I always liked to think that Joe held a special place in his mind and heart for me because I was his godchild. Right after I was born, Joe asked Mother and Dad for the job. At the age of thirteen, he felt he was old enough to be my godfather, and they readily agreed. Mother told Joe that being a godfather was a serious commitment. He needed to protect me and watch out for me. And so he did. When he was away at boarding school, Joe wrote me regular letters inquiring about my marks and whether my brothers and sisters were being nice to me. And when he came home, he made it his mission to teach me how to ride a bicycle. Down the hill he sent me, high on my mechanical steed. But he failed to tell me how to stop. So smack into a tree I went. Poor Joe. I probably was not the easiest godchild. But ride a bike I finally did.
Not two years after Joe’s birth, the number two child arrived: Jack. Where Joe was solid and broad, Jack was slim and wiry, but equally lively and tough. He was funny and original, charting his own path regardless of what others thought. When he was a little boy, Jack had what mother described as an “elfin quality,” and his photographs prove her right. He was sick with the ailments that plagued a lot of children at that time. Whooping cough, measles, chicken pox, and the dreaded scarlet fever all found Jack and sent him to bed.
Jack at the Cape (circa 1940)
The John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
It was under his covers recovering that Jack developed his voracious and lifelong love of reading. There were no electronics to occupy him, so books were his sole form of entertainment. The characters Jack got to know on those pages were often hapless charmers full of mischief. He loved Reddy Fox, Peter Pan, and Billy Whiskers. One of his favorite books was The Story of a Bad Boy, in which a young scamp named Tom Bailey pulls off a series of adventures with his motley gang of friends. As he grew older, Jack became enthralled with history and legend: King Arthur and His Knights, Lays of Ancient Rome, Treasure Island, The Arabian Nights, The Writing and Speeches of Daniel Webster—I am convinced that Jack’s singular humor, his inquisitiveness, and his love of history were set in stone during those long hours beneath his blankets with the characters from those books.
Jack took books everywhere he went. I would often find him on the porch or in the corner of the living room deep within the pages of his latest volume. There was no chance of getting his attention no matter how hard I tried. But then he would reach the end of a chapter and—snap!—the cover would close and Jack was back on the move. Off for a swim. Off to play tennis. Off anywhere with Joe, his constant companion.
Joe and Jack’s friendship was legendary, marked by escapades and practical jokes, as well as occasional spikes of temper. Joe’s fuse was particularly short. Jack once famously borrowed Joe’s swimming trunks, causing our eldest brother to chase him down with a fury, straight out to the breakwall in front of the house. They undoubtedly would have wrestled all the way into the sea but for Dad’s close friend and secretary, Eddie Moore, who was sitting on the beach and quickly jumped up to pull the two of them apart.
Rosemary (1938)
Angus McBean Photograph. © Houghton Library, Harvard University.
Yet my abiding memory of Joe and Jack is at the dinner table each night, where they fed off each other’s energy, debating the critical issues of the day with Dad. Who would win the election? Would there be war in Europe? Should the United States intervene? We younger children sat at a smaller table nearby, watching and listening, wanting to know what they thought and hanging on each gripping word.
Soon to follow after Jack was Rosemary, named for our mother, Rose. Gentle and kind, Rosemary—or Rosie, as Dad called her—had a beautiful Irish face and smile. When I was small, she was one of the older group, one of the sisters who would shepherd me from place to place. Only as I grew did I begin to realize that Rosemary had challenges that the rest of us did not have. The only words the doctors had to describe her condition were “mental retardation.” She had a hard time keeping up in class and finishing her work. It naturally frustrated Rosemary, and although Mother and Dad searched for a school to help her, there were few, if any, at that time that specialized in teaching children with disabilities. So Rosemary struggled on. In the summers, though, she was just one of the gang.
Rosemary laughed with the rest of us and swam with the best of us. She was at her happiest when we were all together. Rosemary was crazy about Dad, and he was equally crazy about her, solicitous and gentle, always keeping an eye out for her and waiting behind for her to catch up. Joe and Jack escorted Rosemary on summer nights to the Wianno Club nearby in Osterville, where they took turns swinging her around the dance floor. And I spent steamy days hitting balls back and forth with her on the tennis court. Rosemary was a formidable, though always sweet, opponent. She worked very hard and tried very hard, and we always had a good time.
Kathleen was next. Mother and Dad nicknamed her Kick, a perfect name for her, since she kicked off her covers and jumped into the world with vigor every morning. There was no higher spirit than Kick. I do not remember her as anything but outgoing and exhuberant. People of all ages were drawn to her. Like Rosemary, Kick was close with Dad, who adored her lively air. And she seemed perpetually positioned between Joe and Jack, on their arms and off to one party or another. They would travel in a pack: the boys escorting Kick’s girlfriends and Kick being escorted by their pals. It always seemed like the perfect arrangement.
Kick (1938)
Sport & General Press Agency, Ltd. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
I felt especially lucky in life because Kick and I shared a birthday. The youngest daughter, I was born on February 20, 1928, the day that Kick turned eight. “I like Jean very much,” she wrote to Dad shortly after my arrival. And she made that abundantly clear to me at every turn. Each year, we had a joint birthday party with cake and ice cream and friends of all ages. And each year, without fail, Kick would take me aside and give me a special present that she had chosen just for me. Though much older and more glamorous than I, with so many friends and beaux in her swirl, Kick never forgot our connection.
Sporty Eunice was number five. Was there nothing she didn’t try? Football, tennis, sailing—Eunice was game for anything, and she was in it to win. Our brothers, one more competitive than the next, had tremendous admiration for Eunice’s sporting ability. I envied how, when preparing for a sailing regatta, they went looking for Eunice to join the crew, sometimes even offering her the captain’s spot. One year, she traveled to Pennsylvania and Ohio to play in tennis tournaments, reporting in her letters home that her victories in the matches were broadcast in “big black type” in the newspaper. “Wait ’til you see that Eunice gal catch passes,” Joe told a friend as they headed down the steps to the lawn for a game of touch football.
In the whirl of her day, Eunice had no time for nonsense or small talk. She was direct, matter-of-fact, and a force. She had so much energy you could feel her coming minutes before she arrived. And always close by her side was Rosemary. Eunice had a special love for Rosemary. Whatever she did, Rosemary did. Look out the window and there they were, side by side, younger sister making sure older sister always was in the mix. This certainly endeared Eunice to Mother, who naturally worried about Rosemary and was happy she was safe in her sister’s care.
Eunice (1935)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Pat (1935)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Patricia—“Pat”—glided into life at number six. Instantly enticing, she was tall and stunning, but not in the flashy way of a film star or ingénue. Pat was understated. She did not need a gown to make an impression. She was a knockout in a sweatshirt and dungarees. Everyone took notice of Pat because of her looks, but also because of her joie de vivre. If you met Pat, you loved Pat.
She had impeccable taste and a great love of the dramatic arts, no matter what the medium—theater, film, music. When I was young, I often found her captivated by the latest edition of Variety, the show business magazine Dad had helped start. He also invested in plays and would bring the scripts home for Pat to read and critique.
Pat was always an attentive older sister to me and such fun to be around. One time, when Mother and Dad were away, Pat and I were left in the house alone with Margaret Ambrose, our amazing and generous cook, who took the greatest pleasure in feeding us. Each night we gleefully devoured what in retrospect was a very odd, yet irresistibly delicious, dish: fried chicken and waffles drenched in pure maple syrup. We followed that up with mile-high chocolate cake covered with chocolate sauce and ice cream. When our parents returned home, they were shocked and dismayed to find two very plump daughters. But Pat and I had never been happier.
Next up, at lucky number seven, was a character named Bob. Adventure, sport, and mighty quests filled his every hour. He was great fun, but his days were never futile nor frivolous. Bobby seemed to always have a mission behind everything he did. He made friends effortlessly yet intentionally. And once a person was his friend, Bobby was loyal for life. He had compassion for everyone. His friendships extended beyond the human variety to pet rabbits, dogs, and a pig. Bobby rescued chipmunks, birds, frogs, and any other creature he might happen upon on the sidewalk or in the woods. It was as if he were born with a purpose that he steadfastly pursued: to impact the world and the things around him, no matter how small.
Bobby (1935)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Trouble seemed to follow Bobby more than the rest of us. Our nurse, Kikoo, would groan when Bobby got tar in his eye or fell off the roof. He seemed always to have a bruise or a broken bone from either an accident or a tussle on the playing field. For Bobby was fiercely competitive, and that competitiveness underpinned everything he took an interest in, from baseball to current events. I can still hear his familiar cry when we were united in a game of touch football against a team of friends: “Let’s go Kennedys!” Bobby also strove to be as near as possible to Joe and Jack every chance he got, and to be respected by them. They were many years older than he, and engaged in important things. At dinnertime, at the kids’ table off to the side, Bobby strained his ear in their direction and longed to be their equal.
I sneaked in at number eight—Jean, the sidekick, the partner in crime to the antics of everyone around me. Mother claimed I was the only child ever to directly tell her no. I have never liked that distinction but accept it as truth because Mother would not have gotten it wrong. Perhaps I was being egged on by my number one playmate, my lieutenant in life, the barrel of laughs that came after me, number nine . . .
Teddy. Adored by all. Happy, carefree, playful, and loveable—Teddy was born with huge cheeks that called out to be squeezed. By the time Teddy was born, Dad had achieved his fair share of success in business and politics, so even as a tiny boy, Teddy was spending time with some of the most prominent people in world history: senators, congressmen, film stars, the president, the Pope. He even met Babe Ruth at Yankee Stadium. And because he was Teddy, a smaller version of our charismatic Grandpa Fitzgerald, he was completely at ease in their company.
Mother holding me, with Bobby (1928)
Photographer Unknown. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston. David Mager Photography
The rest of us spent our days in stitches thanks to Teddy. One summer, Mother enrolled Teddy and me in boxing lessons at the Bath and Tennis Club in Palm Beach, Florida, where we spent winter vacations. We danced around the ring across from each other, leather gloves held up to our faces, neither willing to punch the other, until we collapsed on the mat in giggles. Our burly boxing coach was not amused.
Teddy and Bobby (1934)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Teddy wanted to be with the older boys every chance he got, and they were happy to let him tag along. They introduced him to the sea, teaching him to swim and, to his life’s delight, sail. From early on, Teddy seemed always happiest on the sea. He spent most of his summers off the coast of Hyannis Port, on a boat, his smile wide, his chatter constant, and his laughter roaring like the waves.
Those were the nine of us. And at the helm were Mother and Dad. Mother, a petite woman with an indomitable nature and a sure understanding of what we needed in life. Dad, a towering presence, always with the right answer for our worries and a tender place for our growing spirits. They were our leaders, teachers, and champions. They made everything possible. They made everything clear. Our story is theirs. Falling in line, matching their step, into life we marched.
Back from left: Eunice, Joe, Jack holding me, and Rosemary Front from left: Bobby and Pat (Hyannis Port, 1934)
John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
3
“No Irish Need Apply”
They arrived with scarcely more than determination and faith . . . they worked hard and raised their children in the love and care of God.
—ROSE FITZGERALD KENNEDY,ON HER IRISH ANCESTORS
Mother and Dad did not start out planning to have a house by the ocean. They were both born in the city of Boston, and in Boston they were bred.
Their grandparents were among the thousands of immigrants who landed in the bustling port city on the Charles River in the late, tumultuous years of the nineteenth century. They left for the only reason anyone would ever leave Ireland: they were starving, and desperate for work. Born in rural Irish counties, these young men and women, carrying the surnames Hannon, Fitzgerald, Hickey, and Kennedy, were on the cusp of adulthood when a blight known as the Irish Famine descended on their country. This period of mass starvation, disease, and emigration is considered one of the greatest tragedies in European history, one that forever changed the island of Ireland and the future of our family.
Grandpa John “Honey Fitz” Fitzgerald (Boston, 1906)
Photographer Unknown. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston
More than one million Irish people died. Another million were forced to emigrate, boarding so-called coffin ships for far-off destinations such as America and Australia. They left behind fruitless fields, stoic fathers, and distraught mothers who tucked their last pence and their last hopes into the pockets of the sons and daughters embarking on those ships. My great-grandparents were among them. They hailed from counties Wexford and Limerick. They all shared the same desire to make a better life for themselves in America.
Once they arrived, these young Irish immigrants flooded the ports and streets of Boston. Like millions who came before and after them, from towns and villages around the world, they sought jobs, food, and solace in a country built on the principle that everyone is welcome. Yet like millions who came before and after them, they quickly found that the promise of America was tarnished by anger, distrust, and fear. Members of the Boston establishment, descendants of immigrants themselves, were not welcoming of these new arrivals.
Some Boston shopkeepers made their disapproval of the Irish abundantly clear in the signs they hung in their shop windows: “No Irish Need Apply.” “No Irish Need Apply” greeted my two grandfathers when, as young men eager to excel, they went out on the streets of Boston looking for work. “No Irish Need Apply” still hung in the windows of shops when my mother was a young girl. As a child, I often imagined Mother walking along the city streets with Grandpa, her tiny hand holding fast to his giant mitt. In my imagination, just as they approached an unwelcoming shop, Grandpa would steer Mother across the road to the opposite sidewalk, saving her the humiliation of seeing the sign hanging in the window, directed at them.
De
spite this outward hostility, just one generation after their parents stepped on Boston soil, my Kennedy and Fitzgerald grandfathers had earned places of prominence in that traditionally Brahmin town. Dad’s father, Patrick Joseph, or P.J., started out working on the city’s docks and then went into business on his own when he opened a local pub. Mother’s father, John “Honey Fitz” Fitzgerald, rose to be a singular force in Boston politics. He served in Congress and, to the dismay of some of the city’s establishment, was elected the city’s first Irish Catholic mayor.
As a young woman coming of age in Boston, and the Mayor’s daughter, Mother was the toast of the town. Yet she still felt something was amiss. As she started to make friends, she realized that the clubs that welcomed other ladies of the town did not open their doors for her, despite her connections to City Hall. At the turn of the century, there was still an unspoken rule that Irish Catholics were not allowed in the social and business circles of Boston. Ever a pragmatist, Mother was not angry or hurt by these realities. She decided that if you were not accepted into one club, then you should just start one of your own.
P. J. Kennedy
Photographer Unknown. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
So in 1910, Mother initiated her own ladies’ club, the Ace of Clubs, where young, unmarried Catholic women could meet, have tea, and engage with guest speakers who addressed the matters of the day. As the club’s records show, one week the ladies welcomed Boston Herald columnist E. E. Whiting, who shared his “wide knowledge of political situations.” Two weeks later brought a “Mrs. Crawford,” who spoke on “European situations, including the League of Nations.” The club was an immediate success, and soon membership in it became highly prized; the Ace of Clubs remained open for one hundred years to follow.
The Nine of Us Page 2