THEN: Secretary of State (KY), 1996-2004; Candidate for Lieutenant Governor, 2007
NOW: JYB3 Group (Owner) -public affairs consulting firm; Miller Wells law firm (Of counsel)
Full Biography:link
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Sep 11, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
This is my third Democratic convention but my first in a parking lot.
We made it to Charlotte but without tickets to the convention. My wife, Rebecca, put her name in two raffles the last two days (I didn’t ) and won convention tickets both nights. So I drop her off and stay in a parking lot. She’ll post some great pictures soon. Can’t wait!
Exciting! Waiting for president to speak….just several parking lots from the convention parking lot!
Hold on…I see some friends from KY delegation….
I am back now. Explained I was just staying in the parking lot tonight again—but that it still felt special and historic. More special and historic than any event I have experienced alone in a parking lot. I also asked them if there was an after party—and added I may go to it or at least park nearby.
It’s not bad. Oh wait! I think I see a husband from the Georgia delegation parked in the same lot with me. Ha. Can’t help thinking to myself that he looks like a total loser sitting alone in a parking lot now. Geez! Get a life pal.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Sep 10, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Why I am a Democrat.
Heading home from the Democratic National Convention I had a few minutes to kill and decided to type out why I think I’m a Democrat.
Part of it, of course, is inherited—in two senses. Your family’s politics, like your family’s business and religion, tend to have a long shelf life for future generations. It’s easier to go along than buck the family. There’s also a temperamental inheritance. Both major political parties, I believe, attract certain disposition types —characteristics that we largely inherit genetically. No, not a desire for lower taxes or building strong infrastructure—at least not directly. But an inclination to be trusting or skeptical; hopeful or protective. Or just not caring if one side of our jacket collar is flipped up.
Then there are the cultural and temporal factors that help determine our politics. More people who came of age in the 1930s became Democrats. More who came of age in the 1980s became Republicans.
But these are not the interesting or singular characteristics that cause a person like me, after all the more conventional factors are set aside, still to walk toward the democratic team when choosing sides. I think that’s a more deeply personal matter that we don’t take enough time honestly to understand.
Oh, and for the record, I don’t buy all this nonsense about Republicans and Democrats not being able to get along. If that were true, Republicans and Democrats would stop getting married to each other so frequently! Like married couples, we need each other. Each side has strengths and weaknesses and is better together than alone. But also like married couples, a little more understanding of each other (and a good counselor) can go a long way. I mean seriously, if Democrats could do a better job of “mirroring” what we believe we hear Republicans say; and if Republicans could do a better job using “I-statements,” we would be well on our way to a more functional polity. Or at least a fun weekend together. Which is why I am writing about why I am a Democrat. Like most people, it’s not really about ideology. I believe ideology is a byproduct of more core personal qualities and traits we possess. And it’s easier to accept differences if we understand these differences are more fundamental to who we are and impermeable— rather than merely malleable ideas that, like a fly, we seem merely to have randomly alighted on. And so with that intro, here goes.
For me, I am a Democrat because I am a “tinkerer”, a “wobbler,” and a “blender.” And on most days, these are positive traits, at least in my mind. And they are at my core.
Read the rest of… John Y’s Musings from the Middle: Why I Am a Democrat
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Sep 7, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
People who are where they are seem the happiest….
Another morning at Starbucks. Another observation about the human condition that seems to occur to me as I impatiently wait in line each morning.
As I walked in to Starbucks this morning, I passed a passel of high school students. One was wearing a Harvard t-shirt, thinking ahead to college applications, I thought.
As I passed there was an overpowering whiff of perfume from one of the other young ladies, trying to be a little older than she is. I thought to myself, they are a group of “Kids trying to be adults”
Inside I watched a 40-something gentlemen dressed in jeans and a t-shirt hanging out with a much younger man and, I suspected, trying to fit in and get the youthful man’s approval. And I thought to myself, grown-ups are often just “Adults trying to be kids.”
“Funny,” I thought to myself. One group is trying to be 10 years older; the other trying to be 10 years younger.
And as I walked out I noticed the older couple who always sit together in Starbucks every morning and read the news paper together, drink coffee, and talk.
I thought about them and asked myself, “How would you categorize them?”
I would say, “Happy.”
They are who they are, where they are. And seem to be enjoying it.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Sep 6, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
The Wounded Healer
My son, at our celebratory dinner the night before he left for college last week, brought up an interesting topic. He asked who were the three historical figures I admired most.
As usual, I hemmed and hawed and asked for more clarification and kept trying to dodge answering. . But my son wouldn’t give in.
Finally, I said, “It’s funny, when I was about your age, I was having dinner with your great-grandfather (my grandfather) and it was about a year before he died and I asked him the very same question. But I think I can only remember one of the people he told me and I want to make my three choices different. “
“OK,” I said, “Here goes.” I proceeded to give two predictable names but was stuck on the third.
My son interjected, “So who was the name your grandfather gave that you still remember?”
I said, “It was an unusual choice whose name I had never heard before. It was Bill Wilson, or Bill W., as he is better known. He was the co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous. Your great-grandfather wasn’t a recovering alcoholic but had great respect for the program and, I guess, saw Bill Wilson as something of a pioneer who brought hope to people who had no hope.”
“So, Dad,” my son intoned, “Who is your third choice?”
“You know, Johnny, Bill Wilson was someone I was considering putting on the list but was trying not to because his contribution to the world is hard to explain–and he never sought the kind of public accolade we are talking about. He is a man who was faced with a life-threatening malady suffered by millions that science and logic could only grasp at impacting. He used pragmatic spiritual, psychological and common sense tools cobbled together with great humility to create something that on paper should never work. But did. And continues to. He didn’t have the luxury of caring how it looked on paper — only whether or not it worked. And he helped create a framework that has saved the lives of millions alcoholics and helped restore their families and spawned many related programs and therapies helping others with different but equally insidious diseases and disorders. And he did so as anonymously as he could to keep the focus on helping others rather than promoting himself.”
There was a pause.
And then I added, “So I guess that ought to be enough to make my top three list, huh? Bill Wilson.”
Check out the movie Bill W, the story of Bill Wilson’s life. Here’s the trailer:
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Sep 5, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Troop Rallying or Pluribus Unuming?
(A long winded spiel–so long and windy that you may just forget what you were mad about at half-time during the DNC and RNC conventions)
It’s political party convention time– it’s a party for the parties, so to speak–where partisan cheerleading becomes the order of the day. The goal of both the Democratic and Republican parties is to “rally the troops.” Both major political parties strive, as they should, to make the case most dramatically for their side to win in November. It’s a time honored tradition–and an important one. And hyperbole and histrionics are not only expected—they are featured front and center.
But with every rhetorical flourish, left or right, that hits it mark at the conventions, something else is jarred too. The opposite of rallying the troops, I suppose, is trying to find common ground in our already very divided nation. Political conventions are constructs that are a bit like Midnight Madness if you are a UK basketball fan. You leave such events not only feeling a stronger than ever allegiance to your team but stronger than ever animosity toward any team that threatens them.
If political conventions are successful, when they are over, those who identify with each party should feel stronger than ever about their party being right —and stronger than ever about the other party being wrong. We don’t put on war make up. But we do, say and wear some awfully silly things at these conventions. In more primitive cultures, they had these sorts of partisan conventions but they called them tribal war dances. Seriously. (See clip below.) Note that neither Clint Eastwood nor Betty White were given prominent roles in the pre-convention warrior dances. Our political pros today could learn a thing or two from these ancient tribal rituals. Stay on message; whip up feelings of righteousness to a fever pitch; and dance like the dickens. No need to use chairs as a dialectical prop by a tribal elder (republicans) or matriarchal elder (democrats). Ever. Just keep dancing.
Oh sure, we should have fun celebrating and rallying with our political brothers and sisters during our side’s convention. I certainly intend to! And hope my republican friends did so last week.
But I suspect it would be good to note, too, that “rallying the troops” theater, while good for cheerleading, isn’t terribly useful once the political parties’ parties are over. That’s important to remember –as it is to recall that we have many more brothers and sisters than just those sharing our political opinions. Our Founding Fathers certainly realized this and memorialized it in our new nation’s motto that they selected– a simple Latin phrase: E Pluribus Unum. I’m really glad a few weeks before our Constitution was signed we didn’t have competing conventions represented by the political factions of the day. We may not have a constitution. We may have instead had some funny stories about Benjamin Franklin getting his lights punched out by a lesser signer because of his acerbic speech a few weeks earlier. But we didn’t have political parties back then. In fact, the Founders warned against the dangers of divisive factionalism—or extreme troop rallying.
E Pluribus Unum means essentially that within our diverse differences we are committed to an unassailable unity. Not “My country, right or wrong” blind allegiance, but more like “our country no matter how right or wrong we believe ourselves or our political opponents to be.”
In many ways E Pluribus Unum is nearly the opposite of the raw partisan blood sport we see played out regularly today masquerading as serious debate . Is it the worst it’s ever been? Hardly. It’s easy to pull up some old allegations about Abe Lincoln looking like a baboon, or Thomas Jefferson being an heathen atheist. But it’s pretty bad. And it’s not the end game our Founding Fathers had in mind. I suspect our Founders wanted more of legacy for their efforts than Glenn Beck lecturing about left wing conspiracy theories or The Daily Kos flaming the Internet about right wing conspiracies. If this is the apex of 236 years of a great republic’s maturation, the Founders probably would have stayed home and played cribbage instead.
But we are better than our partisan extremes. A whole lot better. We are not at our best divided and petty. Granted, it’s difficult to be united and idealistic for very long when there are over 300 million of us. But we don’t have to be that way all the time. I’d settle for opinionated but respectful –and a little more curious. Maybe a little more open-minded about where we might find common ground rather than determined to more deeply draw the boundaries that divide us.
But last week in Tampa and this week in Charlotte, is not the landscape for such things. Our country’s simple yet complex motto won’t be on prominent display in either city. That’s not the point of political party conventions. Or tribal war dances.
But unity among diversity is what makes for a great nation. And I hope that as we inch toward—and then beyond—the November election we don’t forget the motto our Founders hoped we’d live up to. To be a more unified nation. A time when political warrior dances are replaced again by Dancing with the Stars.
Even if it means I have to cheer again for Tom Delay.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Sep 4, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
The importance of grandfathers—on Labor Day.
The most important thing my very wise and learned paternal grandfather ever told me was when I was 20 years old. We were having a philosophical discuasion about the ends never justifying the means being illustrated in a criminal law case he was involved with –and I took a personal turn with my next question.
“Papaw, how old was dad when you realized he was going to be really successful?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t out of time yet myself.
There was an uncharacteriatic pause and I looked at my grandfather’s winced face. It was the first time I had ever stumped him. Or at least the first time one of my questions had left him temporarily speechless. Recovering, he said in a stern tone raising one eyebrow, “Well, to tell you the truth, I never thought your dad would amount to much of anything.” And as he realized that even though my father was now 51 was helping support both of us, he couldn’t remember ever amending that opinion, he broke into a broad smile and a hearty laugh.
That’s it. The most important thing grandfathers usually pass down to grandchildren is the truth about their parents.
The wisest thing my maternal grandfather ever said to me.
I was in my final year of law school and into my late 20s. My grandfather Durall, who possibly had the finest mind of any of my family members, had to drop out of school at age 14 to go to work in the coal mines–for $2 a day pay.
We were about to sit down to chat and his first question to me was, “Reckon you are going to stay in college until you can draw Social Security?” he asked, chuckling to himself. It made me laugh hard–and was probably the harshest thing I ever recall my grandfather Durall saying to me.
The reason I thought of that conversation this morning is that whatever I can think or say about Labor Day, I’ll never quite be able to give the term “work” the kind of meaning that he did. Of all my family members, none worked harder, endured more, and received less than my grandfather Durall. And he almost never missed a day of work or took a vacation time. Or complained. It was just his way. He honored the term “labor” in a way his grandchildren can salute but will never replicate.
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Aug 31, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Friday morning –stylin’ like a guy.
In Starbucks this morning I noticed a guy I hadn’t seen before.
Nattily dressed like he was ready to pop off a cover of GQ magazine, but looking stressed and impatient pacing as he waited for his coffee. I could smell his cologne from the condiment bar and thought to myself “He reminds me of a temperamental European sports car.”
And when I walked outside, guess who I see standing (posing, really) next to his European sports car? Yep!
So I wonder to myself, “Do guys as they get older start to look like their cars?” Maybe so. His sports jacket matched the exterior of his car and his pants matched the interior. His hair even seemed styled to coordinate perfectly with his sleek and sporty car.
I wondered how he managed to stand next to his car as he groomed himself in the bathroom mirror this morning.
I was about to chuckle out loud as I hit the unlock button on my own car. And realized that I looked just like my grey Honda Accord –with matching grey interior.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Aug 30, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
The problem with third base births and CCR
I have loved the song (and video) Fortunate Son for some time. I first saw it as a rendition by Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam (see below) and put it in my iTunes collection. Recently I discovered the original was done by CCR (Creedence Clearwater Revival) and that the song was actually a lament of how most young Americans during the Vietnam War didn’t have the advantages of some privileged sons (“I ain’t no senator’s son” is one lyric line) to avoid serving in the war. In other words, the song was not about being a Fortunate Son of our great country, as I first imagined, and sang along without really understanding the words.
And that made me feel like maybe I don’t deserve to enjoy this song since I am someone who would be considered by CCR and Eddie Vedder, a “fortunate son” in a negative or unfair sense.
I’m not a “senator’s son.” But I am the grandson of a US senate candidate who lost that race 5 times, and the son of a father who was a governor and briefly a US senate candidate before dropping out of the race. And I’ll be the first to tell you, yes, there are tremendous and very unfair advantages to being a privileged son.
I have never tried to pretend otherwise. A few years ago I spoke to a group of entrepreneurs at Louisville’s Venture Club and was asked about these advantages. I responded, “Yes, I was born on third base (referencing Anne Richard’s political zinger aimed at George Bush Sr a few years back that he was “Born on third base and thought he hit a triple”). But that I was well aware that I didn’t hit a triple. In fact, I added, “I’m still not quite sure how I got on third base. I just know I have no recollection of ever being at bat.
Secretly, I suspect I was hit by the pitcher—maybe on purpose—and it was pitch was so hard they let me take three bases instead of just one. But that’s probably not the truth and just a story I tell myself so I feel like I earned third base on some level in some technical way. But I know deep down it was mostly a privilege thing. But there I was on third base.
“But I felt guilty about it,” I told the audience. So “I stole second base. And then I stole first base. So I could get back to where everyone else has to start on base.” I continued, “That relieved some of my guilt but I’m not sure it was the best play. At any rate, right now I think I may have found a way to get back to second base…and for the remainder of my life, I’m going to be trying to just get back to third base again—which is where I started. So, please don’t be mad at me for any advantages I had—and I had a lot—because, at this point any way, I’m just hoping to ‘break even’ in life by getting back to where I started from.”
That whole part of the speech was largely improvised but I liked the analogy and am sticking with it—and it summarizes pretty well the way I feel about all that. I hate it when people who have had great advantages in life try to make it sound like they pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and are self-made men or women.
I recall Al Gore starting his presidential campaign in 1992 with a story about how he grew up in Carthage, TN and chopped wood or some such story. Yuck! And, of course, there really are no self-made men or women. But some are less self-made than others. I put myself in that category.
I am grateful for the advantages I have had. As I said at another time to someone who brought up this topic, “I have had doors opened to me others don’t. But what I do and what happens after I step through that door is on me and up to me. But getting that first foot in the door matters a lot and is a big life advantage.”
The key in life, I guess, is to take whatever advantages we are given and try to make the most of them— do something useful for others with them (as well as useful to ourselves and our families). To whom much is given, much is expected, and all that. But at the end of the day , when we are quiet and alone, only we know in our hearts if we are living up to ourselves and our potential. And we never stop trying to….and, of course, seem always to feel we are falling a little short. But we do keep trying. And that is the main thing –and probably our saving grace.
But back to the song Fortunate Son. I have tried to make peace with all this privileged son business. As for any help with not serving in the military, that was never the case for me. I recall a few days before my 18th birthday being in a hotel room with my father and telling him I was going to register to vote in a few weeks and there was talk at that time about reinstating the draft (as there often was from time to time back then). I was afraid and asked my father what I should do if the draft was reinstated and I got drafted.
He responded, “Well, you have to go. That’s all.”
I responded, “But what if I die? Are you saying you want me to go to war and die?”
“Of course not, but you have to go in the military if drafted?”
“Were you drafted?” I asked.
“No, but I served in the reserves.”
I told my father I had a friend who told me about consciencious objectors but my father, in his inimitable over-simplified but correct and persuasive way, said, “You don’t want to do that. You couldn’t live with yourself afterwards. You just go if you are drafted. That’s all. Just one of those things you have to do. And it probably won’t happen anyway.”
So, there you have it. I was ready and willing to serve if called on. But, like the band members of CCR and Eddie Vedder, I did not volunteer. What does that mean now? It means if I met the members of CCR today and they called me a “fortunate son,” I’d tell them to “Suck it,” and add I work 14+ hours a day, was willing to serve in the military if called to duty and am proud of the life I have built for myself and my family and grateful for privileges I had and hope I have used them well—and am proud of my country and support our military.
But if I met Eddie Vedder that same day and he called me a “fortunate son,” I would probably be more apologetic and say something like, “You know, Eddie, you are right. I have had a lot of privileges I don’t deserve and do feel guilt about them. It is unfair. And it stinks for others not as fortunate.” I would not tell Eddie Vedder to suck anything. I like him more than CCR.
And that sums up about how I feel about it all. Sometimes with some people on some days, I am at peace with it. Other days with other people under other circumstances, I feel that piercing shot of guilt—the same one I felt when I heard Anne Richards that same night tell George Bush Sr he was born with a silver foot in his mouth. I laughed at first. But a few minutes later realized she was also talking about people like me. And stopped laughing as hard…. and hoped nobody noticed.
And I still love the song Fortunate Son (both versions—CCR’s and Eddie Vedder’s), whatever it means. And don’t apologize for that. It’s a good song. And I’m proud to post it. As a Fortunate Son myself.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Aug 29, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Pancakes and patience.
Back from last family dinner before our son was college bound.
We shared –despite protestations–an assortment of random funny stories of when Johnny was younger. One of mine was when he was about 4 years old and we were sitting at an IHOP and our order was taking a very long time. It was Johnny’s first trip to IHOP and he was hungry for pancakes and wanted to try all the different syrups.
After he asked again how long it would be until the waitress brought our pancakes, I responded: “Johnny, this is a good opportunity for us to learn patience.”
Johnny’s head whipped around angrily and glaring at me he said in a frustrated voice, “I don’t want to ever learn patience!! Patience is bad!!”
I leaned back in my chair and said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. I”d rather have the pancakes that learn patience too.”
I’m not sure either of us has learned a lot about patience since then either. But we at least considered it briefly 14 years ago.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Aug 29, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET
The RP and John Y. Brown, III
— friends for nearly two decades — have a lot in common. A youthful political addiction, a more mature wisdom of the folly of politics, much, much better halves who’ve helped then grow up, truly demented senses of humor (albeit, John Y. is more demented and more humorous). Now they find themselves coping at the exact same time with one of the most difficult rituals of middle age: sending their first borns off to college a few hours from home. They both were pretty apprehensive as the magic date approached, and pretty blue once it passed.
Today, they share their reflections with the RP Nation. Enjoy:
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JOHN Y:
The importance of ice cream and fathers. And kids.
Our son moves out tomorrow to go to college. As I drove home late from work my mind was reeling—reeling about the immediate future (getting ready for tomorrow’s big event), about the present (the final night at home before our son moves out and moves on) and, of course, about the past (memories which now seem eerily ancient of a boy who is no longer a boy anymore).
My best memory for both my children is what we came to call “ice cream night.” For nearly 9 years –every Monday night—I would pick up my two kids while mom had the night to herself. When we started Johnny was 6 and Maggie 2. It became a weekly tradition with dad. We had a routine and we stuck to it almost without fail. We’d get ice cream (usually at Graeters) and then go to Barnes & Noble bookstore for an hour or so where we’d look at books and magazines, get something to drink like hot chocolate and make up some activity. Sometimes we’d play slow motion hide-and-seek so we wouldn’t be noticed by the bookstore employees. Sometimes the kids would make up a play for me in the children’s book area. Sometimes I’d read something to one or both of them. Later we’d listen to music or just sit in the cafe and talk. But we were there every Monday night. Until we weren’t.
It’s hard to persuade a 15 year old to do much of anything especially hang out with Dad on Monday nights. But I remember a few years earlier asking my family if they would be on board with me running for Lt Governor with then House Speaker Jody Richards. They were. The only hesitation was my son asking if that meant we’d no longer get to do ice cream on Monday nights. I told him softly and candidly “It might.” He looked down at the ground for several seconds but knew something bigger was at stake and then said, “That’s OK.”
I’ll never forget that and tried to keep our Monday nights going through the campaign. And did a better job than I expected. Even the state Democratic Party chairman knew Monday nights were a special–sacred, really–time for me and my children and would ask frequently during the campaign if I had taken care of business the previous Monday night. I was able to say I had more often than not.
I am grateful for those 9 years. More now than ever.
Tonight as I drove home from work I was approaching Graeter’s ice cream and decided to call to see if they were still open. They were. And so was the Barnes and Noble bookstore across the street. Both stayed open until 10pm. I called my wife and she got both kids to meet me for ice cream again and even joined us herself this time. We were buoyant at the funny irony of it all. We ordered our ice cream and sat and laughed about how we can’t go back in time. Perhaps most can’t. But tonight I was able to–at least briefly.
I hurried everyone out of Graeter’s to go by Barnes and Noble one last time “for old time sake,” I said. The kids agreed. We walked through the doors and were greeted by staff offering to help us and reminding us they were going to close in 3 minutes. I recognized one of them from our earlier days. We walked up together to the magazine section and lingered for a minute or two chuckling awkwardly with one another. And then we were told the store was closing. The kids left and my son drove my daughter home. I stayed inside a few minutes longer to do a quick once around to see if everything was as I remembered it. It was. And then I unlocked the already locked entrance door and let myself out. And drove home alone.
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THE RP
Commemorating the 10th anniversary of my father’s passing the same week I dropped off my oldest daughter Emily for her freshman year at college brought forth a rush of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
One of my most cherished possessions is a letter penned to me by my father on my first day of college. He didn’t actually give it to me until decades later, for later-to-be-obvious reasons — both my mom and he were putting up a brave face to help compensate for the natural homesickness I would be feeling on my first days from the roost.
It is intensely personal, so despite the public life I’ve chosen for myself, most of my dad’s words will remain in the exclusive possession of his intended audience.
But I feel compelled to share his closing paragraph with my friends, because my father — whose poetic stylings far exceed anything I’ve written — so incredibly encapsulates my inner conflict in the days following my own first born’s first day of college. And for those of you who’ve gone through this rite of passage, perhaps you can identify with my dad’s words as well:
Please remember that we love you without reservation, and are here when you need us. We wish that you never have pain, but know you will, and hope that you can use our feelings for you to get past your own hurts and failures. You sure have helped us with ours.
While Lisa and I have tried hard, especially over the past few years, to prepare our daughter for independent life, there’s only so much that any two of us can do. It’s impossible to reconcile the desire to fully and completely protect your child from the harms of the world with the understanding that at some point, they need the freedom to make their own mistakes, seize their own triumphs.
And that’s the heart of my struggle. I’m so damn proud of what an extraordinary young woman my daughter has become, and so excited to see how she will continue to grow and flourish, given her newfound independence and the opportunity to study, learn, and make new relationships on a remarkable college campus. But she will always be the little girl I held in my arms; she will always be the fragile flower that I would sacrifice my life to protect.
Letting go is the most difficult thing I have ever done. But I know it is also the most important.
= = = = =
Read the rest of… John Y and The RP: Sending our First Borns to College
This is my third Democratic convention but my first in a parking lot.
Exciting! Waiting for president to speak….just several parking lots from the convention parking lot!
The RP and John Y. Brown, III 
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