Presidential contender Jack gives his brother some advice during a 1960 campaign stop.
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It certainly looked that way in the harsh light of Chappaquiddick, a scant year after Robert's assassination, when the weight of expectations seemed to have broken him. Or during the worst of his bouts with the bottle. Or when changing mores turned the family tradition of skirt-chasing from a mark of virility to the sign of a cad. While the Senator grew fat and seemed to fall apart, his brothers remained ageless and timeless, slim, breeze-kissed. If he was reality, then we wanted no part of it.
But in the end, it will be said by all but his fiercest critics that Ted Kennedy walked tall and far, given his superhuman burden. There was something genuinely noble about his refusal to give in, the way he picked himself up from the canvas, even when he had knocked himself down--maybe especially when he had knocked himself down. It was his fate to prove that the Kennedys weren't storybook princes conjured to life, and his triumph lies in the fact that he didn't let the myth stop him. His sister Eunice, who died two weeks before Ted (only Jean survives from the nine Kennedy children), did something similar with her great creation, the Special Olympics. Her father had tried to erase the blemish of a handicapped daughter; this younger Kennedy chose instead to reveal the glory behind the blemish.
Ted might have gone early. In 1964 he was dragged, critically injured, from the wreckage of a plane crash. Had he died that day, he too would have remained forever young and dashing. No Chappaquiddick, no divorce, no boozy indiscretions. But also no antiapartheid campaign, no Americans with Disabilities Act, no Family and Medical Leave Act. Ted Kennedy survived to the ripe age of 77 and in the process brought the family saga full circle, back to the vital, urgent, messy clutch of the real. Back to America, a land of common people, not of princelings, where even our marble monuments celebrate lives molded from clay.