Friendship, Part 1
An ongoing celebration of the people in our lives
For twenty years now, we’ve had the same rule about framed pictures in our home: No celebrity photos.
Those photos of Sherrod with presidents Barack Obama and Bill Clinton? Preserved in a cupboard, along with pictures of us with Hillary Clinton, as well as every non-elected celebrity we’ve been lucky to meet. (I was tempted to frame the backstage selfie with Lin-Manuel Miranda, but I resisted. He is very kind, you are likely not surprised to hear.)
Our rule for framed photos came about at the beginning of our marriage after I saw a photo spread of a senator’s house that included a large hallway full of pictures of him with celebrities. Photos lined both walls, floor to ceiling. To me, they screamed, “Look how important I am!”
I showed that magazine photo to Sherrod and said, “We’re never going to do this.” In our home, framed photos are for family and friends. I’m not criticizing anyone who displays photos of famous people they’ve met. I’m saying that in our home, reserving our walls and tabletops for photos of family and friends keeps us grounded.
For years, this was one of my favorite celebrity photos. It was the first time we met Martin Sheen, in 2004, when he was at the height of his West Wing fame as President Jed Bartlet. This photo is from a big-tent event in Cleveland, after we were rejected at the door for an earlier, smaller gathering. I was so excited to meet him I could barely speak, but this picture remains in a photo album. We didn’t know him back then.
That changed in 2012, when Martin, who grew up in Dayton, returned to his home state to campaign for Sherrod’s first re-election campaign for the Senate. He did nine events in two days. You get to know a person when you’re sitting with him in a car for miles upon miles. That’s not always a good thing, spending that much time with someone you’ve admired from afar for years. I am grateful to report that Martin, to borrow from my husband’s email to me after our first date, is even better in person.
One of my favorite memories of Martin from those two days is when he visited the home of John and Annie Glenn. Leading up to that visit, Martin kept talking about how excited he was to see his favorite astronaut. “I can’t believe I’m going to see John Glenn, and in his home,” he said, over and over. What he didn’t know was that John had told Sherrod a few days earlier, “I can’t believe I’m going to see Martin Sheen, and in our home.”
This was the moment when Martin became my friend: It was time for all of us to leave for a fundraiser, and John held out his arm for Annie. Martin did the same thing, and flashed his impish grin.
“Annie," he said, "may I escort you?" Annie looped her arm around his and smiled at John as she said, "We'll see you when you get there."
I stood next to John, who joked about being dumped, and watched them walk down the hall, Martin minding Annie’s every step. After they entered the elevator, Annie— my brave and beloved friend who never complained about standing in her husband’s long shadow—looked at us and winked. She was beaming.
It was the first of countless times when I’ve seen Martin for who he is when there are no cameras clicking, no fans swarming around him. He is the last person out of every room, not because he craves attention, but because he knows others do. Deservedly so, he reminds us. We get enough attention.
During one of our visits to L.A., Martin arrived to dinner with Sherrod and me carrying a bouquet he had bought from a mother and her son selling flowers on a nearby street corner. He told me their names and ages and her life story and, most importantly, shared her dreams for her son. I couldn’t leave those flowers behind. I pressed them into a pocket of my suitcase for the flight home.
In an increasingly impersonal world, Martin is that guy who never texts or tweets. He doesn’t check his phone in the company of others and he refuses to be pulled away in the middle of a conversation with a stranger. He invests in his friendships. When he wanted me to know what he thought of my first novel, he wrote a two-page letter in his own hand. His habit, I have since learned. He corresponds with many friends, always with pen to paper.
His latest letter to me was a mere two lines, written this week as he sat next to me in the back seat of the car. Over the miles, we had talked about faith and Hollywood, friendship and families, and the hard work of love, no matter what. I can talk to Martin about anything, and I always do. At some point, our conversation turned to the topic of gun violence. I told him how most of my students have said that whenever they enter an unknown room or crowded event, they check the location of exits and places to hide. Just in case.
Martin turned to face me. “Do you have a sheet a paper?”
I pulled out a blank page from a notebook in my purse and handed it to him. With his permission, I’m sharing a photo of what he wrote, in his beautiful cursive:
As a longtime activist, Martin knows the importance of saying the words out loud. As a friend, he knew what it would mean to me to hold them in my hands.
Earlier that day, we had attended an AFSCME conference where Sherrod spoke and Martin beamed like a proud brother. On our slow, winding departure—there is no other kind with these two—they shook every outreached hand and posed for countless selfies. I thought they were right behind me as I approached the exit until I heard both of them yelling my name. I turned to see them standing in an archway of balloons. Martin and Sherrod, two exclamation marks captured by parentheses, briefly.
In this shot, they are trying to goad me into joining them.
This is the one, I thought, as I held up my phone. This is the photo I will frame for our collection of family and friends.
The rule holds.
Connie, I would like you to know that your writings often bring me to tears. Not tears of sadness, but the tears of knowing and reading about others in the world, people who I admire beyond words, who continually exhibit profound and unconditional kindness. Being able to witness through your eyes someone such as Martin, is a wonderful contribution to me, and I thank you for sharing.
"This is the one." I say that each and every time I read your latest post.