Ethel Kennedy: A Tribute

Three short stories, three life lessons

Photo: Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights Organization

The first and only time Ethel Kennedy called me, I almost hung up on her.

It was April 1, 2003, and I was sitting at my desk in the Plain Dealer newsroom when my landline rang. I answered with my usual greeting: “This is Connie Schultz at the Plain Dealer.”

“Connie,” the woman’s voice replied. “This is Ethel Kennedy.”

Sure you are, honey.

It was April Fool’s Day. Typical newsroom prank, I figured.  

“Well, hell-oooww, Ethel,” I said, imitating her voice. “How’s Hickory Hill?”

She laughed.

“Connie, it really is Ethel. I’m calling to congratulate you.”

She proceeded to tell me that I had won a Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award for my series The Burden of Innocence, which chronicled the ordeal of Michael Green, a Black man in Cleveland who had served 13 years in prison for a rape he did not commit.

“What a brave man Michael Green is,” she said. “Thank you for telling his story.”

Oh. My. God.

My face was on fire.

“Mrs. Kennedy, I am so, so sorry. I thought you were—

She cut me off with her laughter.

“Never apologize for making me laugh, Connie. You sounded just like me!  See you soon.”

When that award was announced, I was already six months into my new job as a columnist. On some days, the hate mail arrived as an avalanche, and I was having a difficult time getting past it. I was fighting urges to lash out.

After that brief conversation with Ethel Kennedy, I pivoted. A woman of her stature could have been annoyed or insulted and whittled me down to bone dust. Instead, she responded with grace and kindness, embodying the mission of her work.

She taught me an important lesson that day. I don’t have to like the people who say they hate me, but I should never let them chip away at who I’m supposed to be. In that moment, she reminded me of my mother who, when she saw my career taking off, insisted that I be my best self.

“You are representing the people you come from,” she often said, referring to our working-class roots. Prove every stereotype wrong, she meant. As a long-time admirer of Ethel Kennedy, she would have been thrilled to know I was going to meet her.

I was almost 11 years old when Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated. My father, who five years earlier had hung a framed portrait of John F. Kennedy on our living room wall, was angry in his grief. My mother brought a softer lens to her despair. For weeks, she would suddenly stop whatever she was doing and say softly, “Poor Ethel.” For years, she would clip news or magazine stories about Ethel and send them to me, always with a note about how bravely she navigated the world.

The RFK awards ceremony was later that spring in Washington D.C. I had been dating Sherrod since January 1. He was a member of the House of Representatives, and I invited him to join me. He had long admired Bobby Kennedy and had never met Ethel. Through him, I had already met some of the most influential people in our country. This was my rare chance to return the favor.

After the formal ceremony, I walked up to Ethel to introduce Sherrod. She grabbed both of his hands and beamed at him.

“Sherrod!” she said, pulling him closer. “Aren’t you proud of her? Aren’t you just incredibly proud?”

Not one word about his career, his stature as a congressman. This famous woman whom I had admired nearly all my life was focused on me. I will never forget that feeling, and its lesson. Sherrod and I have entered a lot of crowded rooms in our 20 years of marriage. Whenever possible, I make my way to the women in them.

One more personal story about Ethel Kennedy, and this is my favorite. It was the first memory of her that bubbled up after I heard that she had died earlier this week, at age 96.

The backstory:

John and Annie Glenn were two of our closest friends, but Ethel had known them decades longer. They met around 1962, when John became the first American astronaut to orbit the earth. After JFK was killed, the Glenn family became very close to Bobby and Ethel and their children, and often vacationed together.

On June 5, 1968, John and Annie Glenn were in California with Bobby Kennedy’s presidential campaign. Just after midnight, an assassin shot him multiple times. Ethel was at his side.

In his final hours, some of the older children were at his bedside, but Ethel asked John and Annie to fly home to Virginia with the younger ones, on a plane sent by Vice President Hubert Humphrey. Bobby died 26 hours after he was shot. John waited for each child to awaken, sat on their bed and told them their father had died.

John would say only this about that day in his memoir: “It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.” We talked about it only once, and I will never share that conversation. Decades later, it was clear that this remained one of his most painful memories.

John died on December 8, 2016, at age 95. Sherrod and I were invited to speak at his memorial service later that month. Annie was 96, frail and despondent as she sat in a wheelchair in the front row.

Ethel, who was 88 and also in a wheelchair, attended the reception after the service. This was in the crowded, dimly lit community room of the apartment building where Annie and John had lived.

Ethel saw Sherrod and called his name, loudly.

“Sherrod. Sherrod. Come here, right now!”  

Sherrod had been a U.S. senator for nine years. His desk on the Senate floor is the same one Bobby had used, by Sherrod’s choice. In that moment, his job was irrelevant. We could see that she was visibly upset. We rushed to Ethel, and Sherrod crouched at her feet.

“What is it, Ethel?” he said, reaching for her hand. “What do you need?”

“Annie can’t see.”

We looked at each and said in unison, “What?”

“Annie,” Ethel said, pointing to her longtime friend, who was surrounded by people. “It’s dark in here, and her vision is impaired. She can’t see anyone’s faces. She needs a bright light near her.”

Ethel pointed to a floor lamp a few feet away and gave Sherrod his marching orders. “Pick up that lamp and plug it in next to her. If she moves, you follow her with the lamp.”

For the next hour, Sherrod did as he was instructed by a woman who was determined to take care of the friend who once took care of her.

This is the Ethel Kennedy I knew. She is the Ethel Kennedy I want you to know, too, because how we behave when few are watching is the truest story of who we are.