Clarion Defender_1968-06-13

CLARION OfFENDER • When an assassin's bullet smashed into the brain of Sen. Robert F. Kennedy in the Ambassador hotel in Los Angeles early last Wednesday-June 5,1968 -it muted a voice that only moments before had been heard on television thruout the land, claiming victory in the- California primary elections. ing uThis is Bobby Kennedy" and their minds seemed to be already made up about him, regardless of what he said. Even when he won many of them over, as he did in California, it was as much because of his personality as his words. The voice had always stirred ambiguous emo– tions. Maybe the trouble was he came on so strong that people never heard the words. The cliche was that you either loved or hated him. Maybe that was almost true. Whatever it was, nobody seemed to hear the words he said-they were always think- On the pages that follow are photographs that show him as he was. And-drawn from speeches and comments of his over the last few years-his own words. The words represent what he was, too, what he thought about our country and what he might have gone on to do, in better times. The Enigma of Robert F. Kennedy BY ROBERT CROSS e When the fires of April 5 burned on Chicago's Mattison street, there were Negroes out there who were just watching, some with tears ln their eyes. It was a time of wondering about who the next leader would be, a time of sadness and confusion. ADd from time to time that night, reporters on the sceue would bear somebody say, "My brother was shot by a white man, too." They were quoting something Bobby Kennedy bad said in Indiana, breaking the news of Martin Luther King's death to a crow4 of supporters, mostly Negroes. It was the sort of statement Robert Fr3Jlcis Ken– nedy could make ln a political year. It was the sort of statement that would outrage political enemies, those who would regard it as an un'air use of emotion and two tragic deaths for political gain. But there was never a doubt that somewhere beneath the boyish, mature, physical, Intellectual, ruthless, compassionate, buoyant, fatalistic image of Bobby Kennedy there has always been the un– faded memory of his older brother, John, Was his statement-that so enraged the political pros, so galvanized with hope many members of the black community-a calculated play for votes, or the emotional outburst of a man who had experienced so many tragedies, or simply a quiet plea for an end to violence? The question may never be answered, for a white man-his color perhaps irrelevant this time-bas _ shot and killed another Kennedy brother. For all of Kennedy's apparent strides toward the ultimate seat of world political power - the White House--close associates bad been noting in · recent years a certain detachment, a capitulation to the fates. At first, it was all there, a bold march of ambition that any "pro" could see: A jump from the University of Virginia to the justice department in 1951, investigator for the late Sen. Joseph R. McCarthy in 1953, a tireless prosecutor of labor racketeers, an efficient cam– paign manager as his brother won a Massachusetts senate seat, then the Presidential nomination and the Presidency itself. The charges that he used connections and cal– lous expediency to win higher and higher positions were often shrugged away with jokes. "I can't see that it's wrong to give him a little legal experience before he goes out to practice law," John F. Kennedy said as he appointed Bobby to the attorney generalship. B.F.K. Born-Boston, Mass., Nov. 20, 1925 Schools-Milton academy; Harvard, B. A., 1948; University of Virginia, L. L. B., 1951; Assumption college, L. L. D., 1957. Military-Served in navy, 1944-46 Married-Ethel Skakel, June 17, 1950 Children-Kathleen H., Joseph P., Robert F., David A., Mary Courtney, Michael L., Mary K., Christopher, Matthew, and Doug– las H. Named United States Attorney General– Dec. 16, 1960 Elected United States Senator, New York -Nov. 4, 1964 Shot-June 5, 1968 Died-June 6, 1968 Bobby himself made joking references to the "family homestead" in upstate New York, a mansion he acquired shortly before his successful, "carpetbagger" challenge of Republican Kenneth Keating in the senate race of 1964. There were jokes, too, about the size of Bobby's family, even as enemies and serious political ana– lysts raised the question of a "Kennedy dynasty" that would control the White House for years to come. And in some ways there were the trappings of dynasty, a misty after-image of his brother's "Camelot," where the parties and cultural affairs had sophistication, where the touch of Jacqueline, a Newport girl, was such that even Charles De– Gaulle was charmed. Yet Jack and his brother were never really a part of that. The touch football games, the swim– ming, Bobby's mountain climbing and rapids-shoot– ing were more in the true Kennedy style. Ethel was the sort of wife who would gamely take part ln an·unimportant but ferocious hockey game while several months pregnant. She was carrying her 11th child when Kennedy was shot. In the four and a half years following the assas– sination of his brother, Kennedy played harder, and his work style took on an urgent intensity. He was a globe-trotter, making trips to South Mrica and attacking apartheid policies, visiting France last year and returning ln the midst of a swirl of rumors that he bad received North Viet– _namese peace feelers there. A mountain was named Kennedy and he climbed it, exhausting a phalanx of reporters in the process. As 1968 approached, eyes turned to him and people wondered if he would take on Lyndon B. Johnson in an almost unheard-of challenge of an incumbent for his party's Presidential nomination. Kennedy said no, the political pragmatist speak- ing. . And what about 1972? The far-away look in his eyes was convincing, for he had mentioned from time to time that he might not even be alive by then. "What will be, will be," he said. Then the political climate swiftly changed. Sen. Eugene McCarthy, sharing Kennedy's disap– proval of Johnson's VietNam policies, made an un– expectedly strong showing in New Hampshire's Presidential primary. In the Senate caucus room where his brother had announced his Presidential candidacy, Robert Kennedy's 1968 campaign began on March 16. When one of the scores of reporters asked what 1968: The senator marches in the funeral procession of the Rev. Martin Luther King in Atlanta. - Cltlcago Tribune his strategy would be, Kennedy said, simply, "I will go to the people." Hours later, when critics were already muttering "opportunist" and McCarthy supporters angrily were charging Kennedy with thunder-theft, Bobby was riding in New York's St. Patrick's day parade and someone in the crowd was screaming, "I love you, Mr. President!" Bobby always bad that magnetism. Even in his days as a senator when be would visit here for nothing more spectacular than a bar association lunch, clusters of girls would bang around the side– walk outside the Sheraton-Chicago hotel, waiting patiently with autograph books in a tribute ordinari– ly accorded only to rock musicians. Such juvenile excitement usually is muffled in the corridors of power, where the voices of non-voters are often voices unheard. As the spring campaign– ing wore on, however, the voices grew stronger and louder. Crowds would rip at his clothes, his shoes would disappear; his cufflinks were purchased in wholesale lots. There seemed to be a need for some kind of physical involvement with the man– a touch, a handclasp, a souvenir, a hug, His hair was long and usually disheveled when the campaign started; then it was cut shorter as it grew past the point where members of the older generation ·might want to give it a fond pat and instead could disdain it as an appeal to hippies and radicals. His speeches got a trimming, too, not in length but in a configuration that allowed for the fears and interests of the old and middle-aged. With a kind of wild magic, Kennedy made the middle of the road his own. And the voices that count were beard -victories in all the major primaries but Oregon's. He could provoke the hatred of conservatives and members of the Democratic establishment. He could inadvertently convince many that he was ruthless, rude, and inconsiderate. He could excite liberals of many political spec– trums and anger others who could remember his "red-baiting" days with Joseph McCarthy or his al– leged disregard for civil liberties during his stay in the justice department. He could disarm a mildly hostile group with humor and boyishness, or turn a conference room to ice. He could hold out hope for black people and assail the voices that preach violence and civil disruption. Bullets end somethilig, according to the rhetoric of national mourning. But the shots that stilled the voice of Robert F . Kennedy perpetuated one of the most interesting enigmas in the nation's history.