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The Kennedy
Touch
It was an Armani jacket day. Caroline Kennedy was
scheduled to speak to a small group of loyal
Democrats lurking in the Republican stronghold of
Naples, Florida. The morning air was unusually
brisk. There was concern that we might have to
stand in line in the “freezing”
temperature. On the rare days when the temperature
is below 70 degrees, we Neapolitans shiver and
whine, often blaming our tropical blood. The past
few Democratic events had an uncomfortably few
attendees so we did not worry too much about a
line. Maybe today would be different. My husband,
whose strong work ethic, allowed him to take off
only for short lunch breaks and school events had
actually agreed to accompany me to the Vineyards
Country Club to listen to the little Kennedy girl.
His presence mid morning at a political rally and
my Armani jacket spoke volumes about the importance
of this event.
You see, we remember him.
We actually loved our leaders. We remember Jack,
and Martin, and Bobby and who we were then. We
marched for ERA and mustered courage to walk in
demonstration lines against Vietnam. Those were the
days when American soldiers shot college kids for
demonstrating against the war, so it was scary. We
believed that peace, prosperity and equality were
possible for everyone. Our hope was crushed by the
murders of our great leaders. A generation of
Americans shared trauma and quit
believing.
We did not have
post-traumatic experts or grief counselors then.
Thus, we simply hardened our hearts. As a
psychotherapist, I know that the way a person
handles grief and loss is often a primary measure
of their mental health. These tragic events were
social compressors that became personalized
tragedies and reduced the capacity of our society
to care. But, today a Kennedy is in town! That was
something special.
We parked the car in a
line of Obama-sticker-laden cars. We smiled in
secret delight and relief to know our own
Obama-fied car would not be keyed nor would we be
criticized in this like-minded group. My husband
commented that there were many cars. As we entered,
a woman called to her friend that there are only a
few seats left. I shimmied into the last vacant
seat luckily in the third row. My husband leaned
against the back wall. He preferred to
stand.
The place was packed. I
found myself sitting to the left of a long line of
well-dressed women who smiled and introduced
themselves as a group, “We’re Planned
Parenthood.” I imagined the newspaper photo.
If I wanted to discourage new therapy clients in
Red-town, I would be photographed at the double
whammy of an Obama rally sitting with Planned
Parenthood. Boldly, I defended my own right to
choose political parties and chatted with them
amicably. A group of males encircled my husband and
seemed to be having a Bush-McCain bashing good time
in the back of the room.
On my left, sat a
sweet-faced elderly woman. We smiled at each other
but she just sat on the edge of her seat nervously
watching the door for the speaker.
“Hi, I’m
Molly,” I offered.
“My name is
Gilda.” She pronounced it in the Italian way.
Just then, Connie Bransilver, my sister-in-law and
professional photographer greeted me draped in a
heavy looking long-lens camera.
“Get my photo with
Caroline,” I insisted. She said she would try
and positioned herself near the podium. The back of
the room was now body to body and more people were
waiting outside. I searched the crowd for someone
in charge but decided I was the one I was waiting
for. I stood up and got the attention of the second
row.
“Hey, what do you
think about pushing all the rows together so more
people can get inside.”
To my amazement, several
hundred people stood up and began closing ranks.
“I am a born
leader,” I joked to my Precinct team captain,
Jan Eschauzier sitting behind me. I asked her if
she would ever run for office as she had worked
tirelessly for the Obama campaign.
“Never,” she
declared. “I only want to work behind the
scenes.”
“That will be
perfect,” I admitted. “I’ll run for
office but I’d definitely need your
follow-through.” I had missed many
opportunities to canvass and she had never missed
any!
Gilda on my left turned to
face me. She seemed to be bursting to tell me
something. I looked at her sideways, wary of
grandchildren tales. In a run-on sentence that
lasted ten minutes she told me that she had heard
Caroline would be here. She said when she moved
here she almost did not bring the box with her. She
had collected Kennedy family photos for fifty
years.
“Do you realize that
might be worth a lot of money?” I asked
her.
“Oh no, I just want
her to have the box. I thought about who would want
the photos the most and I knew I had to give them
to her.”
She went on telling me how
angry she was at John Jr.’s wife for making
him fly that fateful day. And Jackie she thought
maybe she was not so interested in, you know, and
that was why the President had strayed. She did not
pause in her conversation; she wanted me to know
all. My neck was aching from looking at her. I
glanced back at my husband. He was still having
fun. I could talk to Planned Parenthood or allow
Jan another opportunity to make me agree to
something. Instead I submitted to my fate of
hearing the entire story of the box.
Gilda continued in her
hushed and rapid Jersey accent. She had driven out
here yesterday. She thought the event was
yesterday. She went to the clubhouse. Had I ever
seen the clubhouse? Why can’t Obama spend some
money and have the event at the fancy clubhouse
instead of this community center. She said she
finally found somebody from the Obama campaign and
she gave him the box. He promised to see that
Caroline received it.
Ha! I thought cynically.
Fat Chance. Somebody just ripped this old lady off
and took her collection of fifty years of Kennedy
love.
“Oh, that’s
wonderful,” I gushed, refusing to be the one
to rain on her parade.
The crowd stood suddenly
to their feet and welcomed the real thing to the
stage. She wore a white jacket and carried her
speech. She began in a halting manner. The sound
system drowned her out with feedback. She waited
patiently for the sound guy to scramble to the
stage. He jiggled some wires and turned some knobs.
She began again. She spoke of her awakening to
hope. Caroline said that Barack had stirred in her
the same kind of inspiration that so many had
described they felt with her father. I looked
intently at this graceful woman and searched for
little Caroline in her white dress and ankle socks.
How odd that we all know
the details of her life and yet, we are strangers
to her. Her bodyguards could not defend her from
the exposure of a public life. I wanted to tell her
thank you for her family’s service to this
country. No, that would be too small a gesture. No
other person had her story with such glory, fame
and tragedy. Yet, she blushed and smiled, a bit
embarrassed by the interruptions of applause and
cheering her speech evoked.
She ended her speech too
quickly and her bodyguards flanked her sides as she
shook hands in the crowd. I was shocked to see
Gilda moving faster than could be expected to the
front of the line. I did not hesitate and followed
closely behind her. Caroline seemed a bit detached
as she moved slowly down the rope line,
methodically shaking hands and writing her name for
the pressing crowd. As she approached us, Gilda
grabbed Caroline’s outstretched hand in both
her hands. One particularly ominous guard craned
her neck for a clear view of the diminutive
Gilda.
“Did you get the
box?” Gilda asked urgently.
Caroline stopped and
really looked at her. Her face lit up.
“Oh, was that you?
Thank you. That meant so much to me, thank
you,” she told Gilda.
Gilda dropped her hand and
squared her shoulders. Caroline reached out to
shake my hand. Her hand was delicate with
incredibly soft skin and a weak grip. For two
seconds, I touched a Kennedy. I gave her my
business card. She looked puzzled but took it
anyway. Who knows when you might want a therapist I
thought to justify my boldness.
Gilda was swept away with
the crowd. I made my way outdoors to the palm tree
shaded walkway. The sun was already too warm for my
jacket. I shook my husband’s hand and said,
“Caroline Kennedy” as if I could transfer
her magic to him. He was pleased that I had made it
to the front. I called Connie on my cell phone and
asked her if she got the photo but she said someone
had elbowed their way in front of her. She did send
me photos of the rally later that night. I did not
notice at first that little Gilda was in the
background of one of the photos.
I knew that Gilda must
have felt pretty wonderful. She had brightened up
the day of a woman whom people around the world,
unseen and unnamed, had shared her darkest days and
tears. Now, when I think of a Kennedy, maybe I can
forget some of the tragedy and remember instead a
soft hand, an unassuming nature and the smile that
Gilda’s box of family photos brought to
Caroline. She was our national treasure as a child
and is now an inspiration. Because if Caroline
Kennedy can believe and hope again, than so can you
and I.
©2009, Molly
Barrow
* * *
Dr. Molly
Barrow holds a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and is
the author of the new book, Matchlines:
A revolutionary New Way of looking at relationships
and making the right choices in
love. She is an
authority on relationship and psychological topics,
a member of the American Psychological Association
and a licensed mental health counselor. Dr. Molly
has appeared as an expert on NBC, PBS, KTLA, and in
O Magazine, Psychology Today, Newsday, MSN.com,
Match.com, Women's Health and Women's World. Please
visit: www.askdrmolly.com
or Take the new relationship compatibility test,
Match Lines Systems for Successful Relationships
for Singles, Couples and Business at
www.DrMollyBarrow.com.
Molly has a radio program, Your Relationship
Answers at www.blogtalkradio.com/drmollybarrow
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