An Anniversary Like No Other

For the first time in our 21 years of marriage, we spent our wedding anniversary immersed in public life. Several times this past week, including on April 10—the day—we were in conversation together on stage. We have been surrounded by college students, and a number of them have offered observations about our relationship.

I love this about Gen Zers. They are full of questions and opinions, and eager to share them. I will leave this visit full of memories of our spirited discussions—and laughter, so much laughter. Their camaraderie is contagious. I recall our bowling excursion to Lucky Strike in Boston, for example, and can’t stop smiling. So many gutter balls, so many cheers and high-fives anyway.

For the last five days, Sherrod and I have been Visiting Fellows at the Institute of Politics at the Kennedy School, and these students in our orbit are from Harvard. We have grown close to some of them over this short time, which has allowed us to marvel at their talents, and witness how some generational traits transcend geography and privilege.

We all have our insecurities. I am moved by how readily this generation shares theirs. In such moments this past week, I tried to be the same professor I’ve been with my students at Kent State, and now at Denison University. My primary goal, always, is to be a mirror to the many wonders I see in them. These one-on-one talks have been my favorite conversations during our time in Cambridge.

Signing posters with Acting Labor Secretary Julie Su, who is an Institute of Politics Resident Fellow. She is a master interviewer, we learned.

The students have reflected the best in us, too, intentionally or just from the depths of their generous hearts. So much of marriage is a tangle of habits, and I seldom think any more about how the world sees us beyond the sturdy stereotypes of political coverage. Most reporters show little interest in how the dynamics of marriage can fuel or upend political campaigns, for example, and I’ve reached the point where I’m fine with that. Who we are when no one is watching is what has kept us in love. No one needs to know those stories.

When sharing their views of us as a couple, these young people have seldom mentioned what we do for a living, or framed our marriage within that context. Instead, they’ve noted how often we laugh together and how clearly fond of each other we are. They’ve noticed all those little things we do for each other, small acts that we think are invisible to others but they saw as proof of mutual tending.

Every time one of them mentions this, I see our love--and our luck--more clearly. Certainly, this was not a stated goal of our brief stay here, but as is often true of life, it’s the gift of random encounters that can startle us into greater awareness. Thanks to our new young friends, I am beholding anew this guy next to me who has never failed to cheer me on. What an anniversary gift. (They gave us a card and cupcakes, too!)

When we first married, Sherrod and I sometimes talked about how we wished we’d met sooner, how we would never see that fiftieth anniversary. As if anyone knows how much time they have. I’ve come to understand that we met when we were ready to love each other, and we are making the most of the time we have.

Pulitzer Day 2005. Live long enough, and you will look at a picture of yourself in your 40s (left) or 50s (right) and think, “Gosh, we were just kids.”

These public events have been more fun than usual. We’re more relaxed, less worried about public perceptions. Still, we have our habits. We love to talk about each other when it’s our turn at the microphone, and this week has been no different. This month marks 20 years ago that I won the Pulitzer, and Sherrod never tires of talking about that. I have always been uncomfortable with that conversation, but a Gen Zer at another campus recently called me on that.

I was invited to deliver the opening keynote for the Narrative Journalism Conference at Boston University. I had mentioned my discomfort at even mentioning the Pulitzer, and during Q-and-A a young woman stood up at the microphone and asked me why. In front of 400 journalists and students, I had to explain myself.

I stumbled a bit, finally falling back on my Midwestern roots, and how it feels braggy to talk about one’s accomplishments. Her face told me she was unconvinced, and for the first time I imagined what I would say to any other woman who had won the Pulitzer. Why would you hide your light? I would ask her. Why act embarrassed when surely you hoped that one day this dream would come true?

I’m uneasy typing that but my fingers managed to find the keys, so I will count this as progress. I am constantly learning from this generation.

My turn with the microphone. My most frequent story about Sherrod in recent weeks has been about what he did after he lost the Senate race last fall. Seven of our eight grandchildren were with us that night. They have learned many lessons from their grandfather, but as I frequently remind him, none of them are more important than how he has taught them to lose—with grace and dignity, and courage.

Rather than succumb to despair and blame, Sherrod has stayed in the fight. Last month, he launched the Dignity of Work Institute. First, however, he prioritized helping 70 Senate staffers find new jobs—and is still doing so for the handful who haven’t landed yet. He kept fighting for public servants too, teaming up with Republican Sen. Susan Collins to pass the Social Security Fairness Act. Thousands of Americans, including many of you here, have sent me notes of thanks to pass along to Sherrod. He sees every one of them.

On January 5, four days after he had stopped being a senator, Sherrod attended the signing ceremony at the White House. I wasn’t with him because two days earlier I had tripped over a laundry basket and broken my shoulder. (My life is endlessly glamorous.) So, I watched it live on C-SPAN. When Sherrod received a standing ovation, I cried about the election for the first time.

By then, they were happy tears. “Look at you,” I said to my husband’s face on the screen. “Look what you did.”

He is the man I married, still. Lucky strike, indeed.