My dad and I circa 1968

Today — as on every April 4 — as the nation commemorates the anniversary of one of the worst days in our history; as some of us celebrate the anniversary of the greatest speech of the 20th Century; my mind is on my father.  And my memory focuses on a winter day in the mid 1970s, sitting shotgun in his tiny, tinny, navy blue Pinto.

I can still remember my father’s smile that day.

He didn’t smile that often.  His usual expression was somber, serious—squinting toward some imperceptible horizon.  He was famously perpetually lost in thought: an all-consuming inner debate, an hourly wrestling match between intellect and emotion. When he did occasion a smile, it was almost always of the taut, pursed “Nice to see you” variety.

But on occasion, his lips would part wide, his green eyes would dance in an energetic mix of chutzpah and child-like glee.  Usually, it was because of something my sister or I had said or done.

But this day, this was a smile of self-contented pride.  Through the smoky haze of my breath floating in the cold, dense air, I could see my father beaming from the driver’s seat, pointing at the AM radio, whispering words of deep satisfaction with a slow and steady nod of his head and that unfamiliar wide-open smile:  “That’s my line…Yep, I wrote that one too…They’re using all my best ones.”

He preempted my typically hyper-curious question-and-answer session with a way-out-of-character boast: The new mayor had asked him—my dad!—to help pen his first, inaugural address.   And my hero had drafted all of the lines that the radio was replaying.

This was about the time when our father-son chats had drifted from the Reds and the Wildcats to politics and doing what was right.  My dad was never going to run for office.  Perhaps he knew that a liberal Jew couldn’t get elected dogcatcher in 1970s Kentucky.  But I think it was more because he was less interested in the performance of politics than in its preparation.  Just as Degas focused on his dancers before and after they went on stage—the stretching, the yawning, the meditation—my father loved to study, and better yet, help prepare, the ingredients of a masterful political oration:  A fistful of prose; a pinch of poetry; a smidgen of hyperbole; a dollop of humor; a dash of grace.  When properly mixed, such words could propel a campaign, lance an enemy, or best yet, inspire a public to wrest itself from apathetic lethargy and change the world.

Now, for the first time, I realized that my father was in the middle of the action. And I was so damn proud.

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Click above to watch my eulogy for my father

My dad’s passion for words struck me most clearly when I prepared his eulogy. For the past two years of his illness, I’d finally become acquainted with the real Robert Miller, stripped down of the mythology, taken off my childhood pedestal.  And I was able to love the real human being more genuinely than ever before.  The eulogy would be my final payment in return for his decades of one-sided devotion:  Using the craft he had lovingly and laboriously helped me develop, I would weave prose and poetry, the Bible and Shakespeare, anecdotes and memories, to honor my fallen hero.  In his final weeks of consciousness, he turned down my offer to share the speech with him.  I will never know whether that was due to his refusal to acknowledge the inevitable, or his final act of passing the torch: The student was now the author.

While the final draft reflected many varied influences, ranging from the Rabbis to the Boss (Springsteen), the words were my own.  Except for one passage in which I quoted my father’s favorite memorial tribute: read by Senator Edward Kennedy at his brother, Robert’s funeral:

My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life, to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it.

Read the rest of…
The RP: My Dad, RFK & the Greatest Speech of the Past Century