“I realized then,” Newt told me, “that your father could start anywhere in the speech, and he could go from there. He knew his own ideas so well that he could fill the time with brilliant thoughts and stories, and end exactly where he wanted the speech to end. How many speakers can do that?”
One reason Dad was such a great leader was that he was a great communicator. He knew what he believed, why he believed it, and how to communicate it powerfully and persuasively. And one reason he was such a great communicator was that he was a voracious reader.
I remember as a teenager walking into my father’s personal library and being awed by the books that lined those walls. Those books weren’t there to impress you. Dad read them all. He came from a generation before television, before smart phones, before social media. In his day, home entertainment consisted of radio and books. As a result, my father lived in a world of ideas. Unfortunately, we have so diminished our attention span that it’s impossible for us to absorb ideas anymore.
Years ago, a friend shared a statement with me that I have never forgotten: readers are leaders. One reason my father led so well was that he was so well read. For all too many people today, “reading” consists of emails, texts, and tweets. But leaders read books. Leaders have the ability to focus and absorb the printed word. A great book can entertain us, instruct us, and change our lives. Read great books, and soon you’ll be thinking great thoughts.
You can easily read a book a week if you try. How much would your knowledge expand if you read fifty-two books over the coming year? My father transformed the American economy because he had a deep knowledge of economics—and that knowledge came from books. He transformed the world because he had a deep knowledge of history—and that knowledge came from books.
By reading books, you’ll increase your vocabulary, sharpen your thinking skills, deepen your knowledge, and broaden your horizons. Schedule a daily time for reading books, at least half an hour a day. Download a Kindle app to your smart phone, and you’ll always have a book to read at the dentist’s office, in the airport, or at the barbershop. An ebook is a great companion when you are troubled by insomnia. Don’t kill time—fill your time with great books.
Learn from my father’s example. If you want to lead, read.
Remember that the struggle never ends. We tend to think that evil and corruption are temporary problems to be solved. All we have to do is elect the right people, apply the right solutions, and everything will be fixed. Then we can go home and live happily ever after. I think a lot of conservatives assumed that the Reagan Eighties had fixed the world. We restored the economy, strengthened our military, and toppled the evil empire. The world was saved.
We became complacent. We fell asleep—and as we slept, evil emerged in the Middle East, in the form of Al Qaeda and ISIS. The nuclear menace grew in Iran, Pakistan, and North Korea. Our own government became increasingly corrupt and unresponsive to the people while ignoring the needs of our veterans. The national debt spiraled out of control.
Evil always grows when Americans sleep.
I went to Berlin in June 2007, shortly before the twentieth anniversary of my father’s Brandenburg Gate speech. There I met with Alexandra Hildebrandt. She and her late husband, Dr. Rainer Hildebrandt, founded the Checkpoint Charlie Museum near the Berlin Wall, the most visited museum in Berlin. It chronicles the terrible history of the Berlin Wall with exhibits, artifacts, and photographs.
While I was at the museum, I chatted with a high school student. It was his first visit to the museum, and he had not had a chance to tour the exhibits. I asked him, “What do you know about the Berlin Wall?”
“Well,” he said, “I know that the Americans built the Wall to keep the Communists out of their sector.” Here was a young man who lived in Berlin but had no understanding of the Wall. The schools he attended were not teaching him his own history. Those who don’t know their own past are at risk for the future.
We Americans view problems in history as having a beginning, a middle, and an end. But world problems don’t really have an end. Evil doesn’t have an end. It is always at work, always scheming, always trying to subvert civilization. We need to understand that history is an ongoing, never-ending struggle between freedom and tyranny. We need to teach the next generation about the recent past if we want them to have a future.
My father understood that evil exists, it is not going away, and the job is never done. In his Evil Empire Speech in 1983, he said, “No government schemes are going to perfect man. We know that living in this world means dealing with what philosophers would call the phenomenology of evil or, as theologians would put it, the doctrine of sin. There is sin and evil in the world, and we’re enjoined by Scripture and the Lord Jesus to oppose it with all our might.”
So we must not become complacent. We must not go to sleep. We must fight. It’s a good fight, and one worth waging—but it’s a fight that will not be finished in our lifetime, or in the lifetimes of our children and our children’s children. As long as evil exists, the struggle never ends.
Lead with optimism and enthusiasm. Optimists are far more likely than pessimists to reach their goals and achieve their vision. Why? Several reasons:
Optimists are confident, and confident leaders are decisive. People who lack confidence are hesitant and they pass up opportunities by failing to seize the moment. They dither and fret over decisions because they fear that any decision they make will turn out badly. Where pessimists see obstacles, optimists see opportunities.
Optimists are able to persevere through tough times because they believe better times are coming. Optimists believe in themselves, and this enables them to pursue challenging goals, welcome new experiences, bounce back from adversity, and work hard to achieve their dreams.
Whatever your leadership arena—your family, your company, your school, your nation—envision a bright and optimistic future. Then go out to your people and promote that vision, using inspiring word pictures and metaphors. Ignite the enthusiasm of your followers. Strengthen their courage. Persuade them. Motivate them. Then lead them toward the bright vision of the future you have planned for them.
When America desperately needed a leader with a bold and optimistic vision, Ronald Reagan stepped up. Now our families, our schools, our businesses, our churches, and our nation desperately need new leaders, bold leaders, enthusiastic leaders. It’s your turn to step up.
My father set the example. Now it’s your turn to lead.
12
Trust in God
MONDAY, MARCH 30, 1981, THE sixty-ninth day of my father’s presidency, started out like any other work day.
I was in my office at Dana Ingalls Profile Inc., a small aerospace company headquartered in Burbank, California. It was about half past eleven in the morning, and I was meeting clients.
There was a quick knock on my office door—then Mike Luty, the Secret Service agent assigned to protect my family, opened the door and said, “There’s been an assassination attempt on your father. One man is down, but your father is OK.”
Before I could say a word, he shut the door and was gone.
For several seconds, I stared at my clients—then I said, “Did he say somebody tried to shoot my dad?” I stood up. “Excuse me.”
I went out and found Mike Luty and had him repeat what he said. Mike repeated his message, and added, “Your father is headed back to the White House. As soon as I get more information, I’ll let you know.”
I went back to my office and concluded my business with my clients, then I turned on the radio. The radio news bulletin had the same information the Secret Service agent had given me, except that it was becoming clear that three men had been wounded, not just one—Dad’s press secretary, Jim Brady; a Secret Service agent, Timothy McCarthy; and a D.C. policeman, Thomas Delahanty. The report said that my father was returning to the White House.
So I called the special number I had for the White House. I didn’t expect to reach Dad, but I thought I could at le
ast talk to Nancy. But when I got through to the White House, I learned that Nancy had just left.
That information gave me a cold chill. I instantly knew that something was seriously wrong. If Nancy had left the White House, headed for some other destination, then Dad had to be headed someplace else, too. Only one destination made sense: the hospital.
At that moment, I knew Dad had been shot, too.
I went and told Mike Luty, and he tried to reassure me. “I’m sure he went to check on Jim Brady and the others who were shot.”
I shook my head. “I’d bet anything Dad was shot, too.”
“That just can’t be. I’m in touch with the command post, and they told me Rawhide is definitely not hurt.”
Minutes later, however, Mike Luty received confirmation: “Rawhide” had in fact been shot. He was at the George Washington University Medical Center, fighting for his life.
“I’m Alive, Aren’t I?”
At 2:27 p.m., Washington time, a disturbed young man named John W. Hinckley Jr. stood on the sidewalk outside the Washington Hilton Hotel. His right hand, thrust into his pocket, gripped a pistol loaded with explosive-tipped Devastator bullets. He watched as President Reagan emerged from the hotel with his aides and Secret Service guards. As the president paused by the limousine to waive to the crowd, the gunman pulled out his weapon and fired wildly, hitting Jim Brady, Agent McCarthy, Officer Delahanty—and my father.
The bullet that hit Dad was a ricochet. It glanced off the steel flank of the bulletproof limousine, flattened, and penetrated beneath Dad’s raised left arm as he waved. The entry wound was a tiny slit, more of a buttonhole than a gunshot wound. Dad didn’t even know he’d been shot.
In the next instant, the chief of the Secret Service detail, Jerry Parr, shoved my father into the backseat—Dad landed painfully on the transmission hump. Parr leaped in after him and shouted to the driver, “Go, go, go!”
The limo roared off in the direction of the White House.
“You broke my ribs,” Dad complained as Parr lifted him off the floor of the car. Dad started coughing, and Parr handed him a handkerchief. When Dad coughed up blood, Parr ordered the driver to head for George Washington University Medical Center. Parr’s split-second decision saved Dad’s life.
(Here’s an interesting sidenote, in 1939, Dad made a motion picture called Code of the Secret Service. He later called it “the worst picture I ever made” and was so embarrassed by it that he refused to attend a screening. In fact, Dad told Maureen and me that if we ever saw that movie, he would write us out of the will. Yet a young boy named Jerry Parr loved that picture, watched it multiple times, and was inspired by that movie to become a Secret Service agent. If Dad hadn’t made that embarrassing movie in 1939, Agent Parr might not have been at Dad’s side in 1981, ready to make that life-saving decision. God truly does work in mysterious ways.)
Dad walked into the hospital trauma unit on his own two feet, but he collapsed just after he got through the triple-glass doors of the ER. He gasped, “I can’t catch my breath!”
Doctors would later discover that the bullet had stopped within a quarter-inch of Dad’s heart. He fought for breath as doctors and nurses cut the suit off his body. His blood pressure was too low to register, indicating internal bleeding. He was going into shock.
The medical team gave Dad oxygen, IV fluids, and blood—the first pint of many. The doctors couldn’t control the internal bleeding and Dad’s left lung had collapsed.
The surgical team met with Dad and Nancy, explaining that they needed to perform exploratory surgery to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding. As the doctors prepared for surgery, Dad said, “Please tell me you’re a Republican.” One of the surgeons—reportedly a confirmed Democrat—replied, “Today, Mr. President, we’re all Republicans.”
After three hours spent exploring Dad’s chest, the doctors were unable to find the bullet. It was frustrating because the X-ray showed right where the bullet should be. It was not uncommon to leave a bullet in a gunshot victim—but this bullet was close to Dad’s heart and might even enter an artery, where it could kill him without warning.
Just as the surgeon was on the verge of closing up, he found the slug—flattened to the shape of a dime. Once found, it was easily removed.
Later, when Dad awoke from the anesthesia, he was weak but aware of his surroundings. He saw white-gowned figures moving in the room around him. He was unable to speak because of the tube down his throat. He motioned for something to write on, and a nurse handed him a pad and a pen. He scrawled, “I’m alive, aren’t I?” For the next few hours, that pad would be his only way of communicating.
At that time, no one but the doctors knew how close the world came to losing Ronald Reagan. All the accomplishments of the next eight years, including the revived economy and the end of the Cold War, were compressed into a quarter-inch space between a madman’s bullet and my father’s heart.
Miserable with Worry
Meanwhile, in California, Colleen and I were practically imprisoned in our home, as an army of reporters swarmed around our neighborhood. Our friends, Don and Dottie Price, were with us, helping us maintain our sanity. At one point, Don took our son Cameron for a walk. (News reporters snapped their picture, and the photo was published the next day, misidentifying Don as a Secret Service agent.)
After a while, the lead agent on our security detail, Cliff Baranowski, entered the house. In a dry, businesslike tone, he said, “A plane will be waiting for you. When you get on the plane, they’ll give you a blanket, earplugs, and a box lunch. Takeoff is at six tonight. You’ll get into Washington late, stay overnight in the White House, and tomorrow you’ll go to the hospital to see your father.”
“Why will I need a blanket and earplugs?”
“The only plane we could get is a C-130 transport. It’s not a comfortable airplane, so dress warmly.”
All the Reagan children except Ron boarded the flight at LAX—Colleen and Cameron; Maureen and her fiancé, Dennis Revell; and Patti—along with our Secret Service agents. (Ron, who was with the Joffrey Ballet, flew to D.C. from Nebraska.)
A C-130 is a cavernous aircraft without any insulation. We soon discovered that when the heater was on, it was an oven. The moment the heater snapped off, the airplane became a deep freeze. The scream of the engines penetrated the aluminum airplane skin like it was paper. The flight from LAX to Washington was noisy and we were miserable with worry about Dad.
Out of all of us, Patti seemed the hardest by the crisis. She had struggled the most with Dad’s politics and with living in the shadow of his fame. But as the plane took off and climbed into the sky, she seemed more frightened and broken than the rest of us. Patti and I had not been close for years, but during the flight, she leaned against me for support, and I put my arm around her. It was good to know that, whatever our differences in the family, we were united in a crisis.
As the plane made its descent toward Washington, we wondered: Would Dad be conscious? How would the assassination attempt affect his presidency? Would he serve out his term?
We arrived late that night and stayed at the White House. Colleen and I stayed in the Lincoln bedroom. We rose early the next morning, had breakfast, and rushed to the hospital. Nancy’s children, Patti and Ron, were allowed to see Dad first—which infuriated Maureen and me. But we used the waiting time to visit the other wounded men, Brady, McCarthy, and Delahanty.
James Brady had been shot in the head, and it broke my heart to see his wife Sarah hovering over him, pleading with him to live.
After visiting the other patients, Maureen, Colleen, and I stayed in a holding area. We waited and waited—and waited some more. Finally, a Secret Service agent came to the holding area. I thought he was going to usher us in to see Dad. Instead, he said, “The doctors don’t feel the president is strong enough to see the rest of the family right now. Come back in twenty-four hours.”
In my usual diplomatic way, I said, “That’s stupid! Let me talk to the doc
tor.”
“The doctor is not available.”
When the agent left, Maureen said, “Michael, you’ve got to be my bird dog. You’ve got to sniff out a way to get us into Dad’s room.”
“Leave it to me.”
I went out and poked around until I found an unlocked door. I opened it and found myself face to face with a doctor. I said, “I’m Michael Reagan. Why are you keeping my sister and me from seeing our father?”
The doctor stammered incoherently—and I knew we were in. Soon, Maureen, Dennis, Colleen, and I were led into Dad’s room. The window shades were closed for security reasons, but the room was brightly lit. Dad looked tired from his ordeal, and he was in pain. Yet he was alert, and his face lit up when he saw us. His wit was in typical Reagan form.
“Michael,” he deadpanned, “if you’re ever shot, make sure you’re not wearing a new suit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, that was a brand-new suit I was wearing yesterday. First time I ever wore it. Michael, do you know what happens when they bring you into the emergency room of the hospital? They don’t go to you and say, ‘Please remove your suit, Mr. President.’ No, they take a pair of scissors and cut your clothes right off of you! The last time I saw that suit, it was sitting in a corner of the emergency room, completely shredded.”
“I can see how that would be upsetting, Dad. But at least they did save your life.”
“Yes, the doctors and nurses here are great. You know, I hear the parents of the fellow who shot me live in Denver. His father’s in the oil business, I think. The least they could do is buy me a new suit.”
“I think they owe you that much, Dad.”
The Power of Prayer
The assassination attempt had a profound spiritual impact on my father.
Lessons My Father Taught Me Page 21
