baked cookies, or the fragrant flowers do not replace the life. Not by any means.
But they do say to the grieving friend, "You are loved. You are cherished."
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