Politics

Remembering the Real RFK

/ Jack Croft / Leave a comment

He was not a hero, only a hope; he was not a myth, only a man. But to have been a hope and a man in America during the 1960s was to be something special.—From Robert Kennedy: A Memoir by Jack Newfield

PROLOGUE

I went to bed the night of June 4, 1968 with the optimism that only the young possess. The early returns from the California primary were encouraging, and U.S. Sen. Robert F. Kennedy was on the verge of a hard-won victory that would clearly position him as the frontrunner for the Democratic presidential nomination. Or so I believed.

I brought a book to bed with me, the latest in a long series of biographies of Bobby Kennedy that I devoured from the White Plains, N.Y., Public Library during the spring of Kennedy’s last campaign. This one was titled Robert Kennedy at 40, by the veteran newsmen Nick Thimmesch and William Johnson. I remember my mom stopping by my room to say goodnight as I was reading, and expressing confidence that all would be well. I had no idea at the time that Kennedy would only live to age 42.

I awoke in the morning to the sound of my mother crying. She broke the news to me that Kennedy had indeed won the California primary, but moments later, after making his victory speech, he had been gunned down. He was clinging to life, but there didn’t seem much cause for hope.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I started crying. I couldn’t believe it was happening again. I had been in elementary school when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on Nov. 22, 1963 in Dallas, and was glued to the television set throughout the days of mourning that followed. I remember we had been at a museum in New York City on Sunday, Feb. 21, 1965, and hearing the news on the car radio that Malcolm X had been murdered. And just two months earlier, on April 4, 1968, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been gunned down in Memphis.

Now, it was Bobby Kennedy. I wore my RFK campaign button to Highlands Junior High School the next day, as I had every day since Kennedy announced his candidacy in March. Friends and acquaintances tried to offer condolences, but when I attempted to talk, I just started crying and neither of us knew what to say or do.

As he struggled for his life after he was shot, I tried to find hope in Bobby Kennedy’s well-known toughness. And he did indeed hold on to life for another day, before succumbing to his wounds on June 6, 1968.

I had been a student volunteer in Kennedy’s campaign. The Saturday before the California primary, I had distributed leaflets supporting Kennedy in downtown White Plains for the New York primary to be held later in the month, and helped out in the White Plains campaign office. The next year, my junior high English class had a writing assignment to describe a particularly happy day in our lives. That was the day I wrote about.

In all the years since, that uniquely American, bleak passion play has become an annual ritual for me as the calendar turns to June. It begins in joyous triumph, with Kennedy’s victory in the California primary for the Democratic presidential nomination. But the triumph is short-lived, as Kennedy is gunned down, lying in a pool of his own blood on the kitchen floor of the old Ambassador Hotel, his head cradled by a Mexican busboy named Juan Romero, offering comfort.

However, in this passion play, on the third day, there is no resurrection of the hope that RFK brought to so many poor and working-class Americans—Black, white and Hispanic. Only the finality of death, and the death of yet another dream.

During the internet age, I have searched online each year as June 4th approaches to see what, if anything, is still being written about Bobby Kennedy, if he is remembered by any but the generation that lived through his final campaign—my generation. To see if there are people who understand how important a leader he was, how critical a crossroads the United States faced in 1968, and how that trail of assassins’ bullets that started with JFK and ended with RFK set us on a path marked by bigotry, hate and fear that continues to stain our politics today.

This year, however, when I Googled “Robert F. Kennedy,” Google, as it is wont to do, added an unrequested “jr.” to the name I typed. I know it’s just algorithms and SEO, reflecting the most popular search terms by sparing us the undue burden of actually typing them in ourselves. But I was stunned and angered that Junior (I will not contribute to the algorithms and search results) had usurped his father’s legacy in the digital realm. Much as he tried to usurp his uncle’s legacy with a tasteless Super Bowl ad that angered Kennedy family members for its tawdry mimicry of a John F. Kennedy ad from his successful1960 presidential campaign.

One hallmark of the Kennedy clan has always been fierce loyalty to family and friends. The fact that more than 30 of Junior’s own flesh and blood have publicly endorsed President Joe Biden’s reelection is telling about his ego trip masquerading as a campaign.

Junior has carved out his political brand as an anti-vaccine activist spreading misinformation about everything from measles to autism to COVID-19, embracing and spreading tin-foil hat conspiracy theories along the way. And then there is the bizarre tale contained in Junior’s own words in a 2012 deposition given during his divorce from his second wife concerning how a worm got into his brain, ate a portion of it, and was later discovered dead there by doctors.

I do not come to bury Junior, but to make an attempt to refocus attention on his father’s life and legacy, which I fear are in danger of receding into the digital swamp. I set out to write as clearly and passionately as I could about why Robert F. Kennedy still matters, what we as a nation lost that June night 56 years ago, and how his compassion and authenticity in advocating for and seeking to unite poor and working-class people across race, religion and whatever else is used to divide us can still shine a light on a better path forward to a newer world.

Then, I came across an editorial I wrote in 1993, for the Pottstown Mercury, on the 25th anniversary of Kennedy’s death. As I re-read it for the first time in a long time, I realized that I’ve already written what I have to say, perhaps better than I could now. And what struck me hardest was that, aside from the passage of 31 years, very little has changed. If anything, the bigotry, hate and fear have continued to metastasize.

So here is that editorial, exactly as it appeared on Sunday, June 6, 1993. I wish with all my heart that it was more upbeat, more optimistic, more hopeful. Sadly, that only would have rendered it less honest.

25 Years after death of Robert Kennedy

In the majestic stillness of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the deep divisions that had violently torn the country apart in the spring of 1968 were temporarily bridged by grief.

Under the harsh glare of television lights, it became painfully clear one last time exactly what Robert Francis Kennedy meant to the nation.

In his brief run for the presidency, Kennedy had pulled together blacks, whites and Hispanics. Young and old. Farmers and factory workers. Radical leftists and old-guard politicians.

As his body lay in state in a simple mahogany casket, there was Richard Daley, the iron-fisted mayor of Chicago, crying uncontrollably. Later, sitting in a back pew with his green Havana cap sticking out of his pants pocket, there was revolutionary leader Tom Hayden, weeping.

In just two months, Hayden and Daley would be opposing generals in the bloody battle of Chicago at the Democratic National Convention.

In his excellent book, “Robert Kennedy: A Memoir,” the writer Jack Newfield recalled watching the long line of people patiently waiting to file past the casket, and how he thought of a quotation from Pascal that Camus invoked at the start of “Resistance, Rebellion and Death,” a book that Kennedy had read and reread several times.

“A man does not show his greatness by being at one extremity, but rather by touching both at once.”

That was Robert Kennedy’s unique gift, and in the 25 years since he was gunned down at age 42, the pain of his loss has only grown.

• • •

Rarely in history have triumph and tragedy been so intertwined as they were the night of June 4, 1968.

As Robert Kennedy walked into the ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles after winning the crucial California primary, all things seemed possible.

It already had been an extraordinary political year, one that saw an incumbent president — Lyndon B. Johnson — face a rebellion within his own party ranks over the war in Vietnam.

A little-known senator from Minnesota, Eugene McCarthy, had challenged the president when others — including Kennedy — considered it folly. But then came the Tet offensive in January 1968, and suddenly the Viet Cong were in Saigon, firing on the American Embassy.

Kennedy decided to enter the race, but McCarthy staked his claim to the hearts of the young with a stunning showing in the New Hampshire primary.

By the end of March, Johnson shocked the nation by withdrawing from the race. The battle between McCarthy and Kennedy grew increasingly bitter, as then-Vice President Hubert H. Humphrey waited in the wings, hoping to steal the nomination without dirtying his hands in the primary fray.

Kennedy won Indiana and Nebraska, but suffered a setback in Oregon. It all came down to California.

In his acceptance speech the night of the California primary, Kennedy optimistically told his cheering supporters: “I think that we can end the divisions within the United States.”

Then, he sounded the theme that defined his campaign. “What I think is quite clear is that we can work together in the last analysis, and that what has been going on within the United States over a period of the last three years — the division, the violence, the disenchantment with our society; the divisions, whether it’s between blacks and whites, between the poor and the more affluent, or between age groups or on the war in Vietnam — is that we can start to work together.”

In the sweltering ballroom, the crowd chanted, “We want Bobby. We want Bobby.” The center of their adulation left the platform and, making a last-minute detour, headed out through the kitchen pantry.

• • •

We will never know what would have happened if Robert Kennedy had taken another exit route that night. The gunshots fired by Sirhan Sirhan unalterably changed history.

It is by no means certain that Kennedy would have claimed the Democratic nomination for president in Chicago. But if he had, and if he had gone on to defeat Richard Nixon in November, we would almost surely live in a different country today.

In the years since Kennedy’s death, the divisions, the disenchantment and the violence he sought to end have only grown deeper. With Kennedy as president, there might be 27,000 fewer names on the granite wall at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

Watergate would merely be an office complex in Washington, D.C., and Kent State would just be a Midwestern university. The polarization between the races, and the rising tide of hate crimes, may have been averted.

We’ll never know. But there is something we do know, a sad and terrible truth that Newfield wrote of a quarter century ago.

“Now I realized what makes our generation unique, what defines us apart from those who came before the hopeful winter of 1961, and those who came after the murderous spring of 1968. We are the first generation that learned from experience, in our innocent twenties, that things were not really getting better, that we shall not overcome. We felt, by the time we reached thirty, that we had already glimpsed the most compassionate leaders our nation could produce, and they had all been assassinated. And from this time forward, things would get worse: our best political leaders were part of memory now, not hope.”

• • •

Just a month before his death, British television personality David Frost taped an interview with Kennedy. Toward the end, Frost asked him: “How would you like to be remembered? What would you like the first line of your obituary to say?”

Kennedy responded softly, “Something about the fact that I made a contribution to either my country or those who were less well off. I think again back to what Camus wrote about the fact that perhaps this world is a world in which children suffer, but we can lessen the number of suffering children, and if you do not do this, then who will do this? I’d like to feel that I’d done something to lessen that suffering.”

EPILOGUE

At the Democratic National Convention in Atlantic City in 1964, the pain and grief of his brother’s assassination still raw, Robert F. Kennedy closed his tribute to our nation’s slain leader with these words:

When I think of President Kennedy, I think of what Shakespeare said in Romeo and Juliet: “When he shall die take him and cut him out into stars and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.”

In this election year, let us pay no worship to the garish son. Instead, let us re-dedicate ourselves to Robert F. Kennedy’s vision to relieve suffering and hunger; to combat poverty through jobs and a living wage; to champion the rights of all, including Native Americans and Mexican farmworkers; to work together to unite, not divide; and to keep our nation from waging unjust wards.

Maybe it’s too late. To understand the opportunity we lost in 1968, we need only reflect on the studies that showed that many blue-collar, white voters who cast their ballots for Kennedy in the Indiana primary voted for the racist former Alabama Gov. George Wallace in November.

But we have to at least try. Because, as Kennedy told David Frost in that long-ago interview, “If you do not do this, then who will do this?”

CODA

Larry Kirwan, lead singer, songwriter and guitarist of Black 47, one of my all time favorite bands, has written numerous songs about his heroes, from Bernadette Devlin to James Connolly to Brendan Behan to Bobby Sands, M.P., to this one about Bobby Kennedy. It does a fine job capturing Kennedy’s compassion and moral outrage, and is a great reminder of why he matters.
The story goes that the writer Jack Newfield introduced Bobby Kennedy to singer-songwriter Phil Ochs on a plane ride from Washington, D.C., to New York. Ochs played his song Crucifixion for Kennedy, and as the senator listened, he realized the song was about his brother John F. Kennedy’s assassination. And he was moved to tears.
Dion performs a gorgeous version complete with backing choir of his hit Abraham, Martin and John on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour.
John Stewart may be best known for writing the Monkees’ hit Daydream Believer, but he was a member of the Kingston Trio and enjoyed a long and distinguished career as a folksinger and even a brief time in the rock spotlight with a hit single Gold from his Bombs Away Dream Babies album in 1979. In 1968, he and his wife and musical partner Buffy Ford performed on Bobby Kennedy’s train at whistle stops and other campaign events. This beautifully poignant song recalls those idealistic days when we were Dreamers on the Rise, from Stewart’s album The Last Campaign, a collection of songs he wrote during the campaign and years later, reflecting on it. It’s a great album, well worth seeking out.

Christopher Jones, Phil Ochs, and the Chords of Fame

/ Jack Croft / 3 Comments

 

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So play the chords of love, my friend

Play the chords of pain

If you want to keep your song,

Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t play the chords of fame

The brilliant, but troubled, singer-songwriter Phil Ochs, who later descended into alcoholism and manic depression before taking his own life at age 35, warned of the dangers of playing the chords of fame.

Christopher Jones, the promising young actor who took the starring role that Ochs turned down in the satirical 1968 teen rebellion film Wild In The Streets, turned his back on fame just as his star was reaching its peak, and went on to live a quiet life until his death from cancer in February 2014 at age 72.

The story of Christopher Jones should be the stuff of legend. Instead, it’s largely forgotten. A charismatic young actor with smoldering good looks, hailed as the next James Dean, becomes a leading man on TV by age 24 and quickly parlays his success into starring roles on the silver screen—and then, before he turns 30, walks away for reasons that have never been fully explained.

And never looks back.

Oh yeah, and did I mention the Charlie Manson cult murder angle? More on that in a bit.

For the next four decades, Jones lived off the money he made as the star of the ABC TV series The Legend of Jesse James, which lasted only one season, and a tantalizingly brief movie career that included starring roles in the cult classic Wild In The Streets, the John LeCarre spy thriller The Looking Glass, and David Lean’s epic Ryan’s Daughter. He also was a painter and a sculptor, a devoted father, and—by his own account in rare newspaper interviews—happy.

So today, on what would have been Christopher Jones’ 75th birthday, we would do well to remember the actor who decided not to play the Chords of Fame.

‘A Leader of Men and of Little Girls’

Born William Franklin Jones on Aug. 18, 1941, he had the southern gothic version of a Dickensian childhood. The family initially lived above a grocery store in Jackson, Tennessee, where his father was a clerk. When Jones was just 4, his mother, an artist, was confined to a psychiatric hospital, where she died 15 years later. Jones was sent by his father to live in in a children’s home in Memphis.

At 16, with permission from his father, Jones joined the Army, went AWOL, and did a short stint in prison. Like so many before him, he made his way to New York City, where he studied painting while working odd jobs until he won a small role on Broadway in the 1961 production of Tennessee Williams’ The Night of the Iguana. It got him noticed, and he auditioned at the famed Actors Studio. He wound up marrying Artistic Director Lee Strasberg’s daughter, Susan Strasberg. (They divorced in 1968.)

In 1965, Jones landed the starring role in The Legend of Jesse James. That’s where I first saw him, and became an instant fan. Jones played the outlaw as a good-hearted Robin Hood who robbed and killed only to right injustices. I watched every episode, and was among the thousands of young people who were crushed when the show was canceled after one season. The show led me to read up on the real Jesse James, which provided a valuable early life lesson that TV and reality are distant cousins, at best.

Wild_In-The_Streets_300pJones soon landed the starring role in Wild In The Streets, an American International Pictures exploitation film about 24-year-old rock star Max Frost, a “leader of men and of little girls,” as the off-screen announcer intones, who spearheads a teen rebellion that results in 15-year-olds getting the right to vote and Frost carrying every state but Hawaii as the Republican nominee for president.

That’s right, Republican nominee. It seems that in this crazy, totally ridiculous satire, the GOP is desperate enough to offer its presidential nomination to an unhinged celebrity. If you think Donald Trump is unstable and unpredictable, wait until you meet Max Frost, who accomplishes his government takeover by having his young “troops” dump LSD in the Washington, DC, water supply and, upon taking office, sets 30 as the mandatory retirement age. “Who, after all, do you think caused all of our troubles? Those who are stiff, baby, but not with love—with age!” At age 35, everyone has to go to an internment camp, where, as Frost explains, “We’re going to psyche ‘em all out on LSD, babies!”

Truth in advertising: “Perhaps the Most Unusual Motion Picture You’ll Ever See” Watch the trailer for Wild In The Streets.

The film features a stellar cast given the material, including Hal Holbrook as an ambitious young congressman who forms a Faustian pact with Frost and his teen followers to advance his own campaign for U.S. Senate; Ed Begley as California’s distinguished senior senator, who just doesn’t understand what’s the matter with kids today; Shelley Winters as a psycho, abusive mother who’s even more twisted than Angela Lansbury’s Manchurian Candidate mom;  and a very young Richard Pryor as Stanley X, an anthropologist and author of The Aborigine Cookbook who is the drummer in Max Frost’s band. It also includes cameos by Walter Winchell and Dick Clark as TV news announcers.

Unusual? I guess you could say that.

‘Once You’re In, You’re In’

Phil_Ochs_Patriot_300pOn screen, Jones is every bit the pop star he portrays, and you can’t take your eyes off him. Yet, as I watched the movie again last night, I couldn’t help but think what it would have been like if Phil Ochs had said yes.

Ochs, a passionate, literate, and wickedly funny folksinger and political activist, loved Elvis, James Dean, and John Wayne. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved most about him. In his excellent biography, There But for Fortune: The Life of Phil Ochs, author Michael Schumacher writes about Phil’s passion for movies, and how he harbored the faint hope of one day acting in films himself.

At one point during this period, Phil was offered the lead role in Wild in the Streets, a feature film about a rock ‘n’ roll idol who is elected President of the United States. (Ochs manager) Arthur Gorson had disapproved of the movie’s right-wing message, and had discouraged Phil from accepting the part. The movie went on to become a major hit, and twenty-five years after the fact, Michael Ochs still stewed about his brother’s rejecting the opportunity to star in the film.

“I was not managing him at that point,” Michael stated, “but if I had been, I would not have let him turn it down. Yes, it was right wing, and it was against everything he believed in but he still should have done it. He loved the movies and wanted to be in them, and this was his chance. Once you’re in, you’re in.”

He’s right. But as Max Frost and the Troopers sang, nothing can change the shape of things to come. Jones, who did say yes when the role was offered, went on to make the sexploitation farce Three in the Attic with Yvette Mimieux; The Looking Glass War, based on a John LeCarre Cold War spy thriller with Anthony Hopkins; A Brief Season, an Italian film that I don’t believe has been released in the U.S.; and Ryan’s Daughter, the Irish epic by Doctor Zhivago director David Lean that stars Robert Mitchum, Trevor Howard, and Sarah Miles, along with Jones.

‘It’s Too Late to Fall In Love with Sharon Tate’

And here’s where the Charlie Manson cult connection comes in. It was during the filming of Ryan’s Daughter, which was going to be Jones’ ticket to major stardom, that word came of the Tate-Labianca murders. In what I’ve long thought is the best opening line in rock history, the late writer, rock star, and poet Jim Carroll wrote: “It’s too late, to fall in love with Sharon Tate.” That proved to be literally true for Jones, who told a British interviewer in 2007 that he had fallen in love with the actress—who was the wife of director Roman Polanski and pregnant with his child at the time—in Rome earlier in 1969.

News of her grisly murder by Manson family members on Aug. 9, 1969 devastated Jones, and he suffered a breakdown. He was barely able to finish the film, and walked away from his Hollywood career when it finally wrapped. Jones, who turned down Quentin Tarantino’s 1994 entreaty to play The Gimp character in Pulp Fiction, only appeared once more on screen, in a small role as a favor to old friend Larry Bishop (who played The Hook in Wild in the Streets and was the son of comedian Joey Bishop) in the 1996 movie Trigger Happy.

Over the years, Jones hinted that there was more to his decision to still the Chords of Fame than Sharon Tate’s murder. He told the Toronto Globe and Mail: “Fate is fate. That’s the way it was. As for the rest, I want my epitaph to read: ‘Some things are better left unsaid.’”

So happy 75th birthday to Christopher Jones, who chose to play the chords of love instead of the chords of fame. I only wish Phil Ochs could have been so fortunate.

Coda: Phil Ochs

Chords of Fame from Phil Ochs Greatest Hits

Coda: Christopher Jones

Watch the premier episode of The Legend of Jesse James from September 1965.

https://youtu.be/xV2XUTCurvQ

Max Frost and the Troopers perform “Shape of Things to Come.”

Song of Bernadette

/ Jack Croft / 1 Comment

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Bernadette Devlin, MP, speaks during a civil rights rally in London’s Trafalgar Square in June 1971.

“We were born into an unjust system; we are not prepared to grow old in it.”

The fact that Bernadette Devlin McAliskey has grown old enough to celebrate her 69th birthday today is all you really need to know about her courage, tenacity, and toughness. And the fact that Northern Ireland, the land in which she lives, is no longer as brutally unjust as it was in her youth is testament to her unyielding commitment to fight for equal rights and justice, whatever the cost. As McAliskey would be the first to say, that fight is by no means over. But I shudder to think what the country of my grandfather, whose name I proudly bear, would look like today if not for Bernadette Devlin McAliskey, after whom my oldest daughter is named.

Not that my grandparents—who sailed on separate ships four months apart from Liverpool to America in 1920 and were married on Ellis Island so my grandmother would be allowed into the home of the free—or their relatives who stayed behind would have been fans. Quite the opposite. They were Protestants and Orange loyalists. I grew up in a different country, in a different time, and from an early age, I have believed that pitting working class Catholics against Protestants was a cynical and deadly strategy to keep those at the bottom of society from realizing who their real common enemy was.

Born in 1947, Bernadette was the third of six children. Her father, who taught her Irish history  when she was still a child, died when she was 9, leaving her mother to raise the children on welfare, a dehumanizing experience that helped shape Bernadette’s worldviews. Her mother died when Bernadette was 18. She was attending Queen’s University, and helped care for her siblings as she got involved in the budding civil rights movement.

“It wasn’t long before people discovered the final horrors of letting an urchin into Parliament.”

In 1969, at the age of 21, Bernadette Devlin—a fiery speaker, socialist, republican, and civil rights activist—stood for election in the Mid-Ulster District, and became the youngest female ever elected as a Member of Parliament (MP). It’s a distinction she still holds today, almost half a century later.

She also became an international sensation, the wee girl in a miniskirt storming the stuffy chambers of Westminster. The media coverage was almost universally condescending and insulting, but Devlin handled it with an aplomb and professionalism that her inevitably older male interrogators lacked. During her five years in Parliament, she literally and figuratively fought for the rights of oppressed working people. She stood with Catholic residents trying to end the occupation by British troops during the August 1969 Battle of the Bogside, and was convicted in 1970 on charges of inciting rioting. Devlin spent four months in prison while still an MP.

In January 1972, she walked across the House of Commons and, in what she called a “proletarian protest,” punched British Home Secretary Reginald Maudling after he defended British paratroopers who fired on unarmed civil rights activists in Derry on what came to be known as Bloody Sunday. In the video clip above, when one of the media horde presses Bernadette on whether she would apologize to Maudling, she replies: “I’m just sorry I didn’t get him by the throat.” Fourteen people died of the wounds inflicted by the troops, and history has proven Devlin—who was the only Member of Parliament to actually witness the massacre—correct. However, the arc of the moral universe is indeed long as it bends toward justice: It was November 2015 before the first soldier was finally arrested in the killings. More significantly, while the British government has offered apologies for the murder of innocent civilians, no government official from the time has been held accountable.

Devlin had a child out of wedlock—causing a scandal that harmed her political support at home—before marrying Michael McAliskey in 1973. She lost her seat in Parliament in 1974, but continued to remain active in socialist and republican politics.

Play the video above to hear Black 47’s Change, a song inspired by Bernadette Devlin McAliskey that originally appeared on their third album. Read Larry Kirwin’s blog post, “Bernadette and Change.“

“To gain that which is worth having, it may be necessary to lose everything else.”

Bernadette Devlin wrote those words in the Foreword to her autobiography, The Price of My Soul, published in 1969. On a cold January night in 1981, they very nearly proved prophetic.

She was in bed, her 2-year-old son, Fintan, beside her, when gunmen burst into McAliskey’s Coalisland home and riddled her body with bullets. Her husband Michael, who had gotten out of bed when he heard a noise at the door, also was cut down in a hail of gunfire—including a bullet to the head.

As McAliskey told the great New York newspaperman Jimmy Breslin in an article that ran in People magazine, of all places, a few months later: “I did a mental runabout to see if I was shot where it would kill me. If I found the worst spot, then I could concentrate on it and stay alive for the children. I found I was having trouble breathing. So I concentrated on breathing to stay alive. I kind of shifted myself over to the bed and pulled the baby down, with the cover. I wrapped the cover over the two of us and just stayed on the floor and made sure I could breathe.”

As they fled the home, the gunmen were immediately caught by British paratroopers, who just happened to be in the neighborhood waiting for them—40 miles away from their barracks, in an area they rarely patrolled.

“The soldiers were there to make sure that the gunmen got into my house and that they were caught on the way out,” McAliskey told Breslin. “The gunmen were set up and so were we.”

Miraculously, both Bernadette and her husband survived the attack, and within six weeks, she was out of the hospital. Unbowed, and on crutches, she announced that she was running for a seat in the House of Commons. However, she dropped out to support jailed IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands, who won the election, but soon after sacrificed his life as part of a campaign to shame the Brits into recognizing the H-Block inmates as political prisoners.

It was not the first, nor last, time that the British demonstrated that when it came to Ireland, they were beyond shame.

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Bernadette Devlin McAliskey speaks in 2007 on the 91st anniversary of the execution of James Connolly, one of the leaders of the 1916 Irish Rising.

In the years since the gunmen burst into her home with guns blazing, McAliskey  has continued to fight the good fight, including standing up in the past decade for the rights of gays and lesbians to march in New York’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, another battle that was only won this year.

She has lived an extraordinary life, one filled with passion and purpose, and has inspired thousands around the world. Count me as one of them.

In 1982, just one year after the assassination attempt, my wife, Cathy, and I were considering names for our first-born daughter, and we quickly settled on Bernadette. For me, naming her for someone who had demonstrated such courage and perseverance in fighting for equal rights and justice seemed a fitting way to honor one of my early political heroines.

And this is one of those places where politics and music intertwined so beautifully to make it clear we were making the right choice. Both Cathy and I love The Four Tops song, Bernadette.

And you can never go wrong listening to Levi Stubbs.

This is my debut post in From a Pawned Smith Corona. Most of the rest will be considerably shorter. Scout’s honor.