A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity

by Bill O'Reilly

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  I pledge Allegiance to the Flag of the United States…

  Introduction: Reading This Book Will Dramatically Improve Your Life!

  1 POLITICS

  2 SELF-RELIANCE

  3 FEAR

  4 EVIL

  5 RELIGION

  6 SAVING THE WORLD

  7 STANDING YOUR GROUND

  8 STANDING FOR SOMETHING

  9 CONSERVATIVES VERSUS LIBERALS

  10 HEROES AND ZEROS

  11 MEN OF ADVENTURE

  12 SLUGGING IT OUT

  13 POWER

  14 MYSTERIES OF THE UNIVERSE

  15 AND JUSTICE FOR ALL

  16 END OF STORY

  Postscript

  Also by Bill O’Reilly

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to all Factor

  viewers, listeners, and readers.

  You guys keep me going.

  Don’t look back,

  You can never look back.

  —Don Henley, “The Boys of Summer”

  I pledge Allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it Stands;

  One Nation under God, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for All.

  INTRODUCTION

  Reading This Book Will Dramatically Improve Your Life!

  Got your attention, didn’t I? Hopefully, that hyped-up statement will prove to be true, although I fully realize there will be skeptics. After all, I’ve had four consecutive number one nonfiction best sellers, so what is there left to say? I mean, come on, everybody knows O’Reilly is a champion bloviator, but is another book really necessary?

  I think so.

  You see, I’ve never really explained how I got to be that showy bloviator; I have not defined exactly how my opinions, which so rankle more than a few sensitive souls, were formed. So that’s what this book is all about: defining the experiences that have shaped my thinking, propelling me into becoming one of the most controversial human beings in the world. Also, I think you’ll find the following pages interesting on a number of other levels besides my life experience. This book is full of stories and references that, perhaps, were important in your life as well. By design, much of the story is about me but not all about me. Thank God.

  We can’t begin at the real beginning, September 10, 1949, because not much was happening in my world at that time. I was just a normal baby, nothing unusual. No strange-looking eyes like those Village of the Damned kids.

  Wow, were they spooky or what? To this day, I remember those urchins scaring the Milk Duds out of me in a dark Long Island movie theater.

  No, my point of view really began taking shape at age four, when, in a New York neighborhood teeming with children, playtime became an intense experience. A few years later, my intellectual development (such as it was) started to accelerate at a Catholic grammar school that was simply unforgettable. And it is at that school where this story begins.

  My third-grade class. That’s the bold, fresh guy on Sister Lurana’s right.

  The year was 1957, the month September, and I had just turned eight years old. Dwight Eisenhower was President, but in my life it was the diminutive, intense Sister Mary Lurana who ruled, at least in the third-grade class where I was held captive. For reasons you will soon understand, my parents had remanded me to the penal institution of St. Brigid’s School in Westbury, New York, a cruel and unusual punishment if there ever was one.

  Already, I had barely survived my first two years at St. Brigid’s because I was, well, a little nitwit. Not satisfied with memorizing The Baltimore Catechism’s fine prose, which featured passages like, “God made me to show His goodness and to make me happy with Him in heaven,” I was constantly annoying my classmates and, of course, the no-nonsense Sister Lurana. With sixty overactive students in her class, she was understandably short on patience. For survival, she had also become quick on the draw.

  Then it happened. One day I blurted out some dumb remark and Sister Lurana was on me like a panther. Her black habit blocked out all distractions as she leaned down, looked me in the eye, and uttered words I have never forgotten: “William, you are a bold, fresh piece of humanity.”

  And she was dead-on.

  The following pages will prove that the sister’s perspicacious remark remains relevant about fifty years after the fact. But this account is not a traditional memoir in the sense that I mean to tell you my life story. I don’t want to do that, because I happen to think I’m a pretty boring guy. So a recitation of my existence wouldn’t do anyone much good. Instead, I will attempt to define why I believe what I believe by telling you how those convictions grew directly out of my life experience. This tactic is designed to keep you, the reader, entertained and amused, as you and I probably have much in common, at least in the upbringing department.

  Once out of childhood, the adult bold, fresh piece of humanity got around, visiting more than seventy countries, observing four wars up close and personal, meeting thousands of people, and having millions of laughs. So we’ll take a look at some of that stuff in relation to important issues like war, peace, prosperity, and your daily life. Since millions of you listen to my bloviations on TV and radio, this book might provide some clarity, bonding (hate that word), and even some sympathy (although I don’t seek it).

  The O’Reilly family in our Levittown backyard.

  Also, the following pages just might tee some people off even further. Either way, we’ll have some fun.

  If you know my work, you might have figured out that I am not a philosopher or a dreamer. I do not live in a theoretical world or gain insights by attempting to read the thoughts of others. Instead, in line with the exhortations of Teddy Roosevelt, I embrace a strenuous life. My attitudes about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness have been formed by a multitude of unique occurrences that happened directly to me. Some of those events I will share with you, hoping that the sheer ego of the exercise will evaporate as you begin to understand how a doltish, working-class kid from Levittown, Long Island, New York, has “evolved” into perhaps the most controversial journalist and commentator in the United States of America.

  I believe Sister Mary Lurana (who, by the way, is still alive and once sent me a very kind letter) is proud of me. Although, in truth, the anguish I put her through cannot ever be fully exorcised, even by a William Peter Blatty character. But there is no doubt that the way I think today has its roots in my traditional childhood home and in the strict Catholic schools I attended. Therefore, we’ll take an incisive look at those influences as well as other significant events in the life of O’Reilly, all with an eye toward convincing you that the point of view I bring to the world is worthy, and might even help you in your life.

  For starters, it really did all begin in the mid-1950s, when America’s population was half of what it is today. Hope as well as the challenge of swift change was in the air. The USA had survived the Great Depression, World War II, and the Korean War. Despite saber rattling by the Soviet Union, things were looking up and everyday life was fairly simple, at least compared to today. You worked, obeyed the law, cared for your family, looked out for your neighbors, and respected your country. At least, that was the creed of the huge working class, which did most of the country’s heavy lifting.

  That was the background of my family. My father, William O’Reilly Sr., held a decent job, bought a small house, and sired two kids. My mother, Ann O’Reilly, was an energetic stay-at-home mom because, had she not been, one of her kids would be in the penitentiary right now.

  Yes, that would be me. My younger sister, Janet, has always been
a solid citizen, not at all fresh or bold. The nuns loved her.

  So that’s the jumping-off point for this book, the white ethnic, basically blue-collar suburbs of America in a conventional time when baby boomers were popping out all over the place. The journey begins at the dinner table, where chewy meat loaf and fish sticks reigned, and in a neighborhood full of kids playing in the streets because our yards were too small.

  Oh, and one more thing: Hey, Sister, I can’t thank you enough for the title.

  Politics

  When they call the roll in the Senate, the Senators do not know whether to answer “present” or “not guilty.”

  —THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  If you watch the bold, fresh guy on television or listen to me on the radio, you know I’m not a rabidly partisan political guy. I don’t endorse candidates for office or shill for them in any way. Party affiliation does not matter to me. Over the years, my philosophy has evolved into this: I vote for the person who I believe will do the least amount of damage to the country. It is rare that a true problem solver is nominated for office, so usually it’s who will do the least amount of harm to the folks.

  I know that sounds cynical, but let’s be honest: politics in America is a money play full of charlatans and crazed ideologues. Once in a while a person of true principle emerges, but the media usually quickly destroys that candidate because honesty always, and I mean always, collides with ideology. Only independent thinkers can deliver unbiased appraisals of complicated problems, and independent thinkers have little chance to succeed in our two-party system, which demands rigid adherence to left or right doctrine.

  My philosophy about what’s best for America is spelled out in vivid detail in my last book, Culture Warrior, so there’s no need to state it again. However, no matter what I say or write, fanatics will attack it because Kool-Aid–drinking ideologues on both sides resent my national platform and nonaligned analysis. I’m amused that the far left attempts to demonize me as a rigid conservative, while at the same time the far right despises me because I’m not reactionary enough. As I always say, as long as the extremists hate me, I know I’m doing my job. So bring it on, Sean Penn and Michael Savage. You guys are totally nuts; it’s a compliment that both of you attack me.

  The political angst that I now proudly cause began rather early in my life. Thinking back, I realize my first brush with politics happened in 1956, when I heard my mother sing:

  I like Ike.

  I’ll say it again and again.

  I like Ike.

  Let him finish the job he began.

  Since I was just six years old, I didn’t “like Ike” because I didn’t know who the heck he was. I did know Buffalo Bob and Mighty Mouse, Davy Crockett and Elvis, but not this guy Ike. Both of my parents were traditional people in most ways but were also politically independent. Because the O’Reilly clan comprised mainly civil servants working in New York City, they were loyal Democrats. On my mother’s side, the Kennedys and Drakes usually voted Democratic as well.

  But the Democrat running against President Eisenhower, Adlai Stevenson, was an avowed social liberal and held zero appeal for my parents, who believed strongly in self-reliance and Judeo-Christian values. Stevenson would say that year, “Trust the people. Trust their good sense.” Well, old Adlai shouldn’t have been shocked that my folks and most others living in Levittown didn’t trust him. Overwhelmingly, they voted for Ike.

  One of the reasons was his service. My father was a naval officer during World War II and respected Dwight Eisenhower’s performance in the European theater. Back then and still today, traditional people supported the military. Ike won a second term in a landslide.

  My father in Japan just after the end of World War II.

  To me, a fresh but also shallow little kid, politics was really boring. Outside of the St. Brigid’s classroom, my childhood was largely one big game. I played four sports: football, baseball, basketball, and ice hockey. When games weren’t scheduled, we played stickball in the street: cheap game, all you needed was a rubber ball and a broomstick. We also played keep-away and ringolevio (don’t ask). We were sweating all the time and had zero interest in public policy. For us, the Cold War took place on a hockey pond in mid-January.

  Forced into the Arena

  Then in 1960 John F. Kennedy ran for president against Vice President Richard Nixon. Suddenly, there was a split in my house. My mother, a Kennedy on her mom’s side, was a JFK supporter. My father went with Nixon, even though he didn’t like the man all that much. I don’t remember exactly why my parents supported their respective candidates, but I do recall sitting at the supper table (we never called it dinner) and hearing them tease each other. My mother said they were going to “cancel each other out.” I didn’t know what that meant and didn’t really care. My mom’s cooking was so awful I just wanted to get away from the table as fast as possible.

  As the election approached, my sixth-grade teacher, a kindly old woman named Mrs. Boyle, came up with an idea. The class should have a debate. And since I never shut up, I was chosen to be one of the debaters. This was not good. I had no idea what a debate was, much less whom I should support. Giants versus Yankees, I knew. Kennedy against Nixon? Total blank.

  “So, William,” Mrs. Boyle said, “which candidate will you support?”

  “Is Davy Crockett running?”

  Yes, I actually said that stupid thing. But Mrs. Boyle was used to my nonsense, and so was the class, which considered me a hopeless buffoon. Since I had only two choices, I took Nixon, because my father was louder than my mother. It’s true that was my sole rationale; Republicans and Democrats didn’t even enter into my thinking. Because my dad bloviated more about stuff than my mom, I figured he’d be happy to give me some debating tips.

  Forget it.

  My father, all six feet four inches, two hundred and ten pounds of him, lumbered home from work every day around six thirty p.m., exactly twelve hours from the time he left for the office in the morning. His job as a money changer for an oil company was boring, and, as stated, my mother’s culinary skills were, well, incredibly bad. So, in addition to being exhausted by dull and tedious work, my father was usually hungry. This is not a good combination for a big Irish guy with a temper.

  Typically, my sister and I usually avoided Dad until about noon on Saturday. He cooked breakfast on the weekends, which put him in a better frame of mind. My father’s cooking was far superior to my mom’s and she knew it. But she didn’t actually care.

  I’m telling you all this because my plan was to have my father write down what I should say about Richard Nixon, to tell me why the guy was the greatest. In that way, I could memorize my father’s point of view and dazzle Mrs. Boyle and the class with the wisdom of my dad, which, of course, I would claim as my own. I mean, how great was this strategy?

  So, on the eve of the big debate, with pen and paper in hand, I asked my father why he was voting for Nixon. Sitting on the floor, I was poised to write down every single word.

  “Because Kennedy’s father is a crook,” my dad said.

  “Really, a crook?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “In what way?”

  “Sold booze during Prohibition.”

  Oh. I didn’t know what Prohibition actually was, but it sounded good, so I wrote it down, badly misspelling the P-word.

  Still, I needed more or it would be a short debate, so I pressed on.

  “What about Nixon; why do you like him?”

  “Don’t like him,” my father answered.

  “YOU DON’T LIKE HIM?” Almost immediately, I was panicking.

  “They’re all phonies,” my father answered, and went back to watching The Ed Sullivan Show.

  I remember scribbling in my notebook: Kennedy’s dad is a crook…sold booze…pro something…my dad hates Nixon. They’re all phonies. A vague sense of doom gripped me, but what could I do? My father had spoken and was not a man you badgered for anything.

  The next day, M
onday, Mrs. Boyle announced that the debate would be held after the lunch recess. On my side were two other young Republicans; on the other side were three Democrats. All I remember about the ensuing fiasco is that I said something about Nixon being tough on the Russians and Kennedy’s father being a crook. The other side totally ignored me and hammered home just one emphatic point: JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY WAS CATHOLIC!

  They won the debate by a landslide.

  Fine with me. That debating business was far too much work. Back then, if anyone had ever suggested that I would eventually become famous for debating on television, Mrs. Boyle would have called the mental health authorities to take a close look at the child who had suggested it.

  After the election, the new Kennedy administration impacted me only because of the fallout-shelter drills at school. Once in a while a bell rang and all the St. Brigid’s kids had to file out to the school parking lot, where, we were told, if a random atom bomb happened to fall nearby, buses would whisk us away to some underground bunker. Nobody seemed very concerned about it, but a few years later, the Cuban missile crisis did get the attention of the smarter kids.

  But, obviously, I was not one of the smarter kids. American Bandstand had more influence on me than President Kennedy or any other politician. In fact, about the only time I locked in on Kennedy was when comedian Vaughn Meader did a dead-on impression of him on TV. There was also a song called “My Daddy Is President” by a kid trying to imitate Caroline Kennedy, the President’s young daughter. I remember thinking the song was stupid, which is somewhat incomprehensible, since I liked a Christmas song recorded by singers imitating chipmunks. It was that kind of taste and logic that defined me as a child.