Stephen and Jean Kennedy Smith
Jean Ann Kennedy was the eighth of nine children of Rose and Joseph Kennedy, born in Boston on February 20, 1928, coincidentally the eighth birthday of her older sister Kick. Along with Joe Jr., Kick was like a surrogate parent and role model for her sisters Eunice, Pat, and Jean, much as Joe was to his brothers Jack, Bobby, and Ted. Jean was a quiet, sensitive child and seemed at sea among the frolicsome folderol of her older siblings and nearly forgotten by her mother. It remained for her Irish nursemaid Kico to give Jean the maternal nurturing that Rose seemed unable or unwilling to provide.
Jean lived largely out of the Kennedy limelight—whether of her own choosing or happenstance—and would do so throughout her developing years and even into adulthood. This seems at odds with her physical appearance in that when Jean—handsome and statuesque, as tall as most of the men—would enter a room, she exuded a certain presence that everyone recognized, a kind of physical charisma she shared with many of her siblings. Even her marriage to Stephen Edward Smith on May 19, 1956, at the Lady Chapel, a small, exquisite chapel behind the main altar in New York City’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral, seemed her way to remain outside the Kennedy spotlight. While her brothers and sisters pulled out all stops when it came to their weddings, with big, expensive, formal affairs, Jean said that when she was given two options by her father—a big wedding with a small gift or a small wedding with a big gift—she chose the latter, the big gift being an expensive diamond pin. As if to assure her father that she was serious about cutting corners, Jean wore the Hattie Carnegie gown that her sister Pat had worn for her marriage to Peter Lawford two years earlier. Even her maid of honor, sister Eunice, wore one of the bridesmaid’s frocks from her own ceremony three years prior. One can only imagine Jacqueline Bouvier making such a frugal acquiescence when she married JFK.
However, as much as Jean avoided taking a key role in the family’s high-profile and very public activities, her husband Stephen did not shy away from the Kennedy spotlight. He was especially unhappy with the attention being heaped on one person whom he seemed intent on casting as a rival, Eunice’s husband, Sargent Shriver. If Sarge ever considered Stephen at all, it would certainly not be as a potential rival for the public’s and family’s approval. When Sarge left his position as managing director of the Merchandise Mart to join JFK’s administration, Smith was chosen to replace him at the Mart. In addition, Stephen handled the Kennedy family’s extensive real estate and financial holdings, and from all accounts did a superior job. Sarge was always complimentary of Stephen’s work, but it has to be said that seldom was the reverse true. The brothers-in-law just didn’t get along, mostly because Stephen had such a dim view of Sarge’s desire to be a politician and was doubtless jealous of the obvious high regard in which some of the family held Shriver.
Jean’s marriage to Stephen was troubled. Whether the problem was sexual in nature or not, by many accounts she engaged in some sort of long-term relationship with the ten-years-older Alan Jay Lerner, the dapper, urbane lyricist and librettist of such Broadway musical hits as Brigadoon, My Fair Lady, and Camelot, in collaboration with composer Frederick Loewe. Ironically, Lerner had been a classmate of JFK’s, and of course the lyrics he wrote for the title song in Camelot came to define the idealism and tragedy of the Kennedy administration. In truth, Jean’s connection with him may have had a lot to do with the hurt of “a woman scorned.” After all, Stephen was widely known as an inveterate womanizer, often leaving Jean alone for entire weekends as he sought validation of his sexual prowess with a series of beautiful young matrons.
Jean always seemed to sense that her life should be easier, that she should be happier. In fact, there was a period in the late 1970s, after she followed Joan’s lead and went into therapy, when she began to lay the blame for her unhappiness at her mother’s feet.
“You shipped me off to boarding school when I was young, and you never really cared for me,” she told Rose one day in 1978 in front of Rose’s secretary, Barbara Gibson, as the three women were swimming in the pool.
“My memory of it is very different,” Rose said. “I wanted all of my children to have a wide range of experiences, and that’s why we sent you to boarding school.”
“But that’s the reason I’m so screwed up,” Jean charged, “and I also think it’s the reason I have made such bad choices.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’ve expected of me, dear,” Rose said, trying to stay calm, “but your father and I did the best we could. I find it quite alarming that you don’t see it that way.”
For Jean to have spoken to Rose in that manner was a little surprising. Rose’s children seldom stood up to her or criticized her. Afterward, Rose was very upset by the scene. “Exactly what was I to do?” she asked Gibson. “I was left alone with all of those children while Joseph did whatever he was doing. I did the best I could. I would like to see Jean do better, I really would.” Later, after she had calmed herself, she told Gibson, “It’s interesting isn’t it, this 1970s thinking that the problems of today’s youth are directly linked to their parents? If you ask me, by the time you turn fifty [Jean’s age at this time], you should be able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and take responsibility for your own life.”
By the late 1970s, Jean and Stephen Smith had sold their home in the Kennedy compound and bought a new summer house on Long Island. They seemed eager to put some distance between themselves and the rest of the family. This isn’t to say that the summers at the Kennedy compound would end entirely, because they didn’t. The Smiths would often lease a house near the other Kennedy homes and spend time there. But they made their point—they wanted their distance.
Ten years after JFK’s death, Jean founded the Very Special Arts, now known as VSA, a nonprofit that seeks to promote the artistic talents of the mentally and physically challenged, much as older sister Eunice’s Special Olympics addresses the physical limitations of retarded youngsters. VSA is now an affiliate of the Kennedy Center. It would be impolitic to suggest that Jean was thinking of the Smith legacy in her creation of VSA or to impugn her motives in founding a program that seems to be inspired by Eunice’s work with retarded children. While the parallel will undoubtedly be criticized, to ignore it altogether would also be wrong. Jean was trying to make her own mark, but in some ways it also seemed that maybe she was trying to compete with Eunice.
Some would argue that Jean and Stephen Smith—for whatever part they played in the Kennedy family’s accomplishments in the betterment of the lives of Americans—will always remain second-stringers in the drama played out by the powerful political family. Others might say that in a family of so many who were committed to social change, not everyone had the temperament to play that sort of role. For instance, it could be said that Ethel, Joan, Jackie, and even Pat did little for social change. Indeed, the standards set by Jack, Bobby, Ted, Eunice, and Sargent were so high, not everyone would be able to reach them.
Yet Another Disappointment for Sarge
Although Sargent and Eunice Shriver hit the campaign trail vigorously on Sarge’s behalf, they simply couldn’t get any traction there. “It was very difficult for Eunice,” said Senator George Smathers. “Weekends at the Kennedy compound had never been more tense, I can tell you that much. To be honest, I think Eunice didn’t even have her heart in it, though. I think she almost feared what fresh hell her life would be if Sarge actually won the nomination—and who knows what her family would have done if he had won the election! I think she could look into the future and see nothing but heartaches and she made a decision—even if she never gave voice to it—that she would just as soon Sarge not get the nomination.”
“I’m sure there were times Eunice wished Sarge was tougher, meaner, more of a bulldog,” said Pierre Salinger. “But that wasn’t his way. He was a gentleman, a diplomat. Shriver could look at a problem from every angle and consider it to the conclusion—that there were no good guys and bad guys taking part in it. Situations were
not as black and white for him as they were for the other Kennedy men. Whereas JFK and RFK had staunch allies and enemies, Shriver had staunch enemies who were often also allies. In many ways, I think the Kennedys actually appreciated Shriver’s sense of diplomacy and his even-tempered approach, and with the passing of years, they had repeatedly used it to their advantage. But that didn’t mean they respected it. He was a nice guy, and you know what they say about nice guys?” Salinger concluded. “It’s reductive and not even true to say that Shriver finished last. But he didn’t always finish first, that’s for sure.”
As it turned out, Sargent Shriver did not secure his party’s nomination in 1976. Instead, the Democrats went for the virtually unknown Jimmy Carter to head the party’s ticket. In the post-Watergate era, with Nixon leaving office in disgrace, it was as if the country simply wasn’t interested in high-profile, controversial figures, especially those who couldn’t seem to get along without their high-profile, controversial family members. To a large extent, the public and the media had grown weary of the persistent Kennedy question as it applied to Sargent Shriver—whether the family was in or out, whether Ted cared or didn’t… and on and on. Such an ongoing narrative just made Sargent Shriver look as if he wasn’t his own man. “A lot of people thought I was just an in-law trying to capitalize on my relationship with the Kennedys,” Sargent told the Chicago Tribune in 1987. “And who in the hell wants to have an in-law of the Kennedys? If you want to have someone who stands for what the Kennedys stand for, have a Kennedy. They thought I was running for president on the basis of the fact that I was related and [the public thought] what a cheap, low level kind of thing that was. Even after Jack was killed, I was the brother-in-law of the former president of the United States or the brother-in-law of the Attorney General or the brother-in-law of the Senator. You’re always devalued. There were times I’d say to myself, ‘wouldn’t it be great if I could just get out from under and be myself?’ ”
Yes, there were other problems with Sarge’s 1976 campaign, related to philosophical issues such as his apparent waffling on the subject of abortion (he and Eunice were definitely pro-life, though at times his speeches seemed to indicate otherwise). However, by far the biggest obstacle Sargent Shriver faced in his 1976 bid for the presidential nomination was the same one that had dogged him in 1964, in 1968, and in 1972, and it wasn’t just the public’s perception of his relationship to the Kennedys, as Sarge so very diplomatically outlined to the Chicago Tribune—it was that the Kennedys and their acolytes really and truly did not want him to succeed where Ted hadn’t yet. It was as simple as that.
Certainly, one would think there should have been a place in American politics for a noble man like Sargent Shriver, a visionary and idealistic thinker whose own brand of philanthropy had nothing to do with money or worldly possessions, but everything to do with his wealth of ideas in contributing to the public good. It wasn’t meant to be, though; 1976 would bring the election of Jimmy Carter over Gerald Ford. Meanwhile, Ted Kennedy was that same year reelected to the Senate. And so it remains for Sarge’s firstborn and namesake, Bobby Shriver, to sum up during an interview what happened to his dad in that bicentennial year: “Ted didn’t do shit for my father in 1976.”
PART TWELVE
Ted’s 1980 Campaign
Ted’s Presidential Decision
He had put it off year after year, campaign after campaign. He had also made it clear that he didn’t want his brother-in-law Sargent Shriver to participate in any of those races either. However, despite his reluctance, it was always presumed by many Americans, Republicans as well as Democrats, that Senator Edward Kennedy would one day run for president of the United States. For his part, Ted was always more realistic than idealistic when it came to running for the presidency. He understood America very well and he knew that even though he had been forgiven enough after Chappaquiddick to continue in the Senate, the chances of his being elected to the highest office in the land were slim to none. Though eleven years had passed, Ted understood that there were still people in the country who would not forget what happened to Mary Jo Kopechne and his part in it. In truth, he couldn’t forget, either. “I am haunted by it,” he once told his friend Dun Gifford. “I keep thinking about her gasping for breath in that car under water, and it kills me inside. If I spend too much time on it,” he said, “I wouldn’t be able to get on with my day. It’s that paralyzing.” Despite such upsetting memories of the past, Ted had never lost his drive to serve his country, to honor his brothers’ memory, and he wanted to go forth on a bigger platform than just the Senate—if America would allow it.
There was also a question of national expectations. In his memoir True Compass, Kennedy articulated how his party’s goals in 1976 were not in alignment with his own. “Whether consciously or not, they seemed enthralled by the dream that the dash and vaulting aspirations of the early 1960s would return again. My actual vision of the presidency… was a good deal more complex and less romantic. My concept of myself as president had little or nothing to do with Camelot. It wasn’t about Jack, or Bobby, or my father. The eras that shaped them had passed. The present era was quite different in mood, in collective experience, and in the challenges the nation faced. Jack’s and Bobby’s great legacies inspired me, but cold reason told me that I could not run as their surrogate, nor could I govern according to their templates. My goals, my style would derive from my own judgments as to what I wanted to accomplish.”
Besides concerns about ghosts of the past and expectations of the future, Ted Kennedy’s family was also a concern. His running for president was a concept with which most Kennedys had a love-hate relationship. “They wanted to see Ted fulfill what, in some ways, seemed to be his destiny, yet they were also afraid of what might happen to him should he ever be elected,” said Senator John Tunney. “Ted was also fearful. Though he had long ago made peace with the possibility that he could one day be the target of another assassination—‘I decided I would not live my life in fear of the shadows,’ he said—he was never able to reconcile what such a tragedy would do to his mother and the rest of his family. Could he in good conscience allow them to possibly suffer a third time what they had endured in 1963 and 1968?” When Ted chose not to run in 1976, his mother confirmed that his safety was an issue for her when she said he had “promised me faithfully that he would not run. I told him I did not want to see him die too, that I could never stand another tragedy.” It was a chance that, by 1980, Ted was ready to take, albeit reluctantly, primarily because he so strongly disagreed with so many of incumbent president Jimmy Carter’s philosophies as well as his general attitude about the country and its future.
Though both were of the same Democratic Party, President Carter and Senator Kennedy were never friendly. Carter had serious reservations about Ted, though he never articulated them publicly. However, privately he said he believed the Kennedys to be spoiled personalities who felt above the law and often acted with a sense of entitlement. If it had been up to him, he would just as soon never even appear in the same photograph with Ted, which is probably why he never accepted Ted’s offer of assistance in his campaign. Indeed, at the 1976 Democratic convention, Carter decided not to give Ted a speaking role at all. Throughout Carter’s four years in office, he and Kennedy continued to butt heads.
By late 1979, the climate in the country had changed to a point that gave Ted Kennedy grave concern. Not only was the economy suffering, but the energy crisis seemed to be worsening by the month. Carter had said during his campaign that he believed health care coverage should be mandatory and universal, making it seem as if he and Kennedy agreed at least on that important issue. Carter went so far as to promise that health care reform would be a priority of his administration. However, when he got into office, his goals changed. As many political pundits at the time considered understandable, Carter decided that his first priority would have to be an energy bill. Health care would have to wait. Over the course of his four years in office, though, he se
emed to continually stymie Ted’s efforts in the Senate to get any legislation passed relating to health insurance concerns. Ted also suspected that Carter felt threatened by Kennedy’s power in the Senate.
Simply put, Kennedy believed that Carter was not a man of action. In his view, Carter loved taking meeting after meeting and pontificating about what might be best for the country—indeed, the world. But at the end of the day, he would inevitably stop short of taking true, decisive action. “He loved to give the appearance of listening,” Ted once said. Of course, Carter enthusiasts would disagree with such a harsh assessment of his presidency, but it was Ted’s firmly held opinion. Ted’s animus for Carter seemed to have no bounds. For instance, he was also derisive about Carter’s mandate that no liquor be served in the White House, writing in his memoir that it was the first thing one was reminded of when entering the presidential home, “in case you needed reminding.” Carter, according to Kennedy, “wanted no luxuries, nor any sign of worldly living,” which is also why, Ted felt, he had sold the presidential yacht, Sequoia, at auction. The sale of that yacht really seemed to stick in Ted’s craw. He had a strong emotional connection to the yacht because JFK had held strategy meetings on it during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and had even celebrated his last birthday on it. Ted couldn’t believe that Carter viewed the vessel as nothing more than a status symbol that needed to be eradicated from the presidential landscape. “When he got rid of the boat, that’s when Ted was sure Carter was full of it,” said Senator George Smathers.
By the fall of 1978, President Carter definitely had put health care reform on the back burner, to the point that it seemed not even to be an issue for him. Instead he focused on inflation, and to that end he proposed a number of budget cuts that would, in Ted’s view, adversely affect the elderly, the poor, and blacks as well as the unemployed. By the end of that year, Ted had started speaking out openly against some of Carter’s policies. In response, Carter asked Ted to issue a blanket statement that he would never consider a draft from his party to run for president. When Ted said he wouldn’t do it, it became clear to President Carter that he might truly have an adversary in Ted Kennedy, one who might affect his political future.
After Camelot: A Personal History of the Kennedy Family--1968 to the Present Page 28
