Believer: My Forty Years in Politics Read Online Free Page B
Author: David Axelrod
1960s New York City scene. With numerous temptations and very few limits, we hung together and guided one another through many storms. Maybe that’s why I have always found comfort in community. Whether in newsrooms, campaigns, or the White House, I have thrived in communal settings, finding emotional nourishment in the friendships and camaraderie of the team.
Mine was the first generation raised on TV, and John F. Kennedy was the first president truly of the television age. He was suave, handsome, cool, and witty, with a picture-perfect family and the aura of a war hero. When I could, I watched his televised news conferences. I watched his stirring speech calling for the Civil Rights Act. I followed the drama of the Cuban missile crisis, my interest aroused by the absurd duck-and-cover exercises we would routinely hold at school to prepare for a nuclear attack.
My mom’s brother, Bill, had collaborated with JFK on a children’s version of his Pulitzer Prize–winning
Profiles in Courage
, which at the age of seven, I labored mightily to digest. I tried to imitate Kennedy’s signature Boston accent (albeit badly) and could name the key players in his cabinet as readily as I could tick off the top ten home run hitters of all time.
Then, on November 22, 1963, Kennedy became the first American president to be assassinated in the television age. When the shocking news came, we were dismissed from school. I ran home, turned on the TV, and watched for days, in horror and morbid fascination, as the grim history unfolded. Yet the assassination and stormy years to follow did nothing to diminish my interest in politics. If anything, they underscored the stakes.
When JFK’s younger brother Bobby moved to New York to run for the U.S. Senate in 1964, I went to the local Democratic club to volunteer. Bobby had picked up JFK’s torch, and I wanted to march behind him. At the age of nine, I was more mascot than warrior, though, and was assigned an appropriately nominal task. I was thrilled when Bobby upset the Republican incumbent. Ironically, Bobby was swept to victory in the wake of a man he despised, Lyndon Johnson, who carried New York and the nation in a landslide.
In January 1965, I was invited to attend Johnson’s inauguration. My mother’s cousin Joan Kushnir had been a cochair of JFK’s 1960 campaign in Colorado and had come to Washington, along with thousands of other New Frontiersmen, at the dawning of the Kennedy presidency. Joan, a tiny woman with an outsize personality, never did take a government job, but she had forged connections all over town, and she used them to show me a side of Washington not visible from a tour bus. She introduced me to Supreme Court justice Byron “Whizzer” White, who had been her fellow cochair in Colorado in 1960. He brought me into his chambers and talked about his work. He also shared memorabilia from his years as an All-American running back for the University of Colorado. Joan took me to meet Senator Abe Ribicoff of Connecticut, a former member of President Kennedy’s cabinet, who humored me by asking about my political aspirations. “Maybe you’ll work here someday,” he said warmly. “We could use you.” If only, I thought to myself then. Wouldn’t that be something? And then there was the inaugural ceremony itself. The indefatigable cousin Joan hustled a perch on a riser so I could get a better look. Some kids dreamed of a trip to Disneyland. For me, this was Disneyland.
Later that year, Democrats in New York City nominated an uninspiring hack for mayor—or, at least, that’s how their candidate, Abe Beame, seemed to me. So one day after school, I walked over to the Liberal Party headquarters a few blocks from my home and volunteered for John Lindsay. Lindsay was a charismatic, young reformist congressman from our area who had big dreams for New York and inspired comparisons to the Kennedys. He was a Republican, but he also ran on the Liberal Party line, which was
Mine was the first generation raised on TV, and John F. Kennedy was the first president truly of the television age. He was suave, handsome, cool, and witty, with a picture-perfect family and the aura of a war hero. When I could, I watched his televised news conferences. I watched his stirring speech calling for the Civil Rights Act. I followed the drama of the Cuban missile crisis, my interest aroused by the absurd duck-and-cover exercises we would routinely hold at school to prepare for a nuclear attack.
My mom’s brother, Bill, had collaborated with JFK on a children’s version of his Pulitzer Prize–winning
Profiles in Courage
, which at the age of seven, I labored mightily to digest. I tried to imitate Kennedy’s signature Boston accent (albeit badly) and could name the key players in his cabinet as readily as I could tick off the top ten home run hitters of all time.
Then, on November 22, 1963, Kennedy became the first American president to be assassinated in the television age. When the shocking news came, we were dismissed from school. I ran home, turned on the TV, and watched for days, in horror and morbid fascination, as the grim history unfolded. Yet the assassination and stormy years to follow did nothing to diminish my interest in politics. If anything, they underscored the stakes.
When JFK’s younger brother Bobby moved to New York to run for the U.S. Senate in 1964, I went to the local Democratic club to volunteer. Bobby had picked up JFK’s torch, and I wanted to march behind him. At the age of nine, I was more mascot than warrior, though, and was assigned an appropriately nominal task. I was thrilled when Bobby upset the Republican incumbent. Ironically, Bobby was swept to victory in the wake of a man he despised, Lyndon Johnson, who carried New York and the nation in a landslide.
In January 1965, I was invited to attend Johnson’s inauguration. My mother’s cousin Joan Kushnir had been a cochair of JFK’s 1960 campaign in Colorado and had come to Washington, along with thousands of other New Frontiersmen, at the dawning of the Kennedy presidency. Joan, a tiny woman with an outsize personality, never did take a government job, but she had forged connections all over town, and she used them to show me a side of Washington not visible from a tour bus. She introduced me to Supreme Court justice Byron “Whizzer” White, who had been her fellow cochair in Colorado in 1960. He brought me into his chambers and talked about his work. He also shared memorabilia from his years as an All-American running back for the University of Colorado. Joan took me to meet Senator Abe Ribicoff of Connecticut, a former member of President Kennedy’s cabinet, who humored me by asking about my political aspirations. “Maybe you’ll work here someday,” he said warmly. “We could use you.” If only, I thought to myself then. Wouldn’t that be something? And then there was the inaugural ceremony itself. The indefatigable cousin Joan hustled a perch on a riser so I could get a better look. Some kids dreamed of a trip to Disneyland. For me, this was Disneyland.
Later that year, Democrats in New York City nominated an uninspiring hack for mayor—or, at least, that’s how their candidate, Abe Beame, seemed to me. So one day after school, I walked over to the Liberal Party headquarters a few blocks from my home and volunteered for John Lindsay. Lindsay was a charismatic, young reformist congressman from our area who had big dreams for New York and inspired comparisons to the Kennedys. He was a Republican, but he also ran on the Liberal Party line, which was
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