by Hunter Biden
The state’s North-South friction is longstanding and complex. Delaware was a slave state that never left the Union, with most of its citizenry taking up arms against the Confederacy. It was a crossroads for the Underground Railroad, with freed slaves outnumbering those still in bondage ten to one. Yet despite being the first of the original thirteen colonies to ratify the Constitution, it was the last one where slavery remained legal.
There’s a vibrant African American community in Wilmington, whose population of just over seventy thousand has one of the highest percentages of Black residents per capita in the country. Louis Redding, the first African American admitted to the Delaware bar, was part of the legal team that challenged school segregation in Brown v. Board of Education. The city exploded in pent-up anger in the 1960s, and preachers in the city’s Black churches forged strong bonds during the civil rights movement with Black preachers in the Deep South.
Wilmington’s historically high voter turnout in 1972 was perhaps the biggest reason—along with my mother’s political instincts—that Dad won his Senate seat. There was the conviction in the Black community, which still holds true there and beyond, that “Joe is our guy.”
Though the differences might not be as stark as they once were, the state remains divided north and south, or upper and lower, by the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal. The upper portion views itself as more sophisticated, an adjunct of Philly and the Northeast corridor. It’s where 60 percent of all Fortune 500 companies are incorporated, due in large part to the state’s long-standing Court of Chancery, a special judicial body that rules on corporate law disputes expediently and without juries.
It’s also an area long dominated by the du Pont family, whose wealth afforded them a tight grip on local industry and politics. With a fortune that originated in gunpowder and explosives, then expanded into chemicals and cars, the du Ponts dominated the state’s political landscape throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
The family also owned a controlling stake in General Motors from 1917 until 1957, when the U.S. Supreme Court ordered it to divest its shares, saying its control created a monopoly that interfered with the free flow of commerce. One lasting sign of the family’s passion for cars: the DuPont Highway (U.S. Routes 13 and 113), which parallels the top of the state to the bottom, was built by T. Coleman du Pont to improve transportation for farmers and other businesses within Delaware. It also gave him a smooth, unimpeded road on which to enjoy his long Sunday drives.
The lower part of the state has traditionally been more rural, white, and Southern. If you grew up in Sussex County, you simply said you were from “below the canal.” Farmers there raise corn, soy, and broiler chickens, which outnumber the state’s residents by about 200 to 1.
Beau and I saw all of it. Union halls and Democratic Party picnics were as much a part of our growing up as tree forts and sleepovers. Before we could walk, our mommy toted us around in picnic baskets to rallies and meet-and-greets and door-knocking campaigns in a state where you could almost literally rap on every door. As we got older, Beau and I stood inside the Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Wilmington, waiting as Sunday services let out so we could shake hands with Black parishioners streaming out of the stone church’s big red doors. We tagged along with Dad to rural Kent County, dropping in on people whose families had owned the same chicken farms for a hundred years. We’d drive farther south, into Sussex County, where Beau and I would bid each other up on a coconut cream pie (Dad’s favorite) in auctions held for churches or school fundraisers. Sometimes we were the only bidders.
While most Southerners consider Delaware to be Northern, a community like Gumboro, near the Great Cypress Swamp and host each year to the Gumboro Mud Bog, is every bit as Southern as a small town in Georgia.
Given that diverse crucible, it’s easy to trace my dad’s, and later Beau’s, seemingly innate political ability to relate with people of all backgrounds, races, and ideological leanings. Growing up in Delaware doesn’t mean you’re automatically aware of what a microcosm it is. But when you grow up in Delaware the son of Joe Biden, you have no choice. You not only learn how to get along with all kinds of people, you come to understand what motivates them, what they care about, and what they really need.
That’s the state that adopted Beau and me when our mother died.
* * *
Beau and I never really grieved the loss of our mother and baby sister.
We never thought it was something we had to grieve.
This was in part, of course, because we were so young. But more than that, it was because of our father’s heroic marshaling of family to surround and enfold us in uninterrupted love.
Beau and I talked about that often as we got older—how lucky we were despite the tragedy. We were almost ashamed to admit to any sadness we might have felt because of how enveloped we were in that familial embrace. It almost felt like a betrayal to say that we missed our mom when, nearly from the moment we left the hospital, we had my dad’s sister—Aunt Val—move in and not only take care of our immediate daily needs but also be as warm and tender and emotive as a mother figure could possibly be. My dad’s brother Uncle Jimmy converted our garage into an apartment so that he could be a constant presence in our lives. We were also tended to by our many other uncles and aunts, as well as by our grandparents—I still remember my grandmother making me feel better simply with a soft hand on my face, or scratching my back in bed, or warming up a bowl of her homemade beef-vegetable soup.
I don’t think I’ve ever fully come to terms with the violence of the actual incident, regardless of whether I’ve conjured it in my mind’s eye as an actual memory or if it remains buried in my subconscious. The fact is, it exists: it happened, and Beau and I were there.
The one thing he and I never asked each other was this: “What do you remember?” I don’t know why. I don’t know if it even occurred to either of us to ask.
I think we both absorbed that day and its aftermath in similar ways, but the effects manifested themselves differently in each of us. I really believe that its trauma and stress contributed to my brother’s health problems. He kept so much of it locked inside, and I can’t help but think it eventually took a toll, no matter how positively he always viewed things.
As for me, I want to make it clear: I don’t see that tragic moment as necessarily resulting in behaviors that lent themselves to addiction. That would be a cop-out. But I do have a better understanding of why I feel the way I do sometimes, the unease I’ve experienced at incongruous moments, especially around other people—at social gatherings, political functions, random encounters in a school or at an airport or during a meeting. It was a lonely place to be as a child, and it’s a lonely place to be now. That kind of insecurity is almost universal among those with real addiction issues—a feeling of being alone in a crowd.
I’ve always felt alone in a crowd.
Yet while we didn’t talk about it as kids, I was hyperaware of my mommy’s death—and hyperaware of her absence. I loved hearing relatives’ stories about her, holding tight to their portrayals of how special she was, how tough she was, how compassionate she was. They described her to me as smart, decisive, beautiful. The word I heard most often was “elegant,” as it related both to her demeanor and her physical appearance. She came across as something close to regal yet eminently approachable. She was loyal almost to a fault, an incredible politician in her own right, and an unflinching force behind Dad’s rise in Washington at the absurdly young age of twenty-nine.
I was not consciously aware, however, of how much her loss represented a missing piece of the family puzzle. While that hole was filled with something very special, what was lost was never recovered. It was as if someone had torn a section from a painting and replaced it with a lovely likeness. Our family remained a beautiful if reconfigured composition, one that was born out of tragedy and rearranged by an overwhelming desire to make sure that Beau and I were okay. Yet for me, that original piece was alway
s missing, always gone.
When our dad remarried five years after “the accident,” as we called it, he gave us the bonus of the Mom we have now (“When are ‘we’ going to get married?” Beau and I would pester Dad, constantly encouraging him to propose). A high school teacher from Willow Grove, Pennsylvania, Jill Biden did an amazing job of taking over the role of our mom—with a curious public looking on. I consider her to be my mother as much as one can possibly imagine.
Yet I still longed for what was lost, even if I couldn’t quite remember it.
It has taken me more than forty years to acknowledge that original loss, address that original trauma, recognize that original pain. And it has taken that long for me to understand that my doing so isn’t a betrayal of those who tried their mightiest to save Beau and me from the worst of it.
* * *
I remember my childhood as almost idyllic. I spent most of my time riding BMX bikes with Beau on back roads all over the outskirts of Wilmington, or hiking along railroad tracks and building forts in the woods.
Other times we headed to Buck Road to throw acorns at cars. Beau and I and another friend followed a disciplined set of rules: Never throw at a car driven by a woman or an elderly person. The highest-value target was a teenager in a van, but we basically zeroed in on people we knew would stop and chase us. We had places all along the road where we could best chuck the acorns and then hide. It was horribly stupid and we freaking loved it.
Some days we hung out at a little convenience store and used the money we made cutting lawns to buy Cokes, hot dogs, and candy bars, and then played video games—Centipede, Space Invaders—until we drove the clerks crazy and they ran us out. We’d bike over to the Gulf station and clean customers’ windshields for tips until we drove the owner there crazy, too. We’d then head over to Gandalf’s, a video-rental store in a strip mall, and poke through videos until we could sneak into the X-rated section tucked away in the back.
When we were home, we played one-on-one basketball or football for hours, beating the living shit out of each other. Our buddies came over on weekends to play pickup games; in the winter, we played hockey on the pond behind our house. When we all got bored enough, BB-gun wars broke out.
Because our birthdays fell just a day apart, Beau and I celebrated them together, alternating the day we held it on: February 3 one year, February 4 the next. The whole extended family—aunts, uncles, cousins—showed up to celebrate. We alternated the dinner we served, too: for me, chicken pot pie that Mom made from scratch; for Beau, spaghetti and meatballs. But when it came time to blow out the candles, every year there was a vanilla cake with chocolate icing for me and brownies (with candles) for Beau.
Those massive family gatherings at our house were repeated every year at a Christmas Eve dinner—all of it on behalf of my brother and me, all of it to keep us whole. I grew up watching, without always fully appreciating, my entire family perform the most selfless deeds on our behalf, without any real benefit to themselves. Everyone took a turn as a hero in our story; everyone performed a kind of magic act. It was an obvious expression of how much they loved my dad, who understood something rare, something truly genius: trauma gave us the gift of each other.
Beau always saw that his role as older brother included being my protector. He and our mom joked around together all the time, sometimes directing their humor at me, all in good fun. I was more sensitive, or maybe just less mature, and was as often confused by their jokes as I was in on them. My new mom was doing a great job, especially with everyone watching. Although she showed her deep love for me in ways I only fully understood later—her steadfast and undying loyalty, as just one example—the rhythms and dynamics of our new home were now slightly different. I was confused by that. I started to act out at school, not in alarming ways, just small, silly rebellions.
Between third and fourth grade, I transferred from Quaker-run Wilmington Friends to St. Edmond’s Academy, an all-boys Catholic school. Beau was moving that year from the Lower School at Friends to the Upper School across the street, so we wouldn’t be in the same building anyway. I don’t recall exactly why I wanted to transfer; again, I was probably being overly sensitive. My best friend at Wilmington Friends had cystic fibrosis, a boy named David who everyone was certain wouldn’t make it past the age of eighteen. I’d stay inside with him while he took his medicine during recess, after which a teacher gave each of us a Tootsie Roll. We’d head outside for the last few minutes of freedom, and some kids there teased us mercilessly.
I didn’t fare much better at St. Edmond’s. I think I still hold the record for most demerits. In fifth grade, I once asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, where I met up with two friends. We started horsing around, throwing toilet paper at each other and standing on top of the stalls while we urinated. Mr. Fox, a teacher I couldn’t stand, walked in and hit the roof. I knew I’d be in big trouble at home, so I decided to run away.
I also knew Beau would be devastated if I left him. So I wrote him a letter that was as melodramatic as it was sincere.
Dear Beau, it began, I love you more than anything in the world but I can’t stay here anymore. I’ll come back and find you but now I have to go. Please don’t look for me.
I then hid under my bed. A little later I heard Beau crying, telling our mom between sobs that she was the reason I took off. Dad called and Mom told him that she and Beau were going out to search for me. After they left, I slinked outside and climbed a tree in the yard. I stayed up there even after Beau and Mom returned home. Beau was still devastated, which actually made me feel better, seeing how much my brother missed me. I was like Tom Sawyer attending his own funeral.
Then my dad came home. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t hide in the tree all night. I finally clambered down and went inside, prepared for the worst. But everybody was just ecstatic to see me, safe and unharmed.
Also, it turned out, Mom told me that she wasn’t all that fond of Mr. Fox, either. I loved her for that.
I transferred back to Friends the next year.
Another kind of education took place most nights around our dinner table. It’s hard to think of anything of political significance over the course of my life that Dad wasn’t a part of. One result: we had a catbird seat to history from the perspective of one of its central players. When big issues were brought up while we ate—arms control with the Soviet Union, economic sanctions against South Africa—it was almost always in the context of, “What’s the plan, Dad? What are you going to do?”
Beau and I loved his elaborate talks about current events, usually beginning with historical backgrounding that could reach back centuries, then ending with the personalities and dynamics at play today.
The day-to-day politics of Washington—the battle lines drawn around the major policy and legislative fights—was a constant conversation because it had an impact on our father’s career, which was something that my brother and I became intimately involved in. We both wanted him to run for president every time he could. We’d give him a million reasons why he would win, which wasn’t always the most dispassionate advice: it was coming from sons who thought their father walked on water.
His primary campaign for the Democratic nomination for president in 1987, while we were teenagers, ended shortly after it began. We were devastated. He was accused of plagiarism when he loosely appropriated parts of a speech given by Neil Kinnock, the British Labour Party leader, without citing him. In fact, Dad had cited Kinnock in a dozen other speeches. It was a distorted political hit job that stuck in that pre-Clinton era when a single smear could sink a campaign. In today’s environment, it would hardly be a blip.
It was awful for Beau and me to watch the man we idolized be publicly humiliated on such a grand scale. I even tried to punch out some hecklers who taunted Dad at a Penn lightweight-football game that Beau was playing in until Beau’s buddies jumped in to break it up. While the campaign’s demise clearly weighed on him, Dad didn’t break a sweat, from what we c
ould see. He dropped out that September, then did what he always does in the face of adversity: put his head down and went back to work.
* * *
We were senator’s sons yet staunchly middle-class. We had a beautiful house in Wilmington that had once been owned by a du Pont, but it needed a ton of work. Dad closed off half of it with drywall every winter because we couldn’t afford to heat the whole thing. He pulled on a hazmat suit to scrape asbestos off the basement pipes himself. Dad, Beau, and I painted one side of the house every summer; when I was younger, Dad dangled me by the ankles from the third-floor windows to slap paint under the eaves. By the time all four sides were finished, the front needed to be painted again and we started all over. We planted six-foot mature cypress trees around the four-acre yard for a hedge. If Beau and I didn’t finish cutting the lawn over the weekend, we’d come home late from school and see Dad on a riding mower, in the dark, lights on, rolling up and down until it was done.
I started working at age eleven mowing lawns in the neighborhood with Beau, and there wasn’t a summer we weren’t required to have a job. My first legal-age employment was at the Brandywine Zoo. I shoveled piles of llama manure as tall as I was and unclogged the drain in the otter pool, where I sometimes became part of the attraction as visitors watched through a glass window as the otters attacked me.
Beau and I also worked for a cold-storage company. We started out in the inspection room, where a USDA guy plucked six random boxes from a railcar filled with sixty-pound hunks of frozen beef shipped from Australia and New Zealand. We’d slice off a big slab with a table saw, wrap it in plastic, thaw it in a vat of near-boiling water, then lay it out for the inspector.
