Sen. Edward M. Kennedy, D-Mass., was a Washington institution, but he was also a man. Imagine that life. He lost brothers, cousins, in tragic ways. Not being able to say goodbye to a sibling is hard. Not being able to feel them hug back one last time is harder. Not only were these brothers gone, the photos or tapes of their departure were in the public domain, a constant slideshow of their brutal ends.
These weren’t murders, but executions. As the imprimatur of Camelot carried with it a sort of symbol of the American soul, Sen. Kennedy would have to reconcile the boys from childhood with their status as American icons. Nobody would know them the way he knew them, and he would never know them again.
The world’s eyes would turn from those photographs, and then turn to Kennedy at what might have been his darkest moment of pain. Be strong! Look dignified! The future depends on this!
And then Kennedy’s own fallibility comes to light, with a young girl named Mary Jo Kopechne dead with no one to blame but himself.
As a story of guilt, Kennedy’s sounds like something from a novel by Nathaniel Hawthorne (also from Massachusetts). Consider his losses up to that point, and then consider the loss that happened at his own hands. No one is so crass that a girl dies in his car and it doesn’t affect him. It was one more loss.
Except this time, these weren’t moving pictures or quick snaps or news headlines. It happened before his very eyes.
Whatever pain he felt, he felt alone, away from the spotlight, away from the podium.
Humanity compels us to believe the pain was there. Our soldiers take the lives of enemies who would not hesitate to return the favor, and they do so for country and kin. Yet still they suffer severe emotional trauma once the firing ceases. Kennedy was only driving an Oldsmobile, was only returning from a party, was only carefree. Tragically carefree.
Then comes the part where the car sinks into the water, and Kennedy calls everyone but the police. And when he does, it was too late. Maybe there wasn’t a chance. Only he could know.
Whatever happened that night, I’m sure he was never able to fully divest himself of it – the emotions as well as the facts — even to his closest confidants. He would call Kopechne’s family, whose knowledge of the events would forever be obscured. Their loss would be muted to the public ear by scandal.
He “got away with it” because he could. Political ambition was part of the Kennedy genetic code, and so public morality was tossed to the wind. Excuses were made. A neck brace was worn. The PR campaign marched on. But no one ever gets away with anything. They simply endure a stay of moral execution. Conscience, then, takes over, but in private. It becomes lonely.
Kennedy, a Catholic, must have known this for the length of his life, as friends came and went, family members born and lost.
Sometimes life can be just as punishing as death. He might have taken solace in his work, but solace is little reassurance for a soul that must have agonized over past misdeeds.
Even if blinded by political ambition, he never would be able to move on from the Senate to higher office. People would praise his abilities, talk of his gravitas. Others, like me, would be tempted to crack the usual jokes. It’s crass.
But then you pause and realize he was stuck in limbo, professionally, sure, but without question, spiritually. He was waiting, alone. It’s a kind of loneliness that can’t be envied.
We shouldn’t wish for harsh judgment. We should instead pray that he finally can rest in peace.
